Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Host didn’t particularly enjoy company. When someone was nearby, he got a scratch at the back of his mind. His fingers would itch to type out the story his brain would concoct. His mind would always flash back to that dark room he was abandoned in during these times. To when he lost control of himself and took control of others. So, for fear of hurting one of the other egos or guests, he kept to himself.

The only people he did interact with, through necessity more often than not, were Darkiplier - who often had to demand he attend meetings with the others - and the good Doctor Iplier. Though, he only allowed the doctor to help him when the Host couldn’t help himself.

Today, he could not help himself.

He woke up frantically describing everything around him, biting his tongue when he felt the names of others on his lips. He would rather not drag anybody else into this. Instead, he locked himself up in his room - a bare space with a desk and its own chair, a typewriter, a waste bin, and an armchair. A few of his old best sellers sat unacknowledged in the corner. The good Doctor, his only source of help in this tormented state, was out, doing god knows what. If he let his mind wander, he could almost feel where the ego was - but he elected not to think on the topic too long.

His plan worked, for the most part. Nobody truly ever sought out the Host unless there was a meeting or another urgent matter to attend to. That is, until, a guest to the Manor began knocking on his door.

For the last few weeks, Wilford had been bringing along a new intern. The Host was unaware of this fact until he entered the kitchen one late night for a glass of water and narrated your presence. Since then, you hadn’t shied away from him, but you also hadn’t actively sought him out.

More often than not, the two of you would simply happen upon each other. You would be taking a break from Wilford’s antics, catching your breath from following the interviewer everywhere, and find yourself in a secluded corner of the Manor or the surrounding grounds where the Host liked to hide. Or he would be dragged into another meeting and find himself narrating your presence next to Wilford, anxiously making sure he didn’t pull his gun when the egos inevitably refused another one of his wild ideas. Neither of you spoke much to each other, simply existing in each other’s presence comfortably.

Knock knock knock.

“Host? I didn’t see you at lunch.” His mouth narrated your thoughts that he hadn’t been at dinner either before you had a chance to say it. He bit his tongue to shut himself up from saying anything more. “And you weren’t at dinner. I just wanted to check if you were alright.”

Fine , he wanted to say. You had a very kind nature, and the egos all enjoyed your presence. He didn’t wish to upset you and get on everyone else’s bad side. But, his mind couldn’t just will his mouth to shut up.

“The Host is struggling with his narrative abilities today. He asks that Y/N not come in or worry.”

It was quiet outside the door. He could feel your thoughts on his tongue, prodding at his mind. He could feel your worry through the door.

He sighed.

“The Host crosses the room and opens the door. Y/N is just outside. They look concerned,” he narrated. He tilted his head, brows furrowing over his blindfold. “ ‘Concerned’ ?” It was an adjective he hadn’t been expecting.

“Host, you’re bleeding .”

He didn’t have time to process your statement before you were making your way into his room. He could hear you opening drawers at his desk, looking for the emergency medical kit each room was equipped with. (Orders from the Doctor, of course.) Sure enough, when he reached up and touched his blindfold, it was soaked through. The warm, stickiness of blood latched onto his fingers.

He heard your command in his head before you said it out loud. Sit down. He shut the door, making his way to one of the armchairs.

“Sit down, Host.” You had the kit open on his desk by his typewriter, grabbing bandages and gauze. When you turned to the armchair, he was already sitting in it. His hands were set on his thighs and he was seemingly looking forward at the wall.

“The Host can take care of himself.”

You scoffed, almost offended by his remark. “I’m sure you can, but does it really hurt to let someone else help you?”

He tilted his head, covered eyes pointed toward the wall behind you. Despite your insistence on helping him, you still had not approached the chair he sat in. You were waiting for approval.

“The Host gives Y/N permission to help.” He couldn’t shut his mouth fast enough before he was narrating, “At the Host’s approval, Y/N smiles. They step forward with determination and-” He shut his mouth with a great effort, teeth grit together. “He apologizes for his narration. He does not wish to take away Y/N’s sense of free will on accident in this state.”

You knew very little about the Host, to be honest. Wilford had brushed off your concerns when you asked about him, offhandedly remarking that the ego was an author and liked to be alone. The Host was always reclusive and isolated, and no one seemed to worry much for him. If anything, Dark seemed the most concerned when the Host was late to meetings or hiding all day, but he never showed it. The most he did to combat his worries was to send you in his place to ask after the ego. After all, if something was happening, Dark had to be in the know.

You pushed your rampant thoughts of the ego aside and focused on the matter at hand. Setting the gauze and bandages on the arm of the chair, you hesitated to remove his blindfold, even after he gave his permission. Perhaps sensing your uncertainty, he leaned his head forward in your direction. This gave you plenty of room to untie the cloth.

You hadn’t expected what awaited you underneath. His eyes were, well, missing. Scars of what appeared to be scratch marks littered the area around his sockets. The empty sockets stared from behind his eyelids; gaping wounds, oozing blood like tears.

“How did this happen?” you found yourself asking before your mind had time to catch up with your mouth. “I mean- You don’t have to tell me. It’s just… Doesn’t it hurt?”

The Host had to think on that question for a moment. Did it hurt? Could he even feel the pain anymore? As you began to tenderly dab at his eyes - or lack thereof - with the gauze, he hummed. “He does not know. The Host has adjusted to living like this for so long, he does not register the pain as any more than a dull throbbing.”

The way you so carefully wiped blood off his cheeks, away from the creases and folds of his eyelids, had his shoulders relaxing. Doctor Iplier was never this gentle. When he cleaned his wounds, he was rough and mechanical in the way only a doctor could be, spouting medical nonsense as he did so.

Instead, your softness had his head tilting back to allow you better access to his wounds, and more than once he had to force his eyelids from falling closed in relaxation. They shot open to stare at nothing when he felt the unmistakable touch of fingertips brushing along the scars around his eyes.

“If I could, I would kiss away all of your scars,” you whispered, soft as a mouse.

He wasn’t even sure if you were aware of your statement. But there you lingered, tracing his marred skin. It was only once your fingers brushed too close to his sockets that he flinched, and you pulled back, startled out of your revelry.

You stammered out apologies as you grabbed the bandages from the arm of the chair and began bandaging his eyes. He almost missed the feeling of your fingers on his old wounds.

“There,” you breathed out a moment later, stepping away as though being too close to him would burn you. “All done. The bleeding seems to have stopped, so, that’s good.”

He hadn’t even noticed. His mind, the voice that creeped out of the deepest wrinkles of his brain, was quiet. He no longer felt his vocal chords lurching out commentary and commands, nor did he feel the need to.

“The Host thanks Y/N for their help.”

You chuckled lightly, awkwardly. You didn’t wish to admit that you had enjoyed the experience perhaps more than you should have. After all, he had been bleeding and struggling with whatever abilities he possessed when you got here. It felt wrong to enjoy him at his most vulnerable.

“Yeah, of course, anytime.” You gathered the used up gauze and what was left unused of the roll of bandages, busying yourself cleaning up and putting everything away in the kit. “I mean, not anytime , because I’m sure it’s not a great experience for you, but, like, anytime you need help I’d be happy to.”

He hummed, but said nothing. For once, he did not feel the need to fill the silence in the slightest.

“Uhm, your blindfold is kinda…”

“The Host asks them not to worry on his behalf. He has plenty of extras due to situations like this.”

You nodded, but realized quickly he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll just… throw it out then.”

He listened as you moved around his desk. The crinkle of the plastic trash bag as you threw away everything bloody told him that you were on the side of his desk furthest from the armchair he sat in.

You stood awkwardly by the desk for a moment afterwards. “I should go.” You didn’t know what else to say to leave him here in the safety of his barren room. And the Host did not seem to make any arguments as he followed your footsteps making their way toward the door.

He sensed your hand touch the knob, heard it from the voice deep inside his brain, and felt his heart lurch at the same time. “Please stay,” he suddenly called out. His heart hammered anxiously against his chest. He cursed himself for succumbing to his lonely desires, but he had never been treated so softly before. “The Host would like some company.”

His mind suddenly felt quite loud once again as he waited for any response. His head tilted and turned to try to hear better, understand what was going on around him better. He stilled when he heard footsteps approaching once again. The unmistakable sound of his chair being pulled out from under the desk sounded next, along with the creaking of wood as you sat down in it.

“Okay.” His anxiety faded once more at your gentle presence. “I’ll stay.”

Chapter Text

It was late. You weren’t exactly sure how late, but the crickets outside were chirping loudly and the only lights seen through the window were from street lamps. You didn’t even feel like you could lift your arm to check your phone for the exact time.

Despite it being so late, and your losing battle to keep your eyes open, you refused to go to bed. No. You were quite determined to stay on this couch whether you liked it or not because your loving boyfriend promised to be back tonight and he never broke promises, especially when they were made to you.

“Sugar plum, you would not believe the- Oh.”

Ah, right on time - if time were a concept Wilford believed in. You blearily turned your head to face him, now standing in the middle of your living room where he popped in. He wore his yellow shirt, light pants kept up by pink suspenders. He always liked bright color combinations.

“Oh, honey bun, did you stay up just for me?” His voice was like a sweet melody whenever he spoke to you. And his eyes, gosh. They looked at you with so much love and adoration. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You hummed. “I wanted to see you before I went to bed,” you murmured.

He chuckled, light and soft. “Well, here I am!”

Without question, Wilford swooped in to lift you up off the couch. Normally, you’d chastise him for it. You worried you’d be too heavy or a burden on the ego. Yet, he never complained. Usually, when you did complain about him carrying you, he spun frivolous tales about how you were a royal he was rescuing from a tower. He loved bathing you with compliments like that.

Tonight, however, you simply allowed yourself to lean into his broad chest, tucking your nose into the warm skin of his neck. He carried you through your little apartment to the bedroom, always making sure he never jostled you. You could hear the hum of an unfamiliar tune quietly coming from the back of his throat.

When you got to your room, the covers were already pulled back. The pillows were already fluffed and positioned exactly how you liked them. And, of course, an extra pillow was settled next to yours for Wilford.

He laid you down on your side, tucking your feet under the warm blankets first. He lifted the covers to your shoulders and made sure you were fully covered and comfortable. With a smooch pressed to your forehead (and a soft Muah ), he meandered over to his side of the bed. A snap of his fingers was all he needed to change into pajamas - pink, vertical stripes with a pink mustache embroidered on the pocket.

You could do little more than listen as he slipped under the covers. The bed was so warm, and the added security of your lover being there was like an extra blanket of comfort. You barely felt his arms slip around you, barely felt his lips kiss your forehead once more as he whispered, “Sleep tight, darling.” You didn’t even notice when your mind fully let itself slip into unconsciousness.

However, you did notice the blankets shifting.

The cold air that hit your feet was more than enough to have you pulled out of your dream and into your dark room. Wilford’s arms were no longer around you, and he had turned over at some point in the night. With all of the blankets.

This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. He often moved around and even spoke in his sleep. But those were your blankets.

As carefully as you could without waking up the ego, you grabbed the edge of the covers and began tugging them back to your side. In his sleep, Wilford grumbled and tried tugging them back, as though he needed every last inch of blanket for him to be comfortable.

“Wilf,” you called gently. He just huffed, muttering something about interviewing a very rude giraffe. “Wilford.” With a careful shake of his shoulder (you’d been around for his nightmares too many times and you didn’t wish to cause him any alarm), he finally woke up just enough to turn over and wrap himself around you again.

“Sugar plum, what’re you doin’ up?” His voice slurred with sleep. “Y’should be sleepin’.”

You chuckled softly. “I would be if you weren’t hogging all the blankets.”

He hummed, almost surprised at his unconscious actions. He removed an arm from your waist to drag the blankets from his side to cover you once again. “Didn’t realize, hun, sorry.”

You tugged the blanket until it was evenly distributed across the bed. Your feet were now safely tucked under the covers, and no cold air seeped in to touch the rest of your body. Instead, Wilford acted like your own little personal space heater as he tangled his legs with yours.

“Better?” He pushed his face into your neck, mustache tickling you as he spoke.

“Better,” you confirmed. You kissed his forehead and pressed your cold nose into his fluffed up hair. “But if you steal the blankets again, I’m going to put my cold feet on you.”

He huffed a laugh, warm breath puffing against your skin. “Scout’s honor…” And then he was out.

You quickly found your eyelids drooping again, and in no time at all, you joined him in a world of dreams.

Of course, come morning, you made good on your promise when he had burrito’d himself in the blankets.

Chapter Text

Deciding to stay at Happy Trails Penitentiary was one of the most interesting choices you could have made in your entire life. While staying at the prison hadn’t sounded too appealing at first, without Mark, your life of heists and crime in the outside world was suddenly defunct. Besides, the guy who convinced you to stay, a songbird from Ohio who spoke with a heavy Brooklyn accent, was kinda cute.

Yancy, the aforementioned songbird, was basically the leader of the entire prison pack. He knew everyone who came in and out of the penitentiary, and he was buddies with a good majority of them. They all even took part in the giant musical he put together for new inmates. He took it on himself to personally help you adjust and get comfortable, telling off anyone who said he’d gone soft.

Sometimes, new prisoners would come in who weren’t as moved by the musical as you had been. They weren’t very keen on doing time, especially not in a place where the leader regularly sang and tap-danced. They didn’t do much to fight with the others - they focused instead on serving their time and getting parole as fast as possible.

Others, however, had a bone to pick with Yancy.

-

“Hey, twinkle-toes! Go practice somewhere else! I’m tryna enjoy my lunch!”

The nickname immediately set everyone on edge. Parole was coming around, and their leader, twinkle-toes himself, hadn’t done anything to make sure he didn’t get on the list yet.

Yancy turned from his section of the cafeteria where he’d been working on his newest dance routine. The Warden had been kind enough to give him little space indoors; the grass outside wasn’t a good place to practice like this.

“What’d youse say?”

And it starts.

You carefully maneuver your way in front of Yancy, ready to stop him from completely destroying the guy that insulted him. There were easier ways to get off parole. Hell, you trashed the laundry room just the other day and that had been plenty to get the Warden to cuss you out and send you to your cell.

“I told ya to practice somewhere else,” the newest inmate, a stocky man with long, unruly hair, repeated. He was clearly not from around here, if the southern twang in his voice didn’t give it away. “I don’t need to see ya prancing everywhere while I eat.”

Yancy squared his shoulders back. “Oh, prancin’? Youse thinks this is prancin’?” He moved to step forward, but your hand on his chest stopped him before he could get very far. “How’d youse enjoy your lunch if it was shoved up youse’s-”

“Yancy!” you scolded in a whisper. “Just leave it alone. It’s not worth it.”

You could see his jaw tense, his eyes scanning the man who insulted him up and down, calculating if it was worth the effort. His brow was furrowed tight. You’d never seen him this angry before, not even when he was complaining about his (deceased) parents.

He huffed a breath, stepping back and away from your hand. He didn’t even look at you when he turned with an annoyed, “Fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let your little pet talk you down.”

Yancy barely had time to turn back around and grab you before you launched yourself at the man. Now he was the one holding you back while you gnashed your teeth at the inmate, spitting fire.

“How dare you! I am NO ONE’S pet! Let me go, Yance! I think this asshole should learn a thing or two about manners!”

“Youse’d kill him before he ever got the chance to learn.” Yancy dragged you back far enough that the man who insulted you felt safe enough to get up and run while he could. Messing with Yancy was one thing. Messing with you? Hell didn’t even burn as hot as the fire that burned inside you.

You pulled at Yancy’s arms around your waist, trying to get them to let go so you could chase after that bastard. “Let me go, Yancy. I’ll show him who’s who around here,” you growled.

He laughed dryly. “I don’t think so, doll. Just- Hey, just calm down!” He pulled you farther into his little dance corner and let go just enough to turn you around in his arms. You, of course, tried fighting him to look over your shoulder to where the inmate retreated, but he was strong enough to hold you with one arm so he could grab your chin between two fingers and turn it to look at him. “I think he knows not to mess with youse again.”

How did he manage to look so tough and so soft at the same time? Looking into his eyes immediately doused the fire inside of you. No matter how much you didn’t want to admit it, he was right.

You huffed, imaginary steam leaving your nose. Your shoulders sagged as you eased the tension in your muscles. “But I want him to know not to mess with you , Yance. You’re the boss around here; they should know better than to talk shit about your dancing.”

“I think he knows that, too, doll,” he chuckled. “Don’t think they’ll be getting close with youse here watchin’ my back.” He removed his arm from your waist, wrapping it around your shoulders instead as he guided you to a table. “Now, how’s about a puddin’, puddin’?”

You grabbed the pudding cup Sparkles McGee slid your way, looking down at it with a frown tugged on your lips. You turned back to Yancy just as he was grabbing his own cup. “Are you sure I can’t punch him in the face?”

Yancy rolled his eyes, leveling you with a stern look. “Yes.”

You scowled, tearing open the cup. You spooned a large glob of pudding into your mouth. The vanilla eased your nerves some more, even as you looked to the exit the inmate took. Yancy thought you let the argument go by the time you finished your dessert.

“What if I just break his nose a little?”

Chapter Text

Every Wednesday night in the Iplier Manor was movie night. It felt like a sacred holiday with how the egos treated it - even Dark would show up.

Tonight was Illinois’s night to pick a movie. It was actually pretty rare for him to be around for movie night, as all he did was wander the globe in search of stolen artifacts. To make up for his absence, he picked out a horror film.

Illinois didn’t scare easily, neither did a good half of the other egos, but Wilford thought it would be fun to place a bet on who would be scared. Dark (not wishing to be involved in the betting process) was chosen (against his will) to handle the money and keep tabs on who betted on who. A good pool of money was placed against you.

You were a frequent visitor to the Manor; it was like a second home to you now. You were hired on to help Dark keep the other egos from burning down the entire building by accident. You were fast friends with almost everybody, too, which helped keep the chaotic issues at bay (for the most part).

But you weren’t an ego. You were a mere human. And money wracked up against you like a dam filling with water.

-

The movie started out fine. Wilford insisted on sitting with you in an oversized armchair, and the proximity to someone who couldn’t shut his mouth to stop shit talking the lazy effects of the movie helped ease your nerves a lot. Of course, he was shushed by all the other egos (and threatened by Dark, but that’s usually a given), so the commentary was cut short before you even reached any real spooks.

As demons appeared on screen, murderers murdering people with great splatters of blood, and ghosts jumped in front of the camera like it was a fucking thing to do, you bit your tongue. Your knuckles were white with how hard you were clasping your hands in your lap. Every time you felt your body flinching or jumping at something on screen, you kept playing it off as needing to readjust yourself in the chair. And you weren’t even at the climax of the film yet.

You were determined not to let the other egos see how scared you were. Almost all of them had placed money that you would get scared, and they were right. You didn’t want them to know that they were right. You were supposed to keep an eye on them and stop them from doing crazy things - how were you supposed to convince them that you were up for the job when a few practical effects were making your soul jump from your body?

But, as determined as you were, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. It felt like all the air was being sucked from your lungs. You needed to get out of there. You touched Wilford’s arm to get his attention, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen with an excuse of getting more popcorn, before you practically sprinted away from the living room.

The kitchen was wide and empty, and it gave you room to breathe. At first. You scrambled through cabinets to find a glass and fill it with water, your hands shaking so much you could barely hold onto anything. You gulped the entire thing down in no time, gasping for more. Your hand slipped as you went to fill the cup again, and time seemed to slow down as you watched it hit the floor and shatter.

It was the final tipping point. You got down on hands and knees, trying to pick up the larger fragments, but a sudden loud scream from the movie a few rooms over made you drop them. You cursed under your breath, sitting back against the kitchen island, unable to breathe deep enough to satisfy your lungs.

How did a stupid movie leave you like this? You’d seen Yandere do scarier shit on a weekly basis, but somehow this dumb movie rattled your nerves enough to leave you a wreck in the kitchen. You hated it. You felt so helpless. The longer you sat on the floor, staring at the mess you made, the more hot tears you could feel down your face, and the more hard sobs wracked through your body. How the hell did Dark hire you in such good conscience? If he saw you now, you’d be fired on the spot.

“Sugar plum?”

Fuck.

“Darling, where’d you go?”

Wilford’s face suddenly peered around the kitchen island, almost startling you. You didn’t dare look at him; you couldn’t. You could almost feel his gaze as it scanned over the glass fragments, as it studied you, curled in on yourself as far as you could be.

You could just picture the pity on his face as he let out a soft, “Oh, sugar plum,” and stepped over the glass to get to you.

Even as he kneeled in front of you, you avoided looking at him. But just his presence seemed to set you off. You could feel your lungs shuttering as more tears rolled down your face. You tried stammering out any words that could explain why you were like this, but nothing coherent came out. Another harsh sob shook your entire body before Wilford pulled you into his arms, into his broad chest.

You thought you would feel constricted being held like this, your head cradled into his shoulder and neck to give you a place to cry. But you actually felt like you could breathe again. Sobs came out softer. They didn’t burn your throat as they fought to escape. No, they simply came and went like an ocean tide.

Wilford hushed you in a sweet voice. His fingers carded through your hair. For a moment, you had a hard time believing that he was a killer.

“Don’t tell Dark,” you’d finally managed to hoarsely whimper out after several minutes of sobbing into his shoulder. You felt bad now, for crying into him, for staining his shirt with your stupid tears.

He shook his head, almost bewildered at the thought. “Of course not, sugar plum.” He pulled your face from his neck, the hand from your hair moving to cup your damp cheeks. His thumb tenderly brushed them away from your eyes. “Why would I tell Darky?”

You found it hard to meet his concerned gaze again. You looked like a wreck. You were not a pretty cryer. “I don’t want him to- to fire me just because I’m scared of some stupid movie.”

“He wouldn’t fire you just for that, gumdrop,” he cooed. “You’d have to do something a lot worse for him to fire you. And even then, I wouldn’t let him! Believe you me, if he ever even thought about getting rid of you, I’d be having a very strongly worded conversation with ol’ Darky!”

You huffed a laugh, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. “Yeah, sure.”

“I would!” He took his hand from your face to gesture wildly, pointing fingers every which-a-way to prove a point. “You’re the best thing to happen to us ‘round here! If you ever got fired, I’d just have to hire you right back! Who else am I gonna pull pranks on Bim with? Certainly not ol’ sour-puss.”

“I’m sure plenty others would pull pranks with you,” you dismissed.

He shook his head, brow furrowed and hair flopping in every direction. “Not like you, sugar plum. C’mon don’t sell yourself short.”

As if suddenly remembering where you were, Wilford took a second to look around the kitchen. He’d forgotten all about the glass shards. Hell, he forgot you were both in the kitchen to begin with.

He huffed indignantly at the mess. “Now let’s clean up this mess.” With a snap of his fingers, the glass was no longer shattered across the floor, but sitting intact on the counter, as though nothing had ever happened to it. He turned back to you with a lopsided grin. “And now for this mess,” he gestured at you, “I say we go upstairs and watch something not scary and eat a bunch of candy. How’s that sound, gumdrop?”

You smiled. “It sounds perfect, Wilford. Thank you.”

-

“Hey, where’d those two go?” Illinois asked once the movie was over, tipping his head toward the armchair both you and Wilford had been squeezed into.

There were murmurs of “I don’t know”s and “Probably went to bed”s.

Bim Trimmer nervously looked around the entire living room. “You don’t think they’re planning another prank, do you?”

“Nah, theys’s probably just gones to bed,” Yancy said, waving your disappearance off. “Now who’s won the bets?”

As Dark dealt with the headache that was everyone arguing over who got scared or not, he sat back into the couch, self-satisfied. From where he sat, he had a perfect view of the kitchen. He’d watched from the corner of his eye as Wilford ducked behind the kitchen island to check on you, and as you both retreated upstairs with endless amounts of candy in your arms.

He knew suggesting the movie to Illinois was a good idea.

Chapter Text

Rain pattered gently against the window. In the distance, crickets could be heard chirping their melancholy songs. In the corner, an old record crackled as it played soft, old music. The turning of pages was the only sound that broke the gentle ambiance surrounding you.

Soft lips grazed your forehead, brushing your skin as their owner spoke. "You should go to bed, dear."

You hummed noncommittally. Yeah, you should go to bed. But how could you possibly get up and leave Dark's warm arms, abandon the slow up and down of his chest as he breathed in air he didn't need? No, leaving this comfort was simply not an option. Instead, you turned so your chest rested against his and pressed your nose into his neck.

He sighed, displeased that you wouldn't get up to get the sleep your body needed to thrive. Still, he did not mention his disappointment. He simply wrapped his arm tighter around your back, stroking odd shaped into your hip in a way that just teetered on the edge of being ticklish.

He leaned his head on yours, brushing another kiss to the top of your head. "Would you like me to read to you?"

You hummed once more. This time, it was definitely a positive response, but it came out weak and sluggish. If you wouldn't go to your bed to sleep, sleeping on him was an alternative Dark could get behind. At least this way he could watch over you and protect you from bad dreams in the night.

"Very well." He scanned the page to find where he left off. The soft, deep rumbling of his voice as he began reading aloud was like a lullaby. He was sure he hadn't even gotten a page in when he felt your breathing even out.

He did not stop reading even after you fell into an unconscious state. He only paused long enough to whisper a warm, "Goodnight, my love."

It was the best sleep you had in a long time.

Chapter Text

When you heard about a priceless Egyptian artifact stored away in some god awful temple buried deep in the Sahara Desert, you didn't really expect to find yourself trapped inside. Alone. Well, you weren't originally alone. The poor guy that drove you there was speared into the wall somewhere back toward the entrance.

The room you were trapped in was mostly rock. Paved stones lined the path beneath you, while heavy boulders blocked you in. There was no going back, or forward, as far as you could tell.

You'd just about given up and decided to succumb to your slow death when you heard shouting.

“Hello?” the voice called. It was male, and smooth like chocolate. “Anybody in there?”

“Yes!” you called back. At least now, with someone else, you had a small chance of getting out. “I took a wrong step and the walls caved in.”

He chuckled. It was muffled by the rocks between you. “I can see that.”

You rolled your eyes at the teasing in his voice. You'd dealt with enough people patronizing you about this site alone - you were over it. No matter what you tried explaining to the locals, nobody believed you. Or worse, they didn’t believe you would be able to get in, get the artifact, and get out alive. You would love nothing more than to prove them wrong.

“Know any way of getting me out? Instead of, you know, laughing at my expense?”

He hummed. You heard his feet shuffling over the loose dirt on his side. He was probably appraising the situation. “Is it closed on the other side?”

You glanced back, as though the exit had magically opened up since you had your back to it. “Yup. No sign of light coming in either. I've only got enough light for about two hours.”

More shuffling. You thought you may have heard a sigh, too. “Alright. Just stay here, try to see if there’s any writing on the walls. I'll see if there’s anything in my car.”

“Wait!” His retreating footsteps stopped and got closer once again. “What's your name?”

“Illinois. And yours?”

“Y/N.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“It'd be better without the block-in.”

He chuckled again, and left back the way he came. You immediately missed the company.

You grabbed your flashlight and began roaming the perimeter of the dark room. Your hand ran over the wall to feel for any carvings or indentations your eyes might miss. There was nothing at eye level as far as you could tell. You stood back toward the middle and tried to see if there was anything higher up. You could just barely see some messy writing way up there.

“Find anything?” Illinois called.

You made your way back over to the wall so you wouldn’t have to shout as loud. “There’s some writing, but it’s too high for me to see. It looks like hieroglyphics, if I had to guess.”

“Ah, so the Egyptians were the ones to hide the treasure away,” he hummed. “Everyone else assumed it was stolen and hidden away here after some fights between royal ownership broke out.”

“Which is a ridiculous conclusion to jump to. If they were actually paying any attention to expedition records, they would see that slaves and materials were being transported into the desert with no real conclusion given.”

“I like you,” he mused. “Say, once we get you outta this mess and get the treasure, we should get dinner.”

You laughed, looking at the rock wall in disbelief. “You don’t even know what I look like. I could be some hideous monster.”

“Well,” he drawled, “you sound pretty good-lookin’ to me.”

You bit your lip, trying to desperately ignore the warmth rising to your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you turned your flashlight back up to the writing. “Anyway, how are we getting me out?”

“Lucky for you, I may have found a solution to your little problem.”

-

“Well, well, well.” Illinois stepped through the dust in the air. You were ducked in the corner as far away from the entrance wall as possible, arms covering your head. You uncovered yourself and turned in your crouched position to face him. “Aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes.”

He offered you a hand and helped you get to your feet. You dusted yourself off, wincing at the small cuts and scrapes that littered your arms from the debris that happened to hit you. “Did you really have to blow it up?”

He shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face as he began scouting the small area you’d been trapped in. “It was faster than trying to move everything.” He gestured up at the wall. “Now, where’s those hieroglyphs you found, you handsome-and-or-beautiful creature?”

You rolled your eyes and pointed him to an entirely different section of the wall. “It’s up there. Think you can translate it?”

“Possibly.” He hummed, rubbing the scruff of his neck as he looked at the distant writing. “Could take a minute.”

“Take your time.”

As you waited for him to figure out what the writing said, you rummaged through your bag. It was a bit torn up from the explosion, but nothing a sewing kit in a motel room couldn’t patch up real nice. You pulled out a roll of bandages and a water bottle. It would be better to clean and wrap up your arms before you go any deeper into the temple, to avoid infection and any sand that could bury itself in your injuries.

You held the end of a bandage in your mouth and poured water over your arm. It stung like hell. You made sure to pour extra water over the deeper scratches. Clumsily, you set the water bottle on the ground and got started wrapping up your arm.

“Need some help with that?”

Before you could even protest, the handsome man was taking the roll from you and holding your wrist to carefully and skillfully bandage your arm. You would have complained, but it was easier for him to help you than for you to keep struggling like you were.

“Thanks, Illinois.” You rolled his name off your tongue playfully. It was certainly an unusual name for an equally as unusual man. “So, what brought you around here?”

He shrugged off your gratitude. He felt somewhat responsible for your injuries anyway, no matter how minor. In the hall, he was able to get farther away and find better cover. This room was small and open. There was no situation where you wouldn’t be getting out unscathed.

“Same reason as you, I’m guessing.” He tucked the end of the bandage away, making sure it was secure so it wouldn’t fall off. He picked up your water and began cleaning your other arm unprompted. “Heard about the artifact, found the location of the temple; couldn’t resist.”

“Do you really think it has the power to show someone their greatest desires?”

When you flinched at the water hitting a particularly sore scrape, he apologized quietly. “I think there’s more to it than what they claim. I’ve come across quite a few cursed items and objects that claim to have a greater power attached to them.” He unrolled another bandage.

“And?” you coaxed.

“ And ,” he continued, “they’re not always what they seem. Found a crystal totem shaped like a monkey a while back. When I returned it to its pedestal, I was transported to Monkey Heaven.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “Monkey Heaven? C’mon, cowboy, I’m not that stupid.” If his cheeks tinted pink at your nickname, he didn’t let it show.

“It’s the truth!” He finished wrapping up your other arm and stood straight with his hands on his hips, defending himself. “I had a good partner to help me return it. When we left the ‘Monkey Heaven Haze’ - their words not mine - we had a jeweled banana and a diamond to show for it.”

“And your partner?”

He got quiet, looking off to the side. “I’ve lost a good many partners in my adventures.”

You didn’t press the matter. The past was in the past, and neither of you were leaving this temple without that artifact. Besides, you’d lost a few good people on your travels, too. All anyone needed to do was look at the man pierced into the wall back there.

“Thanks for the help.” You held up your arms, studying his handiwork. “I appreciate it.”

Pulled back from his thoughts, he smiled at you and tipped his hat. “Anytime.” When he winked, you swore you heard a whip crack somewhere.

-

“There it is.”

One trapdoor, an exhausting swim through leech-infested water, and a simple puzzle involving putting some rocks on a weighted pedestal, and finally you’d made it. Seeing the enclosed room, covered wall to wall in hieroglyphs just waiting to be translated. It took your breath away. And that didn’t even mention the golden scarab sculpture that sat in the middle.

“She’s a real beauty,” Illinois breathed out.

“Yeah.”

The most you could do for several minutes was take in the sight. After today, the likelihood of getting back in this temple and back to this place was slim. You two are the first and probably last people to witness this sanctuary in all its glory.

“What do you say to translating the writing, grabbing the beetle, getting out of here, and going to dinner?”

You chuckled, tearing your eyes from the treasure to look at the cowboy. “Then who gets credit for the artifact?”

He hummed, rubbing his stubble again as he looked at you. There was a special glint in his eye. “I’d be more than happy to share the credit with you,” he offered. “If you agree to dinner, that is.”

“A little persistent there, aren’t we?” You quirked an eyebrow, smirking. “I’ll say yes if… I get full credit for the discovery.”

“Full credit?” He tilted his head down at you questioningly. You hummed an affirmative. A lopsided grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “For dinner with someone as beautiful-and-or-handsome as you? I’ll take that deal.”

Chapter Text

The tinny, hazy sound of a phonograph filled the office. The record spun out the gentle tune of a piano, of violins and brass horns. It was not often that the mayor got to pull out the music player, but today felt special. He couldn’t place his finger on why.

Mayhaps it was the fact that you were visiting. Of course, the District Attorney and the Mayor work close together, but it never felt close enough. Oftentimes, Damien thought back to those old university days. The nights never felt so long. The stars never shone as bright as they had when you both snuck onto the roof to gaze into the heavens.

Mayhaps he wouldn’t have even been thinking of those old days were it not for the record he chose to fill the silence.

“Midnight,” Damien hummed along, almost under his breath it was so silent, “with the stars and you. Midnight and a rendezvous.”

He’d never been one to brag, never one to show off. The only time he could recall singing in front of an audience was in front of family as a child, during holiday dinners. He didn’t think he had a good voice, anyway. It certainly wasn’t one worth sharing.

“Your eyes held a message tender, saying ‘I surrender all my love to yo-’ Y/N!” Damien stood up from his desk in an instant, eyes wide with shock and mouth nearly gaping open. “Wh-When did you get here? I must not have heard you knock.”

He gestured for you to enter as he hurriedly rushed to his phonograph to stop the music. He could feel the warmth in his cheeks from embarrassment, and cursed himself for it. How was a mayor supposed to speak in front of crowds of people if he couldn’t even handle being caught doing something as harmless as singing?

“I just arrived. And I… I didn’t knock.”

Once the music stopped, he turned to face you once more, brow furrowed. “Oh? May I ask why not?”

The grin that lit up your face, full of mischief and simple joy. Oh, it tugged on his heartstrings like an orchestra tuning up for a large number.

“I heard you singing.”

“Yes, I do apologize for that, dear DA.” He tugged at his collar, glancing away for a brief moment to help collect himself. You’d always been more confident that he was. He supposed that’s why you wished to go into law. “We have much more important matters to attend to than listen to me sing all afternoon.”

“But I want to hear you sing.”

His mouth opened, ready to say something. But it shut soon after. It opened a good couple more times as he watched you cross from the door of his office to the silent phonograph. Your fingers so carefully picked up the needle and placed it back on to the record, starting it from the beginning. Sweet violins and brassy horns filled the space once more.

You turned to him with a twinkle in your eye he hadn’t seen since you graduated, and outstretched a hand. “Dance with me.”

“Well, now, I really don’t think that’s, erm, appropriate.”

You rolled your eyes. “Business can wait a few more minutes, Dames. Dance with me.”

Dames. When was the last time you called him that?

Taking a deep breath in to steel his nerves, he gave a curt nod and took your hand in his. Your other hand met his shoulder and his landed with uncertainty on your waist. He began to lead you to the sound of the music, trying not to get lost in your eyes as you turned and swayed throughout his office.

Midnight, with the stars and you

Midnight and a rendezvous

“Sing for me?”

Your eyes held a message tender

Saying “I surrender all my love to you”

Damien almost lost himself in your trance. Quietly, nervously, he sang under his breath as you continued to dance. If you hadn’t been standing so close, you never would have heard it.

“Midnight brought us sweet romance.” He forced himself not to glance at your lips. “I know all my whole life through…”

Your sweet grin finally drew his eyes downward. You were singing along with him. His heart raced in his chest, pounding against his ribcage like a trapped bird.

I’ll be remembering you,

Whatever else I do

Midnight, with the stars and you

Oh how helplessly he fell in love.

Chapter Text

The only light in your room came from your phone screen. The light burned your eyes, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Some sick part of your brain told you that you deserved the pain it brought. You didn’t disagree.

Nobody checked in when you first holed yourself away. It brought you some sick sense of satisfaction that they hadn’t. It was like your brain was saying, “I told you so. I told you they wouldn’t care if you were gone.”

The second day of your self-made isolation, Eric had knocked and asked if you wanted some company or possibly some hot chocolate. You’d declined, and he’d apologized for bothering you in the first place. Now that made you feel bad. The moment you felt like a burden on someone else, for even the smallest reason, the evil voice that scratched and crooned at the back of your mind amplified it. Dr. Iplier and Yancy had knocked that day, too.

The third day, it seemed everyone would knock when they passed by. Wilford had foregone knocking and popped right into your room, emphasizing how concerned everyone was and pushing you to at least leave your room to eat something. He shut up when you showed him your stash of granola bars, and he disappeared into thin air soon after.

The only ego that hadn’t knocked was the Host. At first, your brain took this as meaning that he didn’t care as much as the others. Dark had even taken a moment out of his busy schedule to knock and ask after your well being. But not the Host. However, while you were doomscrolling, you remembered that he was practically privy to everyone’s feelings and whereabouts. Not only had he been aware of your disappearance on the first day, but he knew it was going to extend into several days, and he knew why you were isolating yourself in the first place. Knowing this now, you didn’t expect him to check on you at all.

Perhaps that was why you were so surprised when he was the one knocking at your door late at night.

You’d been fighting with your brain for at least 10 minutes, trying to work up the energy to make a sandwich (granola was no longer appealing enough), when a knock resounded and killed whatever motivation you’d gathered.

“The Host calls through the door that it is him and asks if Y/N would like him to make the sandwich for them,” the nearly mechanical, albeit smooth, voice said. “He would also be willing to get them fresh water, as theirs has become lukewarm.”

You were quiet for a minute, testing the waters. Usually when you didn’t respond, they would sigh and go away. But even after much too long, the shadow of his feet could be seen under the door.

You cleared your throat. When was the last time you’d spoken? Your jaw felt strange when it opened; too heavy. You told him what type of sandwich you’d like. It felt funny for those to be your first words after days of silence.

“The Host nods and promises to return with their food shortly.” If you listened closely, you could hear him narrating softly under his breath as he left for the kitchen.

-

When he got back, you reluctantly let him into your room. He was nice enough to give you your space, though; sitting at your desk as you ate on your bed. The sandwich was almost perfect, its taste only amplified by the fact that it was made by someone else.

You honestly expected the Host to be bombarding you with questions like everyone else. He made it past the threshold, surely he had questions just waiting to be voiced. But, he didn’t. He sat still, save for a head tilt every now and then, lips moving in silent narration. Once you finished your food, he stood, crossed to stand in front of you, and held out his hand so he could take away the dirty plate.

You didn’t want to give it to him.

Before, it was so easy to ignore anybody caring about you. Anybody’s concern sat in your stomach like an anvil, weighing you down because you were a burden. But, Host… He didn’t ask if you were okay - he probably knew you weren’t already. He just asked if he could make you a sandwich and get you fresh water, that’s all.

He must have noticed your reluctance. His arm dropped back down to his side and he slowly moved to sit at the end of your bed, just far enough to make sure you would feel comfortable, but close enough that he was only an arm’s reach away. His head was turned to face you, but his eyes, covered in their usual blindfold, looked past you. “The Host wishes to help if he may be allowed to do so.”

“Help?” He nodded, humming. You set your plate down on your nightstand. “How?”

He seemed to pause for a moment, trying to find the words. “The Host believes that talking about their feelings may help.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and wrapping your arms around yourself. “Yeah, well, I don’t really feel like talking about it.”

He hummed again. “He thought they might not want to.” He turned his body slightly, facing you more, albeit at an angle. “That is why the Host was going to suggest a hug.”

You wanted to laugh, to tell him that it was a stupid idea; that your feelings and problems couldn’t all be solved with a hug. But you couldn’t. You thought for the briefest moment what it would be like to wrap your arms around his broad chest, wrapped in his trenchcoat and warm… and you couldn’t laugh.

He opened his arms as he heard you sigh in defeat, making no further moves to hug you. He simply waited for you to go to him.

So, slowly but surely, you got up on your knees and crossed the few feet that stood between you. And once you were close enough, you practically fell into his chest. He didn’t seem phased. He caught you in strong arms, wrapped around your shoulders and back. He let you adjust so you were curled into his side, and he certainly didn’t say anything if he felt something warm and wet soaking into his shirt. Instead, he just squeezed you closer and rested his head atop yours.

Chapter Text

Nothing was going right today. You swore some cosmic entity was just doing everything in their power to make your life suck.

First, while getting ready for work, there was no hot water. When you called your landlord to tell them and ask why, apparently the boiler was broken. So, a freezing cold, 10 second shower to start off the day.

Then, after your ice cold plunge, none of your clothes looked or felt right. You tore through your closet just trying to find a single shirt that didn’t completely set off your dysphoria, but they all felt wrong. Your boyfriend, watching your debacle, had graciously offered you one of his button-up shirts, but you just sighed and said that you’d be fine with what you had.

When you finally got to work (after spending a 20 minute bus ride next to the world's loudest screaming baby), you were late, and your boss gave you extra work to compensate. You had to go around the office on a wild goose chase just to find the data you needed to even do the work your boss wanted you to.

Lunch was miserable, the trip back home was miserable, you were miserable. Your feet hurt, your back hurt, your head hurt, and you made the awful mistake of looking into the mirror in your terrible state and making everything feel thousands of times worse. You wanted nothing more than to lie in Dark’s lap and have him read to you. But alas, he was still busy with his own job.

Instead, you changed into the largest, baggiest pajamas you could find and tried to make dinner. Except every little thing seemed to set you off even more - the way cabinets didn’t shut fully even when you closed them with full force, how water just couldn’t seem to boil fast enough, the sounds of the kitchen lights and the feeling of the tile under your feet. Eventually, you had to abandon your original dinner plans and succumb to the call of the pizza place a few blocks over.

When Dark got back, you knew almost immediately. He was almost always followed by a high pitched ringing, and to say it fucked with your headache was an understatement. Still, you grit your teeth, breathed in, and ignored it as best as you could. The last thing you wanted to do today was blow up at your boyfriend.

“Hello, darling,” he cooed in your ear as he leaned over from behind the couch to kiss your cheek. “How was your day?”

An annoyed puff of air left your nose, but you turned to him with a weak grin. “Not great.”

He hummed, fixing his eyes on the half-eaten pizza sitting on the coffee table. Your clothing also hadn’t escaped his notice. He was aware that you only wore these in your worst mental states. More than once he’d run a bath for you and warmed them up in the dryer with a towel, just to help as much as he could.

“Is there anything I can do to help, love?” With some focus, he tried his best to quieten the ringing that followed him. Some days were harder than others, but today he was nearly able to silence it completely.

“Cuddle with me?” He turned his gaze to you. Your face seemed to soften. “Please?”

If anybody else saw it, they’d think the ego had finally cracked under the pressure of taking down Mark. They would think he was about to kill a thousand people for fun, like Wilford did. When his lips curled into a grin, anybody else would be yelling at you to run. But you just smiled right back as he brushed his lips against your forehead and began retreating back into the bedroom.

“Give me a moment to change.” Even after he disappeared behind the door, he continued to speak to you. “Am I reading to you or are we watching that show you like?”

“Will you read to me?” you called back.

The door opened, revealing him in sleek, silk pajamas. He held a book in his hand. “Of course, darling.” He sat down next to you, immediately pulling you into him with a hand around your waist. His fingers pushed up the hem of your shirt just enough so he could brush against your skin. “Anything for my handsome partner,” he purred, almost teasingly.

You pushed down the negative voice in your head telling you that he was just calling you handsome to mess with you - you knew he’d never do that. Instead, you let yourself lean into him and forget the events of the day as his deep, sultry voice began weaving a tale of adventure and chaos. Every now and then, his cold fingers would press into your side, and every time it succeeded in somehow pulling you closer and closer, he would lovingly reward you with a kiss pressed to your head.

The stress and exhaustion of the day didn’t seem to matter as you drifted next to him that night, all while he pressed gentle kisses to your face and complimented your resilience. You knew, deep within you, you would go through a thousand awful days like this if it meant Dark would take care of you like this every time.

Chapter Text

When the sun rose and the birds began chirping, Dark awoke expecting to find you curled into his chest. Often he’d wake up closer to you than he ever believed possible, the blankets a tangles heap tying you together. But today, his arms were empty and the side of the bed opposite his was empty.

He searched the room first, but wherever he looked there was no sign of you.

His body cracked and creaked as he finally dragged himself out of bed. He no longer groaned and winced at the pain that rippled through his once-dead shell, though some days were worse than others. Today, he was grateful it was only a dull pain. It would have been completely unnoticeable had you been there.

The only sound throughout the small house he resided in with you was his footsteps as he padded down halls, peeking into doors. Your vacancy was beginning to worry him. He could feel afterimages of himself re-checking rooms, looking around frantically, grabbing at the walls to propel themselves forward. They were startled away when a beep sounded out from the kitchen.

Dark, in all honesty, didn’t remember walking the rest of the way there. If he teleported, he didn’t think too much on it, because he was too focused watching you pull out a tray from the oven.

“Dearest,” his sudden presence made you jump and almost drop the tray, but he had the good sense to wait until you were holding it over the stove to speak, “what are you doing baking at this hour?”

You awkwardly turned off the oven as it began to beep again, and pointed to the clock on the wall. “It’s only 7:23.”

Even though his eyes were completely dark, you could tell he rolled them. “You know what I mean.” He gestured around the kitchen to the mess you’d left out, not judgmentally, but certainly accusatorially. “Why did you get up so early to make brownies? I would have been happy to help you when we woke up, together.”

“ Uhm, well, you see,” you fidgeted with your hands, talking almost a mile a minute, “I woke up at like 3 and I was really craving chocolate so I got up and I had a little bit of candy, but then I remembered we had brownie mix in the pantry so I just sorta impulsively decided to make them.”

Dark’s brow furrowed. “You don’t usually have cravings that strong, dear.”

You fidgeted even more, but now you wouldn’t meet his gaze. You played it off as though you were simply grabbing a knife to cut the brownies.

“My love, tell me what’s wrong,” he cooed. When you turned back toward the brownies, Dark was standing in front of them, worry pulling his face down and colors flickering to each side of him. “Please talk to me.”

“I want to it’s just...” You felt warmth rise to your cheeks as you looked away from him once again. “It’s really embarrassing to talk about.”

“My dear,” he began, firmer this time. One hand wrapped around your waist as the other cupped your cheek to get you to look at him. “I love you. No matter how embarrassing something may feel, it will not stop me loving you. Now, tell me what is wrong so that I may help you as efficiently as I can.”

You took in a deep breath and fiddled with the front of his pajama shirt. He waited patiently for you to find your voice. When you did, it wasn’t at all what he had been expecting.

“I got my period last night,” you murmured. “Now I just have really bad cravings and cramps and I wanna cry but I don’t have any reason to and-”

He shushed you softly. “It’s alright, love. One thing at a time, yes?” Once you nodded, he kissed your forehead. “We’ll have brownies for breakfast, and I can supply you with any other foods you may be craving throughout the week. If you wish to let out your over-active emotions, I suggest we watch a film. Finally, you should take medication for your cramps, and I would be more than happy to cuddle with you if that would also help. How does all that sound?”

Something wet touched his thumb and he looked down at you, worried he had messed up somehow, because, sure enough, you were crying. He removed his hand from your waist to cup your cheek, using his thumbs to brush away the tears that fell from your eyes and slipped down your cheeks.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, I-”

You shook your head, sniffling. The hand that wasn’t holding a butterknife held the back of one of his hands, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m okay,” you assured him. “I’m okay. It’s just- No one’s ever offered to do so much for me when I’m like this.”

“Dearest, you deserve the world.” He pressed several kisses to your forehead and your wet cheeks. “ Especially, when you are like this.”

Chapter Text

Adventure, adrenaline, anything dangerous - as long as there was treasure involved it called Illinois’ name like a siren beckoning a sailor. He’d gone anywhere and everywhere to take artifacts and return them to their rightful place.

But today, well, today was special. No, there wasn’t a temple on the edge of a cliff about to topple off into the ocean, or a hoard of Aztec gold waiting for him in some mine. Instead, waiting for him, perhaps his favorite adventure of all, the domesticity of life with a partner.

-

“... be? Babe, wake up.” A gentle hand nudged his shoulder. “C’mon, I'm making coffee.”

He sighed, his legs stretching out in the rocking chair before pushing him back up from his slumped position. His hat was shifted away from his face, off of his eyes, and he opened them to see an angel.

“Well, well, well,” he hummed, his voice raspy from sleep, “aren't you just a sight for sore eyes.”

You rolled your eyes and helped him out of the chair and inside the little cabin you two were renting. “Why'd you sleep outside? You could have knocked, I would have let you in.”

He followed you into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and rolling out his joints. “Didn’t wanna wake you, darling.” A yawn forced its way from his lungs. He continued speaking through the end of it, “‘N I coul’n’t find my keys.”

“It's a good thing you’re cute.” You pushed a mug of freshly brewed, piping hot coffee into his hands. He didn't even wait for it to cool off before he took a big gulp of it.

“Ah. It’s one of my many charms.” Warm brown eyes struck you with their smug look from beneath half-closed lids, joined by a lazy smirk.

You smiled back up at him. “Whatever you say, cowboy.”

He shifted his weight, holding his mug in one hand as he opened his other arm as an offering. You almost immediately slid right into place, leaning against the counter with him, head resting on his shoulder. From here, you could see out of the kitchen window into the little garden that was growing out back.

It felt surreal, somehow. You weren't sure how you went from robbing museums with Mark to adventuring with Illinois, to having this little place, this little downtime with him.

He was thinking much the same. He'd had partners come and go, taken from him in terrible accidents. But you stuck by him. You stayed by his side, and here you were, continuing to do just that. His heart almost fluttered at the prospect of being with you forever, to the end of his days, whenever that may be.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your head, pulling you closer to him before guiding you away from the counter. He placed his mug down, and soon took yours and placed it next to his. “C’mon, partner,” he hummed. “Let's get back to bed.”

Chapter Text

“And this is my apartment!”

Yancy looked in from the doorway. He didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere, but especially not in your space. You lived here, you paid to keep living here and for water and heating and all of the stuff that he didn’t have to worry about while he was in Happy Trails.

You gestured him inside and, despite his entire being screaming for him to leave, to get in your car and drive himself all the way back to those gates, he promised he would try parole. If not for himself, for you.

He cleared his throat. “So, youse, uh. Youse lives here?” He only got to really know you while he helped you escape and when you came to visit every third Sunday, so he couldn’t say he knew you too well, but he knew you well enough to know this place just screamed you .

You shut the door behind him, and just sorta stood there and watched him take it all in. When he first left the walls of the prison, he had to take a moment to process everything. You guys sat in the parking lot for a while, just letting him listen to quiet music and process the fact that he was actually doing it, he was actually getting out of those walls.

Yancy slowly moved deeper into your place, following pictures and decorations, until he came to an odd piece of furniture in the corner. He turned back toward you and pointed toward it. “What’s this?”

He swore your entire being lit up at his question. He almost worried that he shouldn’t have asked it.

“That’s a cat tower!”

He tilted his head slightly. “A cat tower? What’s, uh… What’s it do?”

You chuckled. “It doesn’t do anything, but I have a cat that likes to sit up there and scratch at this material.” You joined him by the tower and ran your hand along the torn up scratching posts that made up the main pillar. “See?”

He felt it, too, but his confusion didn’t seem to dissipate much. “I’ve never really been good with animals,” he warned. “Not that I haven’t tried, I just don’t think they’s likes me.”

You grabbed his hand, holding it and giving it a soft squeeze. “Don’t worry, Yance. Lucifer will love you.”

“Lucifer?!” His eyes were wide, eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. “Youse named youses cat after Satan?”

“He’s all black and fluffy with yellow eyes! What else was I supposed to call him?!” you defended yourself.

It was perhaps the first time since he left that you saw him crack a smile and huff a laugh. “Youse’s crazy, doll.”

-

No matter how much you insisted on wanting to make Yancy a nice dinner, he wouldn’t stop trying to help you. He kept reassuring you that he knew how to use different things because he worked in the kitchen back at Happy Trails, but it just ended up in disaster. So, instead of a home cooked meal, you introduced Yance to his first Chinese takeout.

You also decided to introduce him to the Three Stooges.

He laughed around a bite of food, trying not to choke on it as he pointed to the screen. “This is so stupid! Why can’t they figure anything out?” Despite the insult, it was all positive. He was definitely enjoying himself, and you were enjoying watching him enjoy his parole.

“Right?!”

One of the Stooges (you could never get their names straight) tried to poke another’s eyes, but the other blocked it. You laughed at the gag, but you stopped once you realized Yancy wasn’t laughing with you. When you looked over, you didn’t expect to find Lucifer sitting in his lap, stretched out toward Yancy’s mouth to smell what he’d been eating all the while Yance held his takeout container and chopsticks away from the creature.

You chuckled at the sight before reaching over and grabbing Lucifer around his stomach and dropping him to the ground. He persistently circled your feet with small “mrow”s.

“He’s friendly, Yance, don’t worry,” you assured the jailbird as he continued to stare at your cat with uncertainty.

He placed his chopsticks into his container and reached his hand down slowly. Lucifer sniffed it deeply, loud enough you could hear his sniffs even over the show, before butting up against it. Yancy seemed to not understand what it meant until Lucifer was rubbing up against him more insistently.

“Youse isn’t so bad.”

Chapter Text

After your friend Matt decided that maybe having a sentient, murderous robot in his home wasn’t the best idea, he passed it on to you. You didn’t mind, honestly. Google, as he was called, seemed to simply be content enough with observing you go about your daily tasks.

You didn’t ask him to do laundry or dishes, and sometimes you’d even forget he was a robot and ask if he wanted something to eat. In return, he would warn you when your blood sugar seemed too high or too low, if something you were doing seemed dangerous, and he would occasionally help you figure out what was wrong with your technology when it was acting up.

You sat hunched over a controller on the couch, frantically pushing buttons and tilting this way and that even if it didn’t help your gameplay. Maybe it was the frantic button pushing or the Dark Souls boss really was that difficult. Either way, it ended with you cussing and falling back into the couch with a huff as the all-too-familiar “YOU DIED” screen displayed.

Google, perched on the edge of the couch next to you, hands on his knees and back straight as a board, tilted his head and hm’d. This was the fifth time you’d attempted fighting this boss today, and yet you had made no improvement. He found it all rather curious that humans would put themselves through such agony and turmoil for something so inconsequential.

“If you continue using the techniques you have been using, you have a 48 percent chance of succeeding,” he informed you, monotone and yet somehow still judgemental.

You groaned and sat up, turning to look at him. “And what would you suggest I do?”

He turned his head to look at you, in a way that was almost just human enough to pass as such. “Well,” a window opened in front of him, displaying a walkthrough, “I would suggest taking a look at other people’s videos, reading up on the moves and weaknesses, or asking for help.”

An image on the window moved around, showing a player perfectly dodging and parrying. They didn’t seem to be getting touched at all as they rolled in close and killed the boss that was causing you so much grief. You scowled at the image.

And then a lightbulb went off.

“Wait!” You suddenly hopped onto your knees and faced Google excitedly, hands on his arm. He frowned at the contact. “You already know all the information to beat him! You can fight the boss for me!”

He frowned even deeper, somehow. “I refuse to assist you in such a trivial matter - it deviates from my primary objective.”

“Oh, c’mon, please!” You jostled his arm, which responded with robotic noises as it shifted. “Just beat this one boss for me and I’ll, erm, I dunno, but I’ll pay you back!” He stared at you with distaste as you continued to plead with him, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes.

Eventually, he caved. With a grumbled Fine he took the controller from you and expertly made his way from the bonfire back to the boss’s arena. You watched in awe as he moved with exact precision, responding to each attack with a dodge at just the right moment to not get hit, or a parry that stunned the boss for a moment, or by rolling into a blindspot to attack back. It was awe inspiring. It was incredible. It felt like no time at all had passed before the boss was defeated and you were being handed back the controller.

“The strategy I employed was one highly recommended on the r/DarkSouls subreddit.”

“You did it.”

“By using his attacks against him, one is able to avoid getting hit almost entirely.”

“You did it!”

“I would recommend-”

Google was cut off when suddenly arms were around him. His entire body stiffened, mind searching the internet for answers as to why this was happening. Why were you hugging him?

“Thank you so, so, so much, Google.” You pulled away with a big happy grin on your face, not seeming to notice what you had done to the android. You turned back to your game, cheering as you lit the bonfire and coming up with ways in which you could repay him.

He just sat there, silent and stock still, for the rest of your gaming time.

Chapter Text

“Host! Host, listen to this!”

The ego suppressed a sigh as he sat back from his typewriter, abandoning his own work to listen to yours. This had become a common occurrence, against the Host’s will. Wilford had dropped the fact that he wrote onto you and now, as an aspiring writer yourself, you wouldn’t leave him alone. Hell, you even spent more time here than with Wilford, the man you worked for.

“The Host asks for Y/N to calm down before they read him their newest update.”

He could feel your presence in front of his desk, sense the way the air shifted as you inhaled and exhaled deeply a few times. Once he was satisfied you had calmed down enough, his head tilted forward, welcoming you to continue.

You weren’t a bad writer by any means. You had excellent dialogue, your plots were coherent and cohesive, your characters were well rounded - overall you simply lacked the confidence in yourself to finish any story and send it out to a publisher. And while he didn’t mind giving you feedback occasionally, this nearly daily event was beginning to drain his patience.

“So?” you probed, hopeful. “What did you think?”

He hm’d. “The Host thinks their dialogue feels clipped and unnatural, but they have improved at writing action.”

He could hear your smile in your voice as you thanked him and then ran off to god knows where in the manor. He hated that he felt such a way, but he was relieved when you left. His space was empty, quiet, and he could once again return back to his own writing.

-

Blood splattered against the walls, the ceiling, the door. Adam panted as he looked down at his crime. The body beneath him was too still, when just moments before it had been writhing and screaming and-

Knocking?

The Host was pulled from his typewriter, away from the gruesome novel he was writing, at the sound. He thought perhaps he had heard the sound coming from down the hall, but he was proven wrong when the sound echoed through his sparse room once more.

“The Host calls for the person at the door to enter.”

He listened with heightened senses as the door opened and shut. The padding of feet made their way to the front of his desk. A voice, all too familiar, but all too quiet, spoke.

“Hey, Host.” It was you, but you lacked your usual energy. You didn't come bursting in here with no regard to what he was doing or do the manners society upheld. “Would you, uhm.” It wasn’t like you to hem and haw as you spoke. He tilted his head, confused and concerned. “Would it be alright if I stayed here and worked?”

He found himself nodding before you had even finished. “The Host welcomes Y/N to use his space. He is confused, however, and asks why they wish to work here.”

“I just want to be close to someone for a little bit, and you’re, like, my only friend… Is that okay?”

You considered him a… friend? After how calloused and cold he had been. He found himself unable to speak as he processed this new information, nodding and gesturing you over to one of the armchairs that took up his room.

Suddenly, as he thought back to every interaction he had with you during your stay at the manor, he felt a deep seeded guilt take over his heart. He was business-like, and distant. He provided you with simple advice and then waited impatiently for you to leave. He had been nothing but rude and cruel to you, and yet…

“The Host asks what is bothering Y/N.” He wanted to apologize, but the words simply wouldn’t come out.

You sighed. “Nothing I shouldn’t be used to by now,” you reply. “Wilford is just being kinda mean. I messed up the scheduling on the show so now a guest that was supposed to be on tonight won’t be on until next week, and he’s not too happy about it.”

“The Host tells them not to think too hard on Wilford’s words, as he is able to travel through time and meet the guest sooner as he pleases.”

You chuckled, but it wasn’t as strong or pure as he would have liked. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

There was silence for a while. He listened as you began typing on your own laptop, working on the story that you had so passionately been telling him about for weeks, all while he brushed you off. He wanted to go back to his own story, back to typing away at the keys of his horror. But when he raised his hands and set his fingertips back on the machine, his heart was weighed down once more.

He removed his hands and placed them back in his lap, turning his chair slightly to face your general direction. “The Host asks if there is something he can do to help you feel better.”

You stuttered and stammered, coming up with excuses to reject his offer. However, he simply sat there and patiently waited for you to give him something to do. He felt like he needed to help you. You may not have known of his rudeness, of how he’d been trying to stay distant so you would leave him alone, but he would know, and he wanted to make up for it however he could.

You sighed. “Would you… Would you pet my hair?”

“The Host would be happy to,” he assures you.

He stands from his desk chair and makes his way to the chair you sat in. It took a bit of maneuvering, but once you were sitting on a pillow on the floor with your head between his knees as he sat in the chair, he was finally able to fulfill your request.

It was awkward at first. You’d never been so close to the ego and it felt especially strange as he ran an uncertain hand over your hair. But slowly, you both got more comfortable. You relaxed more against him, resting your cheek against his knee as you began slowly making progress on your book. His fingers began slipping between the strands of your hair, easing through any tangles and knots, and lightly scratching at your scalp. He actually found himself enjoying the repetitive motions.

“Host?”

He hums to let you know he heard you.

“You’re a really good friend.”

“The Host appreciates their friendship, as well.”

Chapter Text

“Dear?” Dark knocked softly once more on the doorframe as he pushed open the door to your room. You were still in the same spot as yesterday, as the day before.

Perhaps it was his creation, or simply who he was, but he couldn't wrap his head around grief. He couldn't fathom how someone could yearn for the loss of someone else, how the entire body ached with the missing presence.

What he did know was it was weighing you down. He couldn't deny that, and he would never deny you your emotions.

He slipped into the bed behind you, still clad in his full suit and dress shoes. Warm arms wrapped around your trembling frame and drew you closer to him. You'd long been out of tears, even as you scrolled through countless images and videos of your beloved pet. He worried if you were dehydrated.

He pressed a kiss to the back of your head, looking at the images with you. “There is nothing I can say to make the pain go away,” he whispered after a long while.

You sniffled. It was wet and snotty. Your voice was no better, soft and raspy and unused. “I know.”

“How can I help you, my love?” He pressed another kiss to your head, waiting patiently as you thought of an answer.

You turned your phone off, dropping it carelessly onto the mattress. He helped you twist and turn in his arms, pressing a hand to the back of your head as you tucked your face into his neck.

“Just stay here for a little while…”

“Always, my dear.” He squeezed you tighter to his chest. “For as long as you need.”

Chapter Text

Say you’re there when I feel helpless

If that’s true, why don’t you help me?

It’s my fault, I know I’m selfish

Stand alone, my soul is jealous

It wants love, but I reject it

Trade my joy for my protection

The mirror cracked, shattered. Staring back at you was your body, but… It twisted its head, left and right, cracking its neck. It paused for a brief moment after. It stared straight at you.

“Damien?”

Remorse reflected back in the dark voids where its eyes had been, but it was gone in a split second. It turned and left you behind. Your body, filled with others’ souls… They just left you in this mirror.

“Damien? Damien!” Your screams echoed painfully, bouncing off every corner of your prison. Your hands - did you even have hands anymore? - covered your ears. “DAMIEN!”

Your body, or whatever had become of it, did not come back.

You weren’t sure how long had passed before William was traipsing back in front of the mirror, downtrodden. He believed he hadn’t killed the detective or anyone. It seemed he was losing hope on that belief.

“Damien?” he called out, but his voice sounded echoey and distant. He spun around the center table, looking up toward the balcony you fell from.

Your hands banging on the glass fell on deaf ears. You slammed your palms against the barrier, hit knuckles on the cracks that trapped you there, but Wilford just slumped to the door and left without even a glance in your direction.

Grab my hand, I’m drowning

I feel my heart pounding

Why haven’t you found me yet?

I hold you so proudly

Traumas, they surround me

I wish you’d just love me back

You waited. And you waited. You watched with bated breath as the paint began to peel off the walls, as spiders spun their webs in abandoned corners, as dust collected on top of the table you were forced to stare at.

Nobody ever came back.

Instead of continuing to stare, you decided to distract yourself. You were stuck in here, after all. Who knew how long it would be before you got out?

You called out into the void to hear it echo, pretending it was somebody else. Every now and then you would sing, your echo singing back to you like some fucked up duet.

You closed your eyes and tried not to imagine someone showing up to break you out, but rather memories of your life before all the madness Mark’s party had brought. You would think of those long college nights, studying over your fifth cup of coffee; of doing practically the same thing as a district attorney. You remembered staying in the Mayor’s office a little longer than necessary during lunch breaks, telling stories and laughing. You could still see Damien’s smile…

You missed his smile.

Say you’re here, but I don’t feel it

Give me peace, but then you steal it

Watch them laugh at all my secrets

Scream and yell, but I feel speechless

Ask for help, you call it weakness

Lied and promised me my freedom

Time was slow, and cruel. You would remember the sound of a piano one day only to forget it the next. How did this song go? What were their names?

What’s my name?

The only name you could remember anymore was Damien’s. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra. Some small part of you continued to hope that you would see him again.

As time passed, so did your scenery. Every once and a while, people would enter the house - teens claiming it was haunted (not fully untrue) or real estate agents looking to make another deal. At one point, they cleaned it up really nice. It was almost like that night was back, drinking and playing poker.

But the mirror couldn’t be fixed.

You screamed and shouted until your throat was raw as they covered it with a sheet and tossed it into trash.

Grab my hand, I’m drowning

I feel my heart pounding

Why haven’t you found me yet?

I hold you so proudly

Traumas, they surround me

I wish you’d just love me back

Without being able to see, you couldn’t tell how much time was passing or even what was happening. You knew you were relatively safe in here - some teens had tried smashing your mirror further by throwing it on the ground but nothing happened, even when they took a hammer to it. You weren’t sure why.

Sometimes you’d catch little glimpses. Out of the corner, you could see the sky. You appreciated those moments more and more as they became less frequent. Time felt slow as you watched clouds pass overhead, or stars twinkling, only for the cloth to flip back over the mirror once again and leave you in the darkness of your void.

By the time you forgot what hunger and thirst felt like, and forgot your name and the name of your closest colleagues and friends, forgot what it was like to live, there no longer seemed to be hope that you would ever escape. Nobody wanted a broken mirror, no matter how ornate it looked. And even if they did, they couldn’t see you, no matter how much your knuckles bled or how raw your throat became.

Grab my hand, I’m drowning

I feel my heart pounding

One day, however, light suddenly streamed into your void. It was bright, but it was warm. You stepped up to the glass, for the first time in perhaps decades, and looked out into your new surroundings.

It was an office. A man sat behind a desk, but he was too far away for you to see clearly. Bookshelves lined the walls, comfortable-looking armchairs facing the desk for any visitors. The room reminded you of something… It was just there, tickling the back of your brain, but no amount of thinking on it could bring it to the surface.

The man was wearing a suit, that much you could tell. He seemed to be shuffling paperwork, signing things and slipping them into manila folders. You couldn’t hear too well what was going on either, as everything through the mirror sounded like it was being said through water, but someone must have knocked. He called them in, spoke to them for a moment, and then the other person was leaving.

He shuffled a few things away, tidying his desk. You watched eagerly as he began to approach the mirror. You couldn’t remember exactly who you’d been waiting for, but you knew you were waiting for someone. Could this be them?

His face entered the frame. He looked right through you as he adjusted his tie, folding his collar neatly over the fabric. He turned his head this way and that, checking his face for any imperfections. With one last breath, held in his chest, he nodded, and turned to leave.

That wasn’t… That wasn’t who you were waiting for.

Why haven’t you found me yet?

Chapter Text

“Host?” You knocked twice as a semi-warning before letting yourself in. He’d told you several times already that you were welcome in at any time. “Hey, can I hang out in here?”

As usual, Host was sitting at his desk, working on his next great piece of fiction. He didn’t publish anything anymore - as far as the public knew, the author he used to be was dead, and he wanted to keep it that way. But he still enjoyed writing too much to leave his mind overflowing with his ideas.

His head angled up to face the door instead of his typewriter, his fingers pausing in place as he mentally bookmarked what he was writing. “The Host reminds Y/N that they are always welcome in his room.”

You grinned, even if he couldn't see it, and fully let yourself in, closing the door behind you. “Thanks.”

He followed your footsteps as you made your way to his sofa. It was too comfortable for his tastes - the rest of his room was furnished with the bare minimum and almost nothing was created with the thought of comfort behind it, but you often fell asleep in his armchairs and he wished for your visits to be more comfortable.

You sat down, stretched out; got situated and comfortable. Host didn't even have a clock in here, so you were completely able to detach from the rest of the mansion.

To some degree, it was really nice. You had your own little get-away from the insanity that laid beyond that door, any time you needed or wanted it. Host also allowed you to proofread his work and offer your input, so it was like you got free entertainment that was always changing, all the time. And, more selfishly, you got to spend time around your friend.

You don’t know when you realized it - maybe you’d always been this way - but you really enjoyed physical touch. You craved it sometimes. You’d order a drink and brush hands with the barista and stutter and stumble, or you’d get a haircut and completely dissociate as the stylist scratches at your scalp. You didn’t really have a lot of sources for it, but what little you could get was usually enough to help minimize the longing, itchy feeling under your skin.

What also helped was being in the presence of friends. Well, a lot of the other egos were touchy, too, so that sort of also helped. But sometimes it was overwhelming. Bing would saunter in after figuring out a cool skateboard trick and drape an arm over your shoulder and you’d shut down. Wilford was no better. He would pop in and out, showing up at the most unpredictable of times just to hug you and twirl you around. (He probably caught on a long time ago and was now using his affection to mess with you.)

Host was a much easier presence to escape to when you felt like this. You would both just hang out in each other’s space, occasionally talking about your days or what you were up to, and you could selfishly soak up all of the comfort and ease that dissipated the itching under your skin. Every now and then, he’d ask you to read his work and you would give him feedback. You were always surprised how he never seemed to make any typos, since he couldn’t see what he was writing, but he would never tell you how he does it when you ask.

You sighed as you stretched out, your back popping a few times as you sank into the cushions further. Host must have been confused by your audible display of relaxation. He tilted his head in your direction, his brow obviously furrowed even behind the cloth that hid his eyes.

“The Host wonders if there is something bothering Y/N.” His hands were still settled on the typewriter, but in a different position than before. He must have gone back to writing while you were lost in your thoughts.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” you brushed off his concern. “Am I interrupting your writing? I’ll leave if you ask me to.” You were already beginning to sit up to act on your promise. Even if he didn’t seem to mind your intrusions, you did.

He shook his head, removing his hands from the machine entirely. You tried to get him into computers, but he enjoyed the old feel of the typewriter. He also claimed it was easier to feel for the keys he needed.

“The Host would like them to stay.” He seemed to struggle to find his words for a minute as you settled back into the couch.

Damn, it was quiet in here.

He pushed out his desk chair and stood, the wood creaking in protest as he did. He easily made his way over to the couch. He didn’t sit until he was sure you made space for him. When he did sit, as usual, he never seemed to relax.

“The Host is worried about his friend,” he begins, trying to form his thoughts as he speaks. “They seem to be… anxious, as of late. He wonders what he can do to help.”

You fiddled with your hands. Even though the couch was small, just large enough for you to lay down with your feet on one arm, you’d still managed to leave a large gap between you and your friend. And even though it felt like the Grand Canyon, leaving a gaping hole that felt impossible to cross, you were fighting the longing urge to simply fall into him. You’d scared people away before with being too clingy, too touchy. You didn’t want to scare him off, too.

“I-” You bit your tongue. “It’s stupid Host, honestly. Please, just- Don’t worry just go back to writing.”

His brow only seemed to furrow more at your protests, a frown tugging his face down further. He turned his body toward you, though he was looking at the wall more than anything else. “The Host assures Y/N that there is nothing to be ashamed of. He will not laugh or push them away.”

As if he could feel your hands fidgeting, his own hand effortlessly found and covered yours. They stopped along with your heart. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing for a second. Once you realized how strange you were acting, you jumped up and away from him. He was even more puzzled than before.

“Is it something the Host has done?” His voice is soft and unsure as he asks. It almost breaks. Your heart breaks with it.

You didn’t wish to worry him more, but it was weird to feel this way, right? It was weird to crave physical touch like this, to lock up once you got it. Everyone else thought so, or refused to touch you as much once they found out. Why would he be any different?

He deflated the longer you were silent. His hand slowly slid back into his lap, his shoulders slumping down and into his chest. He listened intently to know where you were, trying to work out what you may be thinking. But his face fell to look to the ground.

“I…” Dammit. God damn it all. “You didn’t do anything, Host, I just…” God, how the hell were you supposed to say this? You inhaled deeply. “I’vebeentouchstarvedeversinceIwaslittleandnowIreallylikecravetouchbutIgetweirdwhenIreceiveitandIdon’twanttoloseyourfriendship!”

A pause. His head lifted, directing toward you with a tilt. “The Host didn’t understand what they just said.”

Fuck, your heart’s racing. You’re pretty sure your hands are shaking, too, but you can’t stop picking at your fingers long enough to find out. Another deep breath. It’s shakier this time. “I said that… I’ve been touch starved ever since I was little and now I really, like, crave touch, but I get weird when I receive it and I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

His face smoothed out into a neutral expression as you spoke. By the time you were finished, he seemed to be perked back up. “The Host understands.”

“You do?”

He nods with a hum. “He would like to help them with their issue, if he is allowed.”

He sits patiently on the couch, waiting for you to decide whether he can help or not. You slowly make your way back to your seat, watching him for anything he might do.

“The Host would like to know what would help Y/N. Would he be allowed to cuddle them?”

You swear you’ve never been more embarrassed in your life as you agree. Watching this strange, eccentric being lean back into the arm rest, arms open and waiting for you to initiate the hug. He is clunky and just as unsure as you are. But he simply sits there and waits, ready to aid you in your ongoing struggle.

“This is really weird. I mean, I appreciate it!” you quickly add on. “But no one’s ever done anything like this for me. Don’t you think it’s weird? That I’m weird?”

He shakes his head immediately. “The Host does not think those things at all. He assures them that it is alright , and urges them to come here.” His arms open wider, his broad chest becoming a wide open target for you to fall into.

The hug is strange at first. The touch gives you chills, unused to being hugged by anyone other than Wilford when he catches you by surprise. As time passes, however, you both become more comfortable on the couch, laying down and spooning. You aren’t really sure how long you’re there when he begins to rub his hand along your back, or how much longer before you’re both passed out still curled close to each other.

Chapter Text

Fuck. How long had you been walking now? Time was a bit hazy. Everything, actually, was a bit hazy.

Your body ached in places you didn’t know existed. Your head hurt like hell, and you were just trying not to vomit up whatever nasty granola bar you’d choked down for lunch. But god it was getting to be difficult.

“You alright back there, sweetheart?”

Oh, right. Illinois was here too. He didn’t know you were sick. Or, if he did, he didn’t care. You couldn’t really blame him. He’d been excitedly rambling about this stupid expedition for weeks. To be fair, it’s not often an adventurer gets to explore a canyon.

“‘M fine, I just-” Oh fuck that’s a long drop. Was it hot out here? It couldn’t be that hot, right? It’s still early morning. “I’m gonna stop here for a- for a secon’.”

You cursed under your breath as you fell heavily against the wall of the canyon. Everything was spinning. You closed your eyes to try to stop your vision swirling like it was, but it only made your head feel heavy and light at the same time.

“Darlin’?”

What was the treasure you guys were after again? Was it another animal totem? Or was it a jewel?... Hm.

“Hey, partner, are you alright?”

Water is weird. Who figured out that humans needed it to survive? Who saw that big wetness everywhere and decided, ‘Ah yes, this is what I shall consume and it will sustain me.’

“Hey!”

Your eyes shot open as a splash of water hit your cheeks. Illinois was crouched in front of you, pouring water from his skin so he could pat it against your face. The cool, wet touch of the liquid was refreshing. But there were definitely two Illinois.

“What happened, darlin’? Are you alright?”

“Who are… Who’re you?”

He stared at you stunned for a minute. “Illinois, remember? Handsomest adventurer in the world?” He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, frowning at how hot it was. “You’re burning up. Did you catch somethin’?”

You were still just dazedly staring at him. You huffed a weak half-laugh in his face. He would have been insulted if you weren’t so obviously sick. “You’re not Illy,” you said. “Nah, nah. He’s- he’s waayyyyy ahead by now.”

He sighed. There was no way you’d be able to make it back to where you’d set up camp last night, or any further to where he hoped to camp tonight. The ledge was narrow, but still plenty wide enough for a small fire and your sleeping bag.

He pulled you away from the wall (you fell into him like a ragdoll) and removed your backpack. He decided to humor your deliriousness as he began pulling out what he needed for a temporary camp. “And why’s that?”

He dug through your bag for a moment, listening for your answer as he pulled a rolled up blanket out and draped it over you. You hummed and pulled it closer.

“He doesn’ care ‘bout me.” He was torn away from what he was doing. Kindling hung limply in his hand, your bag no longer rustling as he searched through it. You frowned for a moment, your face scrunching up. Before he could say anything, you shook your head and forced a dream-like smile. “Is okay. ‘M okay. I woulda slow’d ‘im down anyway…”

“Is the fever getting to you or what?” His tone was more stern than he intended it to be. Your bleary eyes barely focused on him as he angrily went back to setting up a fire. “You’re my partner. I’m not leaving you behind whether you do ‘slow me down’ or not! You got that?”

Illinois looked up when he didn’t hear a response. The fire within him fizzled out immediately. Your eyes were closed, your chest rose and fell in even breaths. You were asleep.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. He hoped he could make it clear to you when you were less delirious…

-

You blinked your eyes open, looking up at the sky. You swore it was light out when you began your trek, but now it was dark. Stars glittered and shimmered in the void, clear and steady without light pollution around for miles to stifle their glow.

You pulled your eyes back down to the canyon walkway. A fire was burning in the space, a small pot bubbling over with some sort of liquid. Whatever it was smelled good. Next to the fire sat a man. It took a minute for your brain to figure out who it was, but how could you not recognize that hat and bullwhip?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Jesus!” Illinois jumped, turning to face you with a hand over his chest and another on his hat. “Don’t scare me like that!”

You chuckled softly, pushing away from the wall to lean closer to the fire. “Sorry.”

He glared at you for a moment more. “Ah, don’t worry about it,” he said under his breath. He straightened his hat out on his head and grabbed a cup from your bag next to him. With a large spoon, he ladled some soup into the cup and carefully passed it over to you. “How’re you feelin’?”

The cup warmed your hands, and the steam lifted to warm your nose with its delicious fragrances. You were smiling without even realizing it. “Better, I think,” you answered. You blew on the hot liquid, face scrunching. “I don’t really remember a lot, to be honest.”

“That’s not surprising. You were practically delusional.” He ladled his own cup of soup, turning to face you. “You should’ve told me you were feeling bad, darlin’. The treasure’s been sitting there waiting for a hundred years - it can stand to wait a little longer.”

“It just came on so suddenly… I’m sorry if I worried you.”

He frowned. “Of course you worried me. We’re partners - we stick together. Right?” He raised an eyebrow at you expectantly.

You grinned weakly and nodded, “Right.”

The soup was really good. You weren’t sure if it was from a can or if Illy somehow whipped something up out of nothing, but you were sippin’ on seconds before Illy even finished his first helping. You ate quietly. Neither of you seemed too eager to keep up a conversation. Instead, you looked for whatever constellations you could remember from your childhood, and he lost himself deep in his thoughts. With one final slurp, your cup joined his next to the fire.

“You never answered my question,” you told him.

He turned his attention to you, eyebrow cocked as he tried to think back to what you’d asked him. “And what question was that?”

You smiled. “Penny for your thoughts?” you repeated.

He rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly a question.”

“But it is!”

He didn’t answer. You nudged him with your foot.

“So, what’s on your mind, cowboy?”

Illinois pushed away from the fire to lean against the canyon wall. His hands rested, folded with interlaced fingers, on his stomach. And even though he had the perfect view of the heavens above, he only looked at you.

“You said some stuff while you were really out of it.”

You sat back against the wall next to him. “Like?”

“Said that you’d slow me down,” he answered. That’s not the main thing that was bugging him though. You must’ve been able to tell, because you waited for him to keep talking. “And that I don’t care about you.”

Your cheeks felt warm immediately. You were too far away from the fire to blame it on that. “Oh.”

“You really think that?”

Your mouth floundered open for a minute, trying to find the words to excuse yourself. “It’s not that I think you don’t care about me, it’s just-” You swore, trying to figure out what you wanted to say. “You’ve had a lot of partners before and I know how they all ended up and I didn’t want to upset you by… being like them.”

His mind, against his will, thought back immediately to his long list of partners. Most of them had been taken from in through tragic accidents while adventuring. “I cared about all of them, and I care about you, too,” he argued. “I was worried I’d already lost ya when you went all woozy back there.”

You frowned. “Sorry.”

He sighed, tension easing itself from his face. He looked you over. You still hugged the blanket around yourself, and he didn’t blame you with how cold the nights were out here. Still, even the fire was enough to keep him comfortable. He reached out a hand without thinking, pausing as you flinched back to stare at him in confusion.

“I just wanna check your temperature,” he assured you. He gestured his hand toward your forehead. “May I?”

You leaned toward his hand and he pressed it against your skin. You were still too warm for his liking. If your fever wasn’t gone by morning, he was going to call this adventure off until you were better.

You sighed and leaned even more into his touch, eyes closing as you let his cool hands draw out the heat of your forehead. “I’m out of pennies,” you joked.

He chuckled, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “That’s alright, darlin’.” He kissed your forehead. “It’s free of charge.”

Chapter Text

“Careful, now. These people are known for their traps.”

Illinois held a hand back toward you, guarding you from coming too close. His focus was set on the ground in front of him that led into a long, narrow hallway. He tested the floor with his foot, pressing down on it several times, before he gestured for you to follow him.

You followed behind him warily, keeping an eye on the crumbling, dusty ceiling above you. “How well known?” you ask.

He tested another section of ground, before jumping back and crashing into you suddenly. You caught him under his arms, his hands stretched out to support himself on the walls. Over his shoulder, several arrows were sticking out of the wall, still wobbling from the impact.

Illy’s chest heaved with a breath. “Very well known.” He stands up straight again, dusting himself off. There’s still a lot of hallway left to go, and it only gets narrower from here. He turns to look at you over his shoulder. “Promise me you won’t be reckless and you’ll do exactly what I do.”

The arrows stilled at last.

“Hey.” You met his eyes. “Promise me.”

You nodded. “I promise.”

Satisfied with your answer, he turned forward again. His boot had left a clear print in the dirt where he’d accidentally set off the trap. Testing the ground around it, he determined where it was safe to walk, and pulled out the arrows to clear the path.

It was going to be a long trek.

-

Click.

“Illy!”

He shouted your name through an oof as you shoved him out of the way. The hall had just opened up, and maybe his claustrophobia had gotten to him, but he was so eager to get out of there and into the big open space that he didn’t check for a final trap.

He groaned as he stopped rolling. His shoulder had taken the brunt of the impact, aching with a dull throb. Then he remembered - you got in the way of the trap.

“Fuck!” He called out your name as he dragged himself to his feet.

You were still in the hallway, clutching an arrow through bloody fingers. A red stain slid down the wall to where you lay. He made sure he wasn’t in the arrow’s path as he grabbed your shoulders and dragged you into the open space, trying his best to soothe - and ignore - your screams of pain.

His hands hovered anxiously over your body, trying to figure out what he could do. Your blood was already pooling underneath you. He knew, god, he knew. There was nothing he could do.

So he cradled your head in his lap, brushing hair from your face and ignoring the blood he felt soaking into his own clothes.

“You- You damn idiot,” he cursed. It was weak. How many times would he be forced to watch his partners die? “You idiot, you promised me you weren’t going to be reckless! You promised!”

Your face contorted in pain as a cough wracked through your body. He didn’t hesitate to wipe the blood that dribbled out onto your chin. “You could have died.”

“And now you are dying!”

You shook your head. “It’s… It’s okay,” you assured him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” You grinned. For the first time since he knew you, he hated it. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Illinois pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lip trembled, his eyes burned.

“It doesn’t… doesn’...”

Chapter Text

The sun beats down, hot and bright. Beads of sweat drip down Illinois’ face, soaking the back of his neck.

The market around him bustles and busies themselves with setting up stalls, shouting what their products were and trying to convince gullible buyers into paying the outrageous prices. He had to scoff at how much a melon cost. He’d get breakfast somewhere else, thank you.

Some people didn’t have that option.

A small child, maybe 10 years old, if Illinois had to guess (and he was bad at guessing) ran through the market. This wasn’t really unusual. Plenty of people were hurrying, and kids often ran through. But something about him just… stuck.

The child was barefoot, in linen clothes to stave off the heat, and was worriedly looking around for something. Some part of Illy wondered what he was looking for, even what he was worried about. Another part of him said to stay out of it. He was only passing through for leads on his next adventure - nothing more.

Still…

As if the kid was drawn in by Illinois’ stare, he was running over and tugging on his pant legs in an instant. He was speaking so fast, even if Illinois had spoken the language he wouldn’t be able to catch a word. All at once he was conflicted. His information brokers were meeting him in just a few minutes, and he was already running late. But this kid. His face was all scrunched up and snotty. How could he just leave him here when everyone else barely spared him a passing glance?

He gestured for the child to slow down, miming taking a few deep breaths. The kid didn’t understand at first, but he caught on quick. Illinois almost chuckled. Once the kid wasn’t hyperventilating and on the verge of sobbing, he took Illy’s hand and began leading him in a quick jog through the marketplace.

They passed through grimy back alleys and smaller, less-busy streets. Illinois wondered for a moment if the kid walked this path every day. He found himself glancing around a little more than perhaps he needed to, searching every shady corner for anybody with bad intentions.

Before long, the child was dragging him into a run-down little house on the edge of town.

The second they were in the door, the kid let go of his hand and ran to a back room. Despite having been led there, Illinois felt like he was intruding. The house was lived-in and loved-in. The kid peeked around the corner to call for the adventurer, beckoning him to the back room.

His heart immediately crashed through the bottom of his stomach.

Jumping into action, he ran around the house, set on a new mission. His adventure could wait.

He found a bucket, and ran outside to a nearby well with it. Hot, stagnant water wouldn’t do. The sweat dripping down his back didn’t matter anymore. His mind was set. Ah, yes, cold water.

He ran back inside, grabbing a spare rag he found along his way. He set the bucket full of fresh water down on the floor by the kid. The boy could only watch in shock as Illinois dunked the rag in the water, rang it out, and dabbed the cloth on his mother’s forehead.

The woman, more dead than she was alive, shivered as the cold water hit her burning skin. Illinois turned to the boy and showed him how to ring out the cloth and dab it against her forehead. The kid nodded and went to work with determination. In the meantime, Illinois set to work finding more blankets.

-

Dirt clung to his boots as he strolled down the market street. It was just as busy as the last time he was here, and just as hot, too.

Illinois was jostled out of his revelry as a body slammed into him. His first instinct was to push whoever it was off. But they weren’t trying to fight him. They were hugging him.

He pulled the teenager back by their shoulders, an arm’s length away to see their face. The teen was smiling big, face scrunched up with joy. He looked… familiar, somehow. Another figure entered his peripheral. A woman, calmer than the teenager. She was wrinkled and more tired-looking, but smiling. Tears filled both their eyes.

He remembered them. How could he forget?

He laughed as he ruffled the teen’s hair, pulling him under his arm into a hug. The woman rushed in as well, slinging her arms around the adventurer’s neck and kissing his cheek. He wrapped his own arm around her back to keep her close.

They stood there in the middle of the street for a good while. After all, seeing family again after several years deserves a good, long reunion.

Chapter Text

The mansion was quieter than usual today. They took it as a sign; a symbol of graciousness from some entity telling them that they were doing something right. It'd been a long while since they felt something like that, and even longer since they felt they could trust it. After all, the last time they did, they found themselves locked away in a mirror.

The DA closed their eyes for a moment and took a breath. No. Now wasn't the time to think of that purgatory. There were more important matters to attend to.

They returned their attention to the cake in front of them. Well, a cake in the making. It just needed to be put together now.

They slicked a thick layer of icing on top of one cake round and set another on top before repeating, until they had a triple-layer cake. Then, they coated the outside with that same white icing. Occasionally, some would get on their fingers and they would give in and lick it off. The only people who would be eating this dessert lived with them in the manor anyway, so what did it matter?

The spatula glided and smoothed out bumps, odd pulls, and evened out how much icing coated the treat. Only once they were fully satisfied did they step back and set the spatula down.

Finally, a small packet of candles and matches were pulled from off to the side. The candles were plain and small, but holding them brought a sadness they couldn't place. They stuck a few into the cake.

And now that it was finished, the red velvet seemed to taunt them.

Ever since they'd arrived, been plucked from the mirror, they wanted to move on from the past. They could barely remember it anyway - just a fog with passing shapes, the occasional voice that woke them from uneasy dreams. It should have been easy to leave it all behind.

Yet here they were, celebrating a birthday of someone they could hardly remember.

A voice called out their name.

They turned sharply. There, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, was the man that saved them from their reflective hell. The ringing he brought with him was almost soothing.

"What are you doing?" His voice was soft, as though they would shatter if he spoke too harshly with them. They noted the curiosity that peeked through his level tone.

Turning back to the table, to the red velvet cake, primed and ready for a mysterious birthday, they sighed. Their shoulders sagged under the weight of a past they would never remember.

"Something just..." They trailed off. Dark had to wait a good moment before they found their voice again. "I remember celebrating a birthday today. I don't know whose, I just... But I remember it was a red velvet cake, and I know it was today."

With careful, precise steps, he moved from the doorway to the other side of the table. His flickering gaze studied the confection, almost appraising it. By all accounts, it was a perfect cake. His eyes lingered on the candles stuck in on top. Something within him ached. He couldn’t quite place what, or why.

“Who did you plan on celebrating with?” He needed no cursory glance to know nobody else was in the kitchen - the chaos that followed nearly every other ego was a loud enough announcement on its own. He folded his hands neatly behind his back, watching as they did, however, look around the room.

They picked up the matchbox. Dark watched as their nimble fingers struck a match and lit the three candles atop the cake, before blowing out the flame in their hands. They did not stop there, to his surprise. Instead, they moved around the kitchen, grabbing two plates, a knife, and two forks. Once the table was set and prepared, they smiled up at him. The gesture only confused him more. “Why don't you blow out the candles, and we can celebrate together?”

“Why should I be the one to blow them out?”

They looked down at the cake, bashful. “Because you deserve the wish.”

Afterimages of himself flickered, but they all looked at the DA with confusion, astonishment, and wonder. The entity couldn't comprehend that someone would wish to give him something so kind, regardless of how small it may be. Wilford was the only exception, as the gun-toting tv host usually wouldn't stop giving him sweets and meaningless trinkets. But this…

The ego cleared his throat and stepped toward the table. He couldn't recall ever celebrating a birthday before. He couldn't recall celebrating anything, really. Nothing felt important compared to taking down Mark.

Bending at the waist, and with an uncertain glance to the district attorney (met with a reassuring grin and nod), he blew out the candles. The souls inside of him made a wish.

Chapter Text

“He took everything from us! He trapped us in here with this broken shell and no way out.”

“It’s true. This whole time I thought it was the house, but… I never thought he’d fall this far.”

You were… dead. You had to be. And yet there Celine and Damien stood, haloed by colored light. Sounds bounced around the void around you, echoing back and hurting your ears. Your mind was foggy. Thoughts came sluggish and weak, like blood oozing from a wound.

You looked down at your hands. There was no blood on them. There was no blood anywhere.

“And we played right into his hands. He’d been planning this for years, and now that son of a bitch is out there walking around in my body-!”

Celine, ever the observant one, even under high-stress situations, must have noticed your confusion.

“Damien,” she cut her brother’s angry rant off, “we can’t do this right now.” She turned back to you, reaching out with reassuring hands, despite the distance (and the body) between you. “Look, I know you have questions, and I can’t answer everything right now. Just know that Mark took everything from us from his twisted quest of vengeance… But death does not mean the same thing here.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” The panicked words were out of your mouth before you even realized you were saying them. Damien’s eyes softened at your fear.

Everything was so confusing and happening so fast. This entire time, since the party began - hell, since you were invited , you’d been dragged along with everything that was going on. He missed seeing you laughing and carefree behind your desk, teasing him with that mischievous grin in your eyes.

“What Celine means by that is… This doesn’t have to be the end. Your body is trapped in here the same as us, but your body is still out there. Broken as it may be, it’s still out there.”

“Mark’s not the only one who can use this place to his benefit. The same way I brought you here is the same way that I can send you back.”

“But you can’t survive on your own. You’re dead, after all.”

Somehow, hearing it made it worse. Dread settled in your stomach.

“I know this all sounds crazy,” Damien continued. “Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.” You would have pointed out he hadn’t sworn like that since uni, but now certainly wasn’t the time. “But I know that I trust Celine. And if you trust us…” His eyes were warm and dark, like hot coffee before a business meeting, or warm chocolate after a cold day. “Just let me in. We can fix this. Together.”

“I won’t force this upon you. You have a choice here.” Despite Celine’s words, you could tell she already knew you’d made up your mind.

Ever since you were children, you would do anything for Damien. She wasn’t too different in that respect, but she was more subtle about it. There was never going to be a scenario where you wouldn’t follow Damien to the ends of the universe.

Orpheus, my heart is yours

Always was and will be

Your ribs hurt and ached and cracked with each strained breath. Trying to stand nearly brought you back down to the floor more than once. It just all hurt so fucking bad. And your head - Jesus Christ. Your head was so loud. You wanted everything to just fucking shut up.

And then he was there. Your murderer.

You’d instinctively jumped back and away from the Colonel that had shot you, even as he assured you that it was okay.

Nothing was okay. How could anything possibly be okay?!

“I-I thought you were dead. I-I-I mean, of course you’re not dead! How could you be dead? I-I-I wouldn’t have killed you. I-I didn’t kill you. I mean, of course… Of course, I didn’t kill anybody. It was all a joke!”

It took all your effort not to let a scowl take over your features. You were dead. If not now, just a few minutes ago. How long had your body been rotting away in this foyer? How long did he sit there watching? Waiting for the detective, Damien, Celine, even Mark, to jump out and yell “Surprise!”?

“Were you in on this? Did Damien put you up to this? Of course he did!” The Colonel dragged himself away, smiling too big for the stench of death that sullied the house. “Damien, where are you, you rapscallion? Where are you? Celine?”

Their names stung your mind, bit at your brain like a harsh winter chill. They called for you. Grab the cane. Grab the cane. They whispered. Look in the mirror. Look in the mirror.

The glass shattered, and it was silent. Your body… Was it even your body anymore? It stared back at you, lips curled in a snarl. And it left.

Screams echoed and ricocheted in your newfound prison behind the glass of the mirror, crying out for Damien, Celine, somebody. But your body and the souls within were gone.

One last whisper, almost inaudible underneath the shouts of agony. A promise. I will get you out.

You believed it.

It’s my gut I can’t ignore

Orpheus, I’m hungry

Nobody could hear you. You half-doubted you could even hear yourself. The only evidence that convinced you otherwise was the ringing in your ears when you cried out, screamed, begged for anyone on the Outside to notice your struggle.

You hadn’t realized it for the first few hours of imprisonment, but your soul still felt all the pains that came with a body, even if you didn’t possess one. It wasn’t until long after William had slunk out the front door, after the sun set, that you could feel a stomach rumbling inside of you. It grumbled and groaned and begged for food.

You had none to offer.

The first night, you could manage “sleeping” while hungry. But after that, things only became exponentially worse. A dryness settled in your throat, rasping your voice, and burning your eyes. Then, you could barely sit straight to look out of the mirror, your head swimming and pulsing. It was barely a week before you were curled in on yourself as your soul crumpled and tore itself apart. Within months of sleepless, gueling nights, you could feel stomach acid eating away at your organs, hear flies buzzing around.

None of it was real. But it felt like it was.

You tried fighting against the hallucinations, against the way your body played these cruel tricks on you. You imagined a full belly, gulping down buckets of water… But it only made you nauseous.

The only thing that kept you alive was the mirror. Your soul would have long fizzled out if it could; if it wasn’t being forced here. You had to keep reminding yourself that Damien would come back for you. He promised. You could feel it. One day, once Mark was dealt with, once it was safe…

Oh, my heart, it aches to stay

But the flesh will have its way

A knock at your mirror, the first sound to disturb the silence of the manor in years, was the first thing able to pull you from your suffering since it began. Now, more than ever, you wished your soul could move on.

There, looking smug and self-assured, was Mark. His hair was slicked back, his skin was tan, and he wasn’t dead. You would have leapt out of the mirror and tore out his jugular with your teeth if you could.

“Oh, my dear attorney,” he sighed airily. “Look at what has become of you.”

His eyes followed your movements with mirth as you dragged yourself to the barrier separating you from the outside world. You couldn’t begin to imagine what you looked like after all this time.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He laughed at his own joke.

You glared at him from hollowed eyes.

He sighed, shoulders moving up and down as he did so. “Ah, well. I only came by to chat, and, luckily, all of my questions can be answered with ‘Yes’ or ‘No’! So, play along, will you?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

“Y’see, after the horrible… incident that happened here, I thought, perhaps, you made it out. Our dear friend the Colonel went off into oblivion and, well, I thought you had, too! After all, no one would believe a story like you would have to tell if you tried.

“But then, a little birdy came by and told me some disturbing news…” He paused for dramatic effect. “Damien left you here.”

The name bit at your heart, puncturing the organ that had stayed strongest through the years. You tried not to let it show, put on a brave face to keep yourself from faltering.

“Is that correct?”

You shook your head. It was too fast, your world blurred together, but you didn’t care. “ No, ” you rasped out. When was the last time you spoke? “Damien would never leave me here. He’s coming back. He promised. ”

Mark chuckled, leaning against the dusty table in front of the mirror. He pulled away from it as layers of dust coated his hands. “It’s good to see our DA still has good spirits,” he teased, voice lilting in a way that made it sound like he was talking down to a child. It made your blood boil. “But that’s simply not true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Why would he leave you here for years ?” The response was quicker than you anticipated, cracking your facade of strength just enough for him to try weaseling his way in. “Damien, if he is as upstanding as you so claim him to be, surely would have come back by now? In fact, why did he abandon you here in the first place?”

“Shut up.” Your voice wavered.

“ Well? Why would he leave his best friend trapped in a mirror to be tortured for years upon years?”

“Please, just, shut up,” you whimpered. Tears stung your eyes for the first time in too long.

“Face the facts,” he spat, “he was using you! He stole your body! He took advantage of you! He knew you would trust him - you always have. And now he’s left you here to die .”

“ SHUT UP!”

The mirror cracked, tearing itself apart at its pre-existing fault lines left there by…

Your sobs carried through the barrier. “ Why? ” Mark recovered from his fright, shocked at the damage your outburst had caused. You were stronger than you believed. Your face was hidden behind bony hands, furiously trying to scrub the waterfall of tears from your cheeks. “Why would he do that?”

“He wanted your body to get to me, nothing more.”

The foyer was filled with your sobs of agony. This time, they were loud and clear, plain as day to anyone who would pass through these empty halls. Unfortunately, it was only Mark there to hear them.

“But,” he began, lightening his tone, adding a sense of hope, “I can get you out of here, once and for all.”

“You’re lying.” Your voice is wet and blubby with tears and snot. It’s disgusting, but Mark does his best not to cringe away from it.

“I’m not.” He smiles, fake and plastered on like a good actor should always know how to. “I could get you out of here right now. And then we could go somewhere, do something.”

You sniffled thickly, looking at him again with eyes composed of darkness and betrayal. “Like what?”

He looked to the side to think, hming as he did so. “I don’t know.” His eyes looked your sickly form up and down. You were practically bone in the shape of a human. “You must be hungry. How about we go to dinner? I’ll make it fun. A treat after all your time in here.”

An escape. After all this time, finally a way out. Damien abandoned you… Mark was right. Damien would have come back for you in less than a month of leaving you here, but it had been years- decades, since he walked away with your body. Celine, too. You thought better of her… Of both of them. Your closest friend and his sister, betraying you like that, all so they could escape and leave you behind to rot.

Could you really trust Mark? He was the start to all of this!... Right? You weren’t sure what to believe anymore. Your brain hurt, your mind was flooded with too many emotions. Your stomach ached at the thought of being fed.\

You nodded.

He grinned. “Excellent.”

Oh, the way is dark and long

I’m already gone

A chill ran up Dark’s spine as he entered the premises. Celine and Damien went silent within him, glaring up at the mansion they died in. The mansion Mark killed them in.

Revenge was still too far out of their grasp, but Damien’s conscience had been eating away at Dark for weeks now. The Mayor’s thoughts were flooded with old memories of the DA and what they’d done. No longer would the neverending mantra of “It was for the best” settle him down.

The door opened before him, revealing the inner workings of the building. It wasn’t just as he left it. Cobwebs filled more than just the corners, taking up residence in nearly every open space. The walls were crumbling in on themselves, revealing the inner wood frame. The flowers on the round table were wilted beyond recognition. His face crinkled with disgust at the years of dust layering everything.

His feet moved almost on their own volition to stand in front of his shattered reflection, eyes tracing the cracked glass like an art curator studying the detail of an oil painting. He frowned as he noticed new cracks. Celine suggested they may have formed over time. Damien was silent.

Dark turned his gaze within the mirror. His eyebrows pulled together as he focused, his head tilting, neck cracking with the sound of broken bones.

“They’re gone.”

Damien was suddenly very loud.

Afterimages of himself flickered to the sides, screaming and searching for the missing district attorney. Like a switch, it felt as if every fiber of his being was ignited with rage.

Then he saw it.

On the table was the telltale sign of a handprint, now covered by dust. However, it wasn’t covered with as much dust as the rest of the house. Mindlessly, his hand traced the area. Flickers of Mark laughing entered the forefront of his mind.

His teeth showed as he growled, mirror shattering more and more as a high pitched ringing flooded the mansion. He was too late. That bastard got here before him. Who knew what he was planning, what he was doing. He could be hurting you right now.

Damien screamed in his head at the possibility.

They were going to find you. They were going to save you. No matter the cost.

I’m gone.

Chapter Text

Oftentimes, Damien missed his old university days. Back then, his responsibilities didn't stretch so far. His parents had been breathing down his neck for so long, expectations as high as a Heaven he never believed he would reach, that university had been his only escape. His parents influenced his career choice, as it was them who pushed him into a politics major. But once his sister left, his eyes were opened, and he distanced himself from their wishes so he would have room to grow into a better person.

He’d also met you during this time.

Somehow, you both just clicked. Where one was, so too was the other. Perhaps it was this closeness that drew out feelings in him that had long been repressed, by his parents, priest, and even himself.

Homosexuality was a sin. At least, that’s what he was raised to believe. Why should you think any different? Sexuality as a whole in this day and age was changing and evolving, but… Sodomy was still a serious crime. If he or you were accused, you’d both be ruined, surely.

Damien was sleeping rough. He hated to admit it, truly, but his mind was focused more on you than his work. How could one attend meetings and prepare speeches when you existed?

As he got ready for the day, his mind began to wander. He kept it under control, for the most part, but then he imagined you fixing his bowtie, smoothing out his lapels, and he had to rush to pick up those few minutes he wasted staring dazed in the mirror. Then, as he was grabbing a mug from his cabinet, his hand had subconsciously begun to grab a second one. He went without coffee that morning.

-

“Damien?”

His head shot up, tearing his attention from the paperwork on his side of the desk to where you were sitting across from him. You’d taken up residence in his office today, using the other side of his desk to file court cases and shuffle folders around. Your brow was furrowed, face laced with concern. A lump formed in his throat as he thought of how cute you looked like that.

“You’ve been staring at that graph for a while now,” you observed. A sly smirk crossed your lips. “Does our mayor need help with his paperwork?”

It was hard not to get used to your teasing after so long. And yet, somehow, even as he rolled his eyes and shuffled papers around, he could feel his heart fluttering against his ribcage and a warmth heating his cheeks. “Of course not, dear district attorney.” The floating feeling inside of him almost died as he saw the large block of text he had flipped to.

Damien cleared his throat and folded his hands on top of his desk, leveling you with a knowing look. “I was simply thinking of breaking for lunch,” he lied. “If you’re still as careless as you used to be, I can almost guarantee you have not even had breakfast yet.” He didn’t mention his own lack of a full breakfast with coffee that morning; you could tell he was preoccupied enough already without him having to admit it.

You chuckled, averting your eyes back to your own work as you slipped papers into different folders. “You know me too well, Dames.”

“An honor and a privilege,” he teased with a self-satisfied grin. The Mayor stood from his desk, grabbing his cane in the process. “How about we go to lunch? Somewhere close by - mayhaps that diner down the road? My treat.”

Your head snapped up. You almost looked afronted at the idea of him paying for your meals. “I couldn’t possibly let you do that, Damien! It’s completely inappropriate and-”

He waved a hand, silencing your protests. “Please, I insist! This is a lunch between friends, not the mayor and district attorney.”

And how could you possibly say no to those pleading eyes of his?

-

“Do you remember that one party we went to where - What was his name? Markus… Lynch? Where he broke a table doing a keg stand?”

Damien chuckled. “Oh, you mean the party you dragged me to because I was, and I quote, ‘working too hard’ on a term paper due the next day.”

You laughed at the memory. You must have forgotten that you did that, as you looked off wistfully into the distance, as though you were searching through dusty files of old memories in your mind. His heart fluttered as he studied the dreamy look on your face.

It was a marvel being able to know you, truly know you. He had seen nearly every side of your beautiful personality, from your overwhelming joy to your lonesome sadness. The set determination in your eyes was ever so familiar from uni. It carried over to your days as a lawyer, and as DA, but he remembered seeing it very clearly when you would work for much too long on an assignment, or when you would tell him he had been working too long and he needed a break. He remembered seeing them as you dragged him to that party, where you laughed and chatted and dragged him over to the poker table almost immediately. (You were always so skilled at cards, he never had a chance to beat you in the first place. Lots of money was lost and gained that night.)

Admittedly, other than the poker, the table mishap, and you dragging him there, the party was rather dull. It wasn’t long after you arrived that you were dragging him outside again, this time to the roof. The two of you laid out on the hard shingles of that frat house and spoke of your dreams, your futures, your aspirations, until the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.

Perhaps he didn’t fully realize it yet then, but he believed now, as the orange lights of the diner highlighted your nose and cheekbones, bathed you in their warm light; as the coffee steam from your mug and the steam from his hot chocolate drifted between you; as your eyes shined like those stars. Yes, he knew it now.

He was in love with you.

-

Damien’s brow furrowed as he read over the same paragraph again and again and again. His mind was elsewhere, despite how many times he tried to bring it back down to reality, to business.

Ever since his epiphany at lunch, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was never anything indecent or suggestive. Rather, he simply imagined what it would feel like if you caressed his cheek. Or ran your fingers through his hair, freshly washed after a shower. Sometimes he imagined what it would be like to kiss you. He imagined too often that it would be soft, sweet.

He found himself praying more often. His heart ached to be closer to you, to hold you. But guilt ate away at his soul every time it did. It felt wrong to feel this way for another man, especially as he’d never before felt this way about a woman. He asked God questions he’d been asking since he was a child.

If God made humans in his own image, and if he was supposed to love every one of his children, did that mean he loved Damien too? If he had these terribly lovely thoughts about kissing another man, did that mean he was no longer deserving of God’s love, even if said love was supposed to be unconditional? Was he born a sinner? Or did the Devil turn him into one somewhere along the path of life?

He never received any answers, of course.

His only solace was that you had decided to work in your own office as of late. The cases were piling up, it seemed.

With a sigh, he pushed his paperwork aside. He wouldn’t be getting through it anytime soon. Instead, he grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment from his drawer along with a reservoir fountain pen. For a long moment, he just stared at the blank sheet. Then, he began writing.

My dear DA,

Our reminiscing during lunch got me thinking of those old university days - it seems you’ve opened a floodgate that does not wish to be shut just yet. As such, I was wondering if you would like to come to my estate for dinner tonight. You need not reply in such short notice, you simply must show up if you choose to attend.

Best Wishes,

Damien

Before he could overthink what he was doing, he folded the letter into thirds and slipped it into an envelope. With careful care and precision, he proceeded to heat up some wax and pour it at the ‘v’ of the envelope. Once it was cool enough, he pressed the signet ring he wore on his left pinky finger into it. The sigil of his family was left in the red wax. Damien addressed the backside to you and gave it to his secretary, telling her to have it delivered before the end of the day.

And when he sat down again, pulling his paperwork back in front of him, he desperately tried to ignore the sinking feeling of dread pooling in his gut.

-

The chime at the door shocked Damien from his task. He fumbled for a moment, cursing under his breath as he hurriedly finished what he was doing to run to the door. Once he was actually at the door of course, he paused, took a deep breath, and pulled it open.

You were both dressed down. Working in the positions you did, suits were a must, and Damien especially had to look the part of a good, upstanding Mayor (which he was, thank you very much). So, seeing you in such simple clothes again after so long, well, if made his heart stutter.

He greeted you with your name, saying it as though he hadn’t seen you in ages, when it had only been a few days since your face graced him with his presence. “Come on in! I’m, uh, not quite ready,” he admitted through a nervous chuckle.

You laughed good-naturedly as you followed him inside. “It’s okay, Dames, take your time.”

Your presence had an oxymoronic effect on his emotions. On one hand, he was nervous and energetic. Being around you made him antsy, worried he would make the wrong move at any moment in a giant chess game of your friendship. On the other hand, you had a comforting effect on him like no one else, not even Celine. It was like his body didn’t truly know how to act when it was around you.

He left you in the living room, telling you to “Feel free to explore” as he disappeared back into the kitchen. He double-checked that everything was as it should be, running through an ever growing checklist in his mind. He made sure he had sandwiches, grapes, cheese, wine and glasses. He wondered if he should throw in crackers, if he needed to grab a blanket or if it would dampen the familiar experience. He was at war with himself.

Resigned to grabbing a spare blanket from his linens closet, he was stopped abruptly when he was met with you in the doorway. He felt - and perhaps even looked - like a deer in headlights.

You just grinned, lopsided and knowing, like you were trying to bite back a full-blown toothy smile. “A picnic?” It was less of a question than it seemed, especially as you nodded to the basket he’d just finished packing everything into.

He floundered, mouth silently opening and closing. It was truly a spectacular sight to see the Mayor at a loss for words this great. But, after a moment, he straightened up, swallowed the thick lump in his throat, and then cleared his throat. “I- Well, I was hoping we could- I had planned for us to maybe-” He cleared his throat again, nervously running a hand through his hair. He desperately wished he had his cane so that he had something to wring with his hands - an awful nervous habit that he hopelessly wished he could act on. “That night,” he began slowly, ”at the party, we snuck onto the roof to look at the stars and talk instead. I thought it would be… nice. To do something like that again.”

Dark eyes looked to you for approval. You were smiling. He turned away, blushing, playing it off with a scoff. “Stop smiling like that,” he scolded, but it was half-hearted at best. “I know it’s stupud-”

“It’s not stupid!” you cut him off quickly. You made your way to the basket on the counter, and peeked inside. Your smile became less mischievous and more sincere as you saw the care he put into making a nice dinner for the both of you. Not only had he thought through what wine would go best with the cheeses he picked out, the sandwiches he made were your favorite. Honestly, you were amazed he remembered. “It’s very thoughtful of you… It’s sweet.”

He couldn’t possibly hide how red his cheeks and the tips of his ears were now, but he certainly tried. With a nervous ahem , he excused himself to grab a blanket. And if he closed himself in the linen closet for a moment to hide his hands in his face, breathing deeply multiple times to calm his racing heart, you would never know.

-

The stars seemed to shine brighter tonight than he’d ever seen them shine before. They twinkled and winked down on Earth, like they were concealing some secret from all of humanity. After all, what did they really know about space?

Dinner was simple, good. Damien found himself on his second glass of wine before you finished your first in hopes it would settle his nerves. (It didn’t. Instead, it allowed his mind to feel more free to think about you.)

But now all that was left was you, him, the blanket underneath you both, and the stars above.

He was smart enough to choose a section of his roof that faced away from the road, away from the prying eyes who may think that any of this is scandalous. Though, he supposed, it was, on some level. Two men, laying this close to each other… Even if it wasn’t in a sexual sense, if an utter of it got out, your reputations, your lives would be ruined forever. He frowned at the thought.

“Okay,” you broke the silence abruptly, turning on your side and propping your head up on your hand. “What has gotten into you lately?”

Damien stared up at you with wide eyes. “Wh-What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s not like you to reminisce about university. Why now?”

He looked back up at the stars, trying to avoid your interrogative gaze. But, even as he stayed silent, you just kept staring at him, waiting for an answer. He couldn’t avoid it any longer.

Your eyes followed him as he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared down at the shingles of his roof. He silently prayed that God would forgive him.

“When you brought up uni the other day…” He sighed. His heart was pounding so hard against his ribs. “I realized something. Something I had… repressed for a long while, I think.”

You sat up fully, sitting on your knees and facing him. The stars, no matter how much they twinkled, shined, sparkled, and shimmered, would not pull your attention away from Damien.

His dark eyes, almost too dark to see in the dim light of the moon, finally looked up at you. He opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed thickly. “I… I love you.” He held his hands out, in a gesture one would use to calm someone down. “A-And I know sodomy is illegal and a sin, and you don’t have to reciprocate anything at all, b-but-!”

Your laughter stunned him silent. He blinked owlishly. You leaned forward and grabbed his hand, pulling it close and pulling him closer in the process. “I knew you weren’t a wise-head but c’mon, Dames, I thought you realized!”

He stammered, trying desperately not to look at your lips. He had to prop himself up with his free hand just to keep himself from falling over into your lap. “Wh- Realized what?”

You chuckled again, softer this time. “I’ve been stuck on you since we first met!”

Unlike him, you weren’t shying away from glancing at his lips. You leaned forward and brushed your nose against his. He practically shuddered in anticipation, his eyes fluttering closed.

“I don’t care about sodomy,” you whispered.

His eyes shot open to look at you. This time, it wasn’t just shock. It was wonder. This whole time, he’d been so worried how you would react to his admission, but you were in the same boat as him this whole time.

With a jump of his heart, he leaned forward and finally closed the distance. Your lips connected in a passionate crash, desperation from years of pining finally finding a release. Hands found their way to tangle in hair, fingers gripping onto shirts, all in an eager attempt to bring each other closer.

He loved you. And he couldn’t even begin to fathom that you loved him, but you did. The stars dimmed as they witnessed your love finally come to fruition.

Chapter Text

In my solitude

You haunt me

With memories

Of days gone by

When this loop began… When they stepped out of the cryopod to darkness and cold… It wasn’t what they expected.

Every time before, they were greeted with fire, or with crew members bustling onto the Bridge to do their jobs, or Mark, ready with a cup of coffee, but…

They raced to the other side of the Bridge, to the Head Engineer’s cryopod. No matter how frantically they pressed the emergency open, the pod stayed firmly shut. They had to grab the handle and tug with all their might before the seal was finally broken with a hiss. But, standing, frozen and asleep, wasn’t Mark.

It wasn’t anybody.

“Mark…?” Their voice felt meek - too meek for a captain, certainly.

But Mark was nowhere to be found. Their shoulders fell, a breath falling from their lips as though it had been forced out of their lungs. As they stepped back, their eyes fell, and caught sight of… something at the bottom of the pod. When they crouched down to inspect it, however, they couldn’t even begin to fathom why it was there.

In place of Mark was a framed photo of their beloved head engineer.

In my solitude

You taunt me

With memories

That never die

Every. Single. One. Every cryopod was empty. Gunther’s, Celci’s, Burt’s - all of the colonists and crew were gone .

There was nobody else left.

What was the old phrase? ‘A captain always goes down with their ship’? It felt like a cruel joke. Everyone else had gone down with the Invincible II, and the Captain was left with the fragments of life they left behind.

Worse still, there was no power. No lights, no air conditioners, no heaters, nothing. Even the reactor felt cold, and cryo felt warm.

Everywhere they looked, they saw the life that used to fill the halls. They remembered walking through when they first boarded, being greeted and fawned over by a variety of crew. Now, it felt desolate. It was desolate.

They recalled the robots in ADS, that had at one point or another tried to kill them. Those, too, were out of order. It felt strange to stand in the doorway and wish they would shoot.

I sit in my chair

Filled with despair

There’s no one could be so sad

With gloom everywhere

I sit, and I stare

I know that I’ll soon go mad

Wandering the ship was too depressing. They had to limit their roaming to the Bridge. It took a few weeks to get everything set up, but they soon found themselves with a somewhat comfortable place of stay.

They had a cot, set up in front of the giant windows. In the back of their mind, they thanked and cursed Mark for designing the Invincible II with so many of the damned things. But, falling asleep, looking at the stars and the big, bleeping distress signal, was much better than staring at metal walls 24/7.

Crates of sandwiches - tuna salad and pb&j - sat off to the side, ready and waiting to be eaten. They were supposed to be for the landing party, for the civilization. Every time they took a bite, their stomach filled with guilt.

Next to Mark’s cryopod, they had actually begun a little project to keep their mind distracted from everything else. They took one of the droids from ADS and took it apart. The Captain wasn’t truly one for engineering, but some part of them liked to pretend they knew what they were doing as they disconnected and reconnected wires.

They wished Mark was there to teach them what to do.

In my solitude

I’m praying

Dear Lord above

Send back my love

Time was a blur, especially in space. There was no sun to keep track of time, and no working clocks aboard either. They made do with what they could. According to a calendar they had been marking up, it had been 80 years since they stepped out of their cryopod to complete darkness.

Their food supply was running out. There was no denying it. And they were tired. Fail, weak.

For 80 years, they woke up, did what they could to entertain themselves, to call for help, to survive. Now all they wanted was to rest. They wanted to die peacefully, knowing there was nothing they could have done to save the colonists, the crew, Mark… And knowing that no one was coming to save them.

Their final day was spent much like the others.

They woke up. They had a harder time getting from the cot, due to an aching back and stiff joints. It didn’t bother them as much today.

They marked another day on the calendar. They’d seen the “hot babe” on the top of the month too many times to count, but the tallies were all there.

And they sat next to Mark’s cryopod. They didn’t feel hungry, or cold, or warm. They felt… content. At peace.

The Captain held the photo of Mark to their chest, as though hugging the young man in the fading image. Blue light pulsed into the room from the distress beacon. Crinkles formed around their eyes as they smiled. Their eyes closed…

I sit in my chair

Filled with despair

There’s no one could be so sad

With gloom everywhere

I sit, and I stare

I know that I’ll soon go mad

And then they awoke to a ship full of life.

“Captain?” Mark waved his hand in front of their face. They were barely a step out of their cryopod, just staring at all the crew members. Their eyes focused more intensely on him than any of the others. He cleared his throat and tried not to let it bother him. “Captain, are you alright?”

In a daze, pulled like a puppet on a string by some invisible force, they found their arms wrapped around Mark’s torso. The head engineer sputtered and fumbled for a moment, before resting his hands on their back.

He didn’t say anything as their body shook and trembled, or as a warm liquid began soaking into the shoulder of his uniform. Instead, he held them tighter.

“Captain… what happened?”

In my solitude

I’m praying

Dear Lord above

Send me back my love

Chapter Text

Buzz buzz buzz.

Hm? What even fuckin time is it?

You looked over at the clock on the nightstand. 1:32 AM? Who would be calling at a time like this?

Buzz buzz buzz.

You almost declined the call on instinct. After all, you were in the middle of a really good dream when it woke you up, never mind the ever-latent phone anxiety that followed you around. But, when the caller ID said “Cowboy <3”, you just couldn’t find it in yourself to ignore it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, darling. Did I wake you up?”

You curled into your pillow. The sound of Illinois’ voice was always so soothing. He was away on an adventure, searching for some treasure halfway across the globe. You missed being able to hear his voice in the morning. And before bed. And just in general.

You hummed a negative. “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Your boyfriend chuckled, catching the grogginess in your voice. “Liar,” he scolded, though it lacked any venom. “What time is it over there?”

“Mmm, 1:30-something.”

“Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called if I knew it was so late.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to hear your voice.” You yawned into the receiver. “It’s worth it.”

He smiled, though you couldn’t see it on your end. He loved staying up late and talking with you about nonsense usually, just to see you become sleepier and lose what sense you have to pointless jokes. This statuette couldn’t be in his hands any faster, but he wished he was already on a flight back home right now.

“How’s the trip going?” you murmured. You could picture him standing in the middle of some crowded market right now, passing up offers for overpriced fruit and souvenirs.

He sighed. “I’ve had a rough day,” he admitted, “and honestly all I want right now is a drink and someone to cuddle with.”

You smiled blearily through layers of exhaustion. “Then come back home and cuddle me already.”

A warm chuckle sounded through the phone. “I’ll do my best.”

“What’s been rough?” Your words were becoming more slurred together. You pretended not to notice, and Illinois held on to what time he had left on the phone with you.

“The guy I hired to drive me bailed last minute - something about a mythical beast that haunts the area; probably just an old story to keep kids out of trouble. But now I gotta find someone else to drive me and, well, I may just end up renting a car and going alone.”

A frown tugged at your features at the idea of Illinois going somewhere dangerous alone. He usually had a partner to accompany him, even when you weren’t there with him. Without a partner, he would have no one to watch his back or call for help if he got in trouble. “Stay safe…” The words felt flat and weak. You wanted to talk his ear off about the importance of finding a partner, so he could come home in one piece.

“Don’t worry,” he said. His tone was gentle, reassuring. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“You’d better. I love you, cowboy.”

“I love you too, darling. Get some sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight…” Your voice trailed off.

Illinois selfishly stayed on the line a little longer, just to hear your calm breathing. He was bound and determined to get back home to you, no matter what it took. He wasn’t about to leave his partner behind.

Chapter Text

Yancy stared at the wall of feminine products before him. It's been years since the jailbird, now on parole, had ever had to look at, let alone think about, period stuff.

An older lady down the aisle gave him a strange look. He gave her a rough glare, crossed his arms, and leaned in closer to read the labels.

What was it you said to grab again? It was a specific brand, he knew that… Sheesh, these were expensive. Was it pads or panty liners you wanted? Or, maybe tampons? The colorful boxes, covered with flowers and “girly” things, made him nauseous. Boys got periods too, ya know?

Oh, right!

Yancy reached into his pocket and pulled out a little rectangular device. He wasn't really used to it yet, but he knew how to get to messages, at least. You sent him a picture of what you wanted, right?

The empty package in the photo matched up perfectly with a full box on the shelf. He grabbed it, puffing his chest out and smiling perhaps a little too big at the achievement, and threw it into his shopping cart.

What next? Well, candy was always a good idea for periods. He picked out a few bags from the candy aisle, making sure to grab your favorites. And then, uhhh, oh! Ice cream! He grabbed a couple containers of those, too.

Satisfied with his selection of goods, he made his way to the self-checkout. You showed him how this worked, thinking (correctly) that he may prefer it over dealing with a cashier. He scanned everything, put it in a paper bag, and paid.

He felt bad when he saw the total. He hadn't been able to land a job, since not many places wanted to hire a former inmate that killed his parents. He reminded himself to find a way to pay you back, and left the store with his bag of goodies.

-

“Doll? Where’s youse at?”

“In here, Yance!”

He followed the call to the bathroom door. He winced, remembering his tween days of being holed up in the bathroom, crumpled over the toilet, feeling like everything was wrong with him. Thank god for period blocking shots.

“I got youse product.” He cracked the door open slightly, dug through the paper bag, and set the box of necessities on the counter before shutting the door again. He could hear you already tearing it open. “I also got youse some sweets and treats,” he said, his crooked smile coming through his voice. “I’ll be in the kitchen, jus’ take all da time you need, doll.”

“Thanks, Yance.” He didn’t need to see you to know you were smiling, relieved to have someone supporting you like this. A bit of pride swelled in his chest knowing he was the one supporting you, making you feel better.

When you came out, Yancy was standing in the kitchen, looking like a child who just made a macaroni necklace for their parent. On the counter in front of him were bags of candy, all laid out in a nice row. They were even separated between chocolate and fruit flavors. And when he nodded toward the living room, you could see that he set up the couch with tons of soft pillows and blankets, and turned the TV over to your favorite show.

“Yancy!” you awed. Your eyes were filled with love (and maybe a few tears) as you turned to look back at him. “You did all of this for me?”

“Of course I did!” He rounded the counter and wrapped you up in his arms, giving you a warm squeeze before he pulled back to see your face. “Anythin’ to make my handsome guy feel better.” He smiled as he saw the gender euphoria light up your face.

Yancy was trans, and while it wasn’t really a well known fact (even amongst his prison family), he knew what it was like to be in your shoes. He understood just how shitty a period could be after a long time of “passing” and feeling good about yourself. He was happy he could be here to help with the dysphoria a period brought with it.

“Oh, and I got ice cream!” He let you go and rounded the counter again. He opened the freezer and presented the two containers of chilled dessert inside like it was a magic trick. You half expected him to say, ‘Ta da!’ “I gots, uhh, rocky road for me, and I got youse’s favorite, too. So, what’d’ya say to some’a dis and some cuddles, doll?”

Chapter Text

The sheets hugged Yancy in a way he was certainly not used to. But, as he woke up, to the distant sound of songbirds outside and the warmth of the sun peeking around the curtains, he found that he really wanted to get used to it.

What he didn't want to get used to was opening his eyes to an empty bed.

His heart was beating out a samba. He reached over on instinct, to really make sure the bed was empty. Sure enough, his hand only made contact with your cold sheets. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, confused. Was it all a dream? Was his parole a lie? But, no. How did he get here if that was the case?

Calm down , he told himself. He just needed to take a deep breath and figure this out.  Just a deep breath in and- Was that humming?

Feeling exposed without a shirt on, he found a baggy white shirt thrown carelessly on the floor and slipped it on. It wasn’t much, but he found it was better if an enemy couldn’t see how bad your wounds were in a fight… Not that he was going to fight anyone. He just got off on parole, after all.

Slowly creaking open the bedroom door, he poked his head out. The humming was louder without the wooden barrier. The door opened wider, and he took a cautious step out, ready to be attacked at any moment.

But, nothing happened. He was safe, after all. This was your apartment. It held all the knicknacks you’d collected over the years, photos of family and friends. It felt like home. It was home. And as long as you breathed, you swore, the most dangerous thing that could happen to Yancy here was a pillow to the face.

Sizzling sounded like music from the kitchen, singing directly to his empty stomach. The threat of danger lessened the more his stomach growled. His feet moved silently across the faux wood floor. He leaned around the corner, peeked into the kitchen, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Standing in the kitchen was you. You were quietly humming and speaking to yourself as you cooked breakfast - a simple but loving meal of eggs and bacon. Real bacon, too. Not the shitty mystery meat stuff Happy Trails used to make. He hadn’t smelled it in so long, he honestly forgot that’s what bacon smelled like. His mouth was watering at the thought of how it tasted.

“Doll?”

The sudden voice behind you made you jump. The plate you were holding roughly clattered onto the counter, but, thankfully, it didn’t shatter. “Jesus, Yance!” You turned to face him with a hand over your heart, as if you could stop it from doing jumping jacks in your ribcage. “You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing up?”

“I could ask the same of youse.” He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. It reminded you of your first encounter with the prisoner, right before you fought to prove yourself to him. “You think it’s funny to jus’ leave me alone in bed like dat?”

“What? No!” Your eyes widened, realization washing over you. “I wanted to do something to surprise you, I didn’t think-” You sighed. You looked like such an asshole right now. Yancy stood there, stern and solid, waiting for you to find the words to explain yourself. “It’s your first morning away from prison,” you started over, “and I wanted to make it special by bringing breakfast in bed.”

Yancy followed your movement as you gestured over to a large plate, already piled high with bacon, sausage, eggs, and toast. His shoulders fell a little at the sight of something so… thoughtful. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Nah, I’m sorry, darlin’. I shoulda trusted you more,” he apologized. He offered a small, lopsided grin. “I know you wouldn’t leave me like dat.”

You smiled back. With just a couple steps, you’d easily crossed your small kitchen and wrapped your arms around his midsection. He almost automatically pulled you in closer, squishing him against his body.

“Never ever,” you promised.

“Neva eva?”

You laughed at his ‘accent’, but nodded into his chest anyway. “Neva eva,” you teased. His own chuckle rumbled through him before you heard it sound into the kitchen.

“Alright, alright.” He pulled you back, and his gaze was immediately enraptured by the large breakfast you’d prepared. “Can we’s eat now?”

Chapter Text

“So, uhh…” Yancy stared at the night sky, studying it. His eyes darted from one glowing speck to the next. “Where’s these constellations, exactly?”

Illinois huffed a laugh from your other side. He didn’t spare his boyfriend a glance as he reveled in the wonder of the universe. “Constellations are imaginary lines drawn between stars,” he explained.

Yancy looked over you at the adventurer. “I don’t get it.”

You took Yancy’s hand in yours, lifting them both to point at the sky. “So, you see that bright star right there?”

The jailbird tried to fight the blush creeping up his neck as he nodded.

“Okay.” You pointed to three stars above it. “And these stars?”

“Yeah?”

“And now do you see these stars that kinda form a box?” Your hand shifted to point out the stars.

Yancy followed the motion for a moment, trying to find the exact stars you meant. “Oh!” He lifted his other hand and traced it. “Youse talkin’ about those?”

“Now,” Illinois piped up, “if you connect those stars together with an imaginary line, you get a constellation.”

Your hand in Yancy’s fell back to your side. A moment passed as he studied the constellation. His head tilted one way, and then the other. A frustrated sigh escaped his chest in a huff. “Guys, I don’t sees nothin’. What’s it supposed to be?”

“They’re not supposed to form exact likenesses,” Illi assured him. He shifted to slip his arm under your neck, supporting your head, while also reaching over to fuss with Yancy’s hair. The parolee relaxed at the contact.

“Then what’s it supposed to be?” he asked again.

“I always called it the Little Dipper.”

“Little Dipper?”

“Mhm. Because over there,” you raised your empty hand on Illinois’ side to gesture, “is a big dipper.”

“Why a dipper? The hell even is a dipper?”

“Oh, uhm, like, a ladle,” you explained. “Dipper just flows better, I guess.”

“The original constellation wasn’t formed after a ladle, though.” Illinois points over to the small dipper. “The Little Dipper is actually called Ursa Minor. It means ‘Little’ or ‘Lesser Bear’. And the Big Dipper,” he pointed to it, “is called Ursa Major - ‘Greater Bear’.”

“That’s supposed to be a bear ?” he asked, incredulous. “Now youse’s just messin’ with me.”

Illinois chuckled at the implication. “You haven’t even heard the half of it, darlin’. There’s people, snakes, mythical beasts - all sorts of things written into the stars.”

“Ain’t no way there’s a person in all of dat.”

“Oh yeah? See those three stars all in a row right there?”

“You can’t tell me dat’s a person,” he scoffed.

“No, no… That’s his belt .”

Yancy laughed. “Youse’s tellin’ me someone put a belt in da sky?”

“It’s part of a bigger constellation, but, yeah,” Illinois agreed with mirth. “It’s Orion’s Belt.”

“Aha!” Their attention shifted from the sky to you laying in between them. At some point during their banter, you’d pulled out your phone and downloaded an app that showed the different constellations in the sky. You held the device out so both of the men could see the screen and the different constellations the app picked out of the blue. “Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, and Orion!”

Yancy pointed at the screen. “Ohhh, so dat’s Orion,” he pointed at the sky, toward the three stars Illinois had just showed him, “and dat’s his belt.”

“I told you I wasn’t making it up,” Illinois teased from beside you.

“Ah shaddup.”

You passed your phone over to your parolee boyfriend. He tilted and turned it every which way, trying to see every possible constellation he could. When he found a particularly interesting one, he would point it out in the sky. When he went to point out Hydra, however, he was shushed by Illinois.

Yancy looked over, startled out of his awe of the stars. You were curled deep into Illinois’ side, but you still held onto Yancy’s hand. His heart filled with warmth at the sight.

“Bedtime?” he whispered.

Illinois nodded, grinning as he watched Yancy get up and lift you into his arms. You were sandwiched in between an adventurer and a jailbird, tucked warmly and safely into bed. Illinois kissed Yancy and you on the forehead as he got comfortable. Yancy stretched his arms so he was holding on to Illinois and you at the same time.

The next morning, as you all basked in each other’s presence, you asked in a whisper how Yancy liked looking at the stars last night. Illinois wore a knowing grin as Yancy answered, “Star-gazin’ was a good idea.”

Chapter Text

Nearly every day since you stepped onto the Invincible II, your head engineer would give you an odd look. Even when you first arrived, he paused in his greeting, tilted his head, and seemed to shake himself back to his senses.

And yet, after weeks of being aboard, he couldn't figure out where he'd seen you before.

You knew, of course. When you two would hang out and play as kids, he was always taking things apart and putting them back together. His hands never stilled; he built wonderful (if useless) gadgets. As you grew up, and your families took you further away from each other, you changed.

Your chest was flat now, without aid from an uncomfortable binder. Your voice was deeper, your hair was different. You looked like a strapping young lad, not a girl.

But as Mark looked at you from across the Bridge, coffee not quite to his lips, he couldn't place your face on any male friends he'd once had. And that knowing grin you gave him certainly didn't help.

"Something on your mind, Mark?"

He nearly sloshed his coffee as he pulled it away from his face. "Huh, what? No." He cleared his throat and stood up straighter. "No, I was, uh, just thinking about the... coolant."

You tilted your head at him. "The coolant?"

This was the lie he was digging his grave with. "Mhm, yeah, it's uh... cold." And not his area of expertise. He wished he was better at coming up with bullshit on the spot.

"I think it's supposed to be." Your eyes shined with mirth and mischief.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I just- You look like someone I was friends with a long time ago."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She was cool." His eyes focused on nothing as he reminisced on those old, hot summer days. "We used to ride our bikes up and down the neighborhood. She had cardboard wings attached to hers. She, uh, always wanted to be a pilot. And we'd go to my dad's garage and find some spare parts and tools and mess around until they kicked us out. It was... I miss her, Captain, that's all."

You smiled at the fond memories. "Mrs. T used to yell at us all the time," you added.

Mark laughed. "Yeah, she did. And for what? Riding over the very edge of her lawn? We put instant mash-" His eyes suddenly came back to focus. "Wait a minute. How did you know about Mrs. T?"

Your grin got wider. He was so clueless, really. He stared at you, wide eyed, waiting for an answer.

"I got my pilot's license," you told him. Your voice was soft, quiet, as if you were telling him a secret.

"You're...?"

His coffee was forgotten, mug shattering on the ground as he bodied you with a strong hug. If anybody had questions about what the hell was going on, they didn't say anything.

"I missed you, Airhead," he murmured into your jumpsuit's shoulder.

You held him tighter, fingers unconsciously curling into the back of his own uniform. "I missed you, too, Bolt Brain."

Chapter Text

  You fidgeted as you walked through the theater again. The incessant “Bonjour”s were giving you a headache at this point. And the most you’d had to eat was a sandwich. Though, it was a while ago since that happened…

“The romance?... Or the horror?”

The last time you came through here, you’d “watched” the romance. It was… something.

You pointed at the horror door.

“Good idea! I’ve actually never seen this play before. I don’t even know who made it, so…” Mark shrugged, smiling that fake, plastered-on grin as always. “Could be a fun adventure.”

“Good luck!” One of the waiters… employees… One of the men that seemed to work everywhere you went stared dead at Mark. It was the first time you saw him so serious.

Mark also seemed unsettled. “Oh, okay. Alright.” He did a little salute as he said, “Bonjour!” to the employee.

As you followed Mark to your seats (him going on a one-sided dialogue about how he was a “patron of the arts” and so on), you couldn’t help but feel… unsettled. You looked around. Nothing was out of place since the last time you came through here. And yet, a chill still ran up your spine as you sat in the front row seat, directly in front of the lone table on stage.

“You want some popcorn?” It was futile to reach for a piece, but you tried anyway, before the carton of kernels was pulled away. “OH! It’s starting!”

Was it?

When you turned back to Mark to ask him just that, you found his chair empty. The cold feeling of dread covered your shoulders like a blanket. Your gaze found itself once again fixated on the table on the stage. Creaking sounded from every corner of the room. A high pitched whine rang out, coming from within you just as much as it was coming from around you. The room began to distort. Change. Shift.

And then it was dark.

“You’re… different.”

You would have screamed, but you couldn’t feel yourself anymore. It felt like your body had been swept away, like all that was left in this void was your conscience. Instead, you stared.

The man before you looked like Mark. But he felt… wrong. Looking at him gave you a headache. His skin was pale, lacking any color at all. In fact, the only color you could see anymore were glitches of red and blue that clung to his suit and formed distorted versions of the man standing behind himself.

The man tilted his head. His neck cracked sickeningly. “So,” he mused, though his voice lacked any mirth, “he’s dragging along helpless teenagers now… How pitiful.”

Who are you? echoed around in your mind. He didn’t answer your question, if he even heard it at all.

“I know this must seem confusing, like a bad dream you can’t wake up from… But believe me when I tell you that it is all his doing.”

In a blink of an eye, you found yourself sitting at the table from the restaurant. The only difference, aside from the nothingness that surrounded you, was the man in Mark’s place. He had his fingers interlaced, hands resting on the edge of the table.

“Endless choices, all leading you back here.”

A voice whispered from the darkness. Trapped. A moment later, the man was saying the same thing.

“You’re trapped in his little game.”

Your voice came as little more than a whisper. It faded into the darkness surrounding you.

“How do you get out?” He tilted his head at you. Curious, studying. As if he didn’t expect you to ask such an odd question. “I can help you.”

In another flash, you were back outside. You weren’t sure where, but it felt less suffocating than the endlessness from before.

“Enough of the choices. Enough of this endless cycle of meaningless.” He straightened up, brushing his hair back from his face before holding out his hand. “I can get you out of here. You just need to let me i-”

-

“Oops.” The world was dark again. You didn’t look up from your chocolate ice cream. “Looks like you made the wrong choice.”

“I-I shot someone.”

Even after all of this fake Mark’s reassurances that it would be okay, your hands were still shaking. The heavy weight of the gun still sat in your palms. But every time you looked, it wasn’t there.

The man, entity, whatever he was, watched as you picked up your spoon. It trembled and shook in your grasp. He worried for a brief moment that you would drop it before it even reached the bowl.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked up. The blue and red that surrounded him seemed dimmer than earlier, softer. You couldn’t hear the ringing that pressed against your skull. He thought you looked like an infant - too young and small to be dragged into Mark’s mess.

“What I promised you still stands.” He reached his hand across once more. His hand was ice cold as it grabbed yours, stilling your tremors. “I can get you out of here.”

You should have been terrified. First Mark, with his uncomfortable flirting, as if this was all just some role that needed to be played. Then the endless loops. And now…

“Wh-What.” You cleared your throat, trying to steel the dread in your soul. “What’s your name?”

He tilted his head, brow furrowing. He seemed to ponder this for a moment.

“Do you have a name…?”

“I used to,” he admitted. A flash of… something in his eyes. “I suppose, for simplicity’s sake, you may call me Dark.”

You whispered his name with a mixture of awe and curiosity. “M-My name is-” The world fell away before your eyes.

You blinked up at the building before you. A… museum? Paintings hung on walls peeked out of the large glass windows. You could just barely see a sculpture inside. You looked down at your clothes and found you were wearing all black. A grapple gun rested on your hip.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Turning on a dime, you were face to face once again with Mark. His lips curled into a cheshire grin. There was too much knowing in his eyes.

“You’re not backing out now, are ya?”

-

Your phone buzzed. You pulled it from your pocket with trembling fingers.

Don’t you feel like you’re running in circles?

You didn’t recognize any of the portraits on the walls. All of them had their eyes crossed out. And it felt like they were… whispering to you. The only one that looked even remotely familiar sat at the end of the hallway. It looked like-

“Same snake, different skin.”

You wheeled around, heart racing in your chest. Dark stood there, hands behind his back, in a white suit this time. He looked just as malcontented with your presence in this “game” as he had the last time you saw him.

“Always spinning his yarns, his webs, his lies.” He sighed, tilting his head. He seemed almost like a disappointed parent, scolding you for staying out too late. “I always thought that you were trapped in his games. Perpetually plunging down the rabbit holes of his stories. Helpless. Lost.”

You looked over your shoulder at the last portrait. The paint had flaked away and fallen off, but you remember the smiling face that was there before. The disgusting, plastered-on smile that was always there. “Was that Mark?”

The entity hummed. In a flash of red and blue, he was standing in front of the painting, scowling at the gilded frame. “ He is behind all of this. Pulling the strings like a puppeteer controlling a marionette.” His gaze flicked over his shoulder. You swallowed at the implication.

“Last time…” Your brow furrowed. How long ago had that been? How long ago was it that you sat at the ice cream parlor, being comforted after shooting Mark? You swallowed, and pushed back the thought. Dark’s face softened, as if he knew what had crossed your mind. “Last time you said you could get me out of here.”

He turned his body to face you. Haloed by the light above the picture, he nodded. “I can.”

Unbidden, tears welled in your eyes. “Please.” You bit your lip, fighting the shake in your voice. “Please get me out of here.”

He stepped forward, stopping a few feet in front of you. His face was somber, gentle. He seemed to look you over for a minute. Perhaps he was seeing what you’d gone through - the prison, the forest, the pirate ship, the cave. Every now and again, an image of himself would turn to the side and scream.

You swallowed hard. Would he turn you away now? He so openly gave you his hand before, offered a way out. Would he abandon you in this loop now? A warm tear fell down your cheek.

“Please.”

Cold arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a broad chest. A hand carefully cupped the back of your head. “I will get you out.” He held you as you clung to him and cried into his suit. He could only hope they were tears of joy and relief, and not for the choices you’d been forced to make. You were just a child, after all. And he would make sure Mark knew, too, when his time came.

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This meeting was getting old fast. The babbling nonsense of his most trusted courtier was grating on his nerves. Perhaps it was the long, drawn out syllables, or the bombastic gestures he performed; dancing around the throne like a peacock on parade.

Dark sighed, rubbing his temples to push away the on-coming headache. All the effort it took to become a king, and this was it? Certainly having all this power was overrated.

And then he saw it. His dark eyes landed on a familiar figure hiding behind a pillar. Salvation.

His lips curled devilishly around his words, his eyes never leaving you. “Leave.”

Wilford stopped in his tracks, peeking over the back of the throne. “I beg your pardon?”

Dark’s hand waved lazily in the air. “You’re dismissed. We’ll discuss…”

“Cape fabrics?” Wilford supplied.

The king couldn’t believe they were discussing such a dull topic. He sighed. “Yes, we’ll discuss it later.”

The courtier pouted, but Dark paid him no mind as he stomped out of the throne room. He sat back in his chair, relaxing into the plush, velvet cushions, legs spreading languidly as he pat his thigh - an offering you couldn’t refuse.

You tried to casually saunter over, to draw out the time between you, make him feel the same longing for touch as you did, but it was practically an eager skip to his trained eyes. You’d been together too long, and he knew how to read you like an open book.

“Thank you for saving me from that hell, darling,” he purred. Large hands grabbed your waist the moment you were within reach to pull you into his lap. “I’ll be sure to make my gratitude well known.”

You brushed back loose strands of dark hair from his face. He looked dashing in a crown - the polished gold metal, and glimmering blue and red jewels brought out his powerful aura. “Such high praise for such a small kindness.” You leaned down, nearly pressing your forehead to his, but not quite. Noses brushed, lips a mere inch away. He couldn’t tear his eyes from yours.

“Deserved praise.” His voice came as a low growl from the back of his throat. A hand resting over his chest sent the vibrations of his assertions up your arm in the form of goosebumps. “You should interrupt more often, dear heart.”

“And get in between you and your fabric choices?” you teased. His eyes darkened for a moment just thinking about Wilford’s obsession with always having the perfect material for every scrap of fabric that may come in contact with his body. “What kind of lover would I be then?”

Unable to bear the distance any longer, he pressed his forehead to yours, sighing at the contact. To touch you was a wonder he never wished to take for granted. “My dear,” he cooed, “to have you come between me and Wilford’s endless nonsensical droning is an honor of the highest order.”

A short, longing kiss graced your lips. You could feel the hidden desire for more behind his movements as he pulled away with great reluctance, as his hands tensed at your sides, as he breathed you in like this was the last time you would ever see each other. Your hand wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in the long hair at his nape. He groaned as you tugged him in for another kiss, and another, and one more. He would devour you in this chair if he could.

Oh.

Oh.

What a brilliant idea.

A sinful grin split his lips as he wrapped an arm around your waist and held your thigh with a strong hand. In one strong movement, he was kneeling before you and you were sitting in his throne. Warm, wet kisses were trailed down your throat. Sharp teeth found your jugular and nipped ever so softly at the skin separating him from your lifeblood. He reveled in the shaky breath his actions pulled from your throat.

“Oh, my dear, gorgeous, pretty boy,” he nearly moaned into your skin. “I believe we have a meeting.”

Warm hands ran over your thighs, pressing them apart as a smirk pressed kisses into your jaw. “And I do believe it shall run a little long.”

Chapter Text

Stage crew dashed to and fro, positioning props to perfection and preparing the set for filming. It was a hive of activity. One person frantically ran around trying to give the right coffee to the right performers. Another brushed makeup on Mark’s cheeks and forehead. You even spied two sneaking off together. Even after so long, it still all made your head spin.

How long had it been since you were set free? Since you made that deal? Everything all felt like a blur.

Mark had indeed taken you to dinner, but it wasn’t exactly what you expected. By the end of your ‘performance’, you were agreeing to a fake proposal and being dragged deeper into the acting world. He promised to show you the ropes; take you under his wing. Perhaps that’s why he came up with another production: A heist.

You felt out of place navigating your ‘lines’ and actions around actors built to play their roles. These people were professionals, passionate about their jobs and what they’ve been hired to do. You were being suffocated in a situation you couldn’t get out of.

“You remember your lines?” You opened your mouth, but Mark cut you off with an arrogant laugh. You didn’t have any lines. Not spoken ones, anyway. “That’s the spirit! Just follow me and make sure you don’t mess this up. We’re behind schedule on filming enough without you-”

“Quiet on set!”

Mark grumbled as he was cut off by the director. The small bit of satisfaction you felt was quickly washed away with one of his signature grins. He straightened his hair back and prepared himself to act. He really did live for this.

“Alright, aaaaand ACTION!”

Mark pumped his fists excitedly. “Yes! Okay! Awesome! All right, okay. This is gonna be great! And don’t you worry about a thing because our watches are still synchronized, which means that…”

Your mind zoned out as you listened to him go on and on. He loved giving himself long paragraphs to recite. Maybe it was just to show off how brilliant he was. You followed your queue, turning away so Mark could be dragged away and eaten or killed or whatever. You turned back and, yup, there was his flashlight. You looked down the hall he was supposed to go down and-

Wait. This wasn’t in the script.

“Uhm, Mark?”

Your voice echoed in the darkness. There was no more set. There was no more crew. This darkness looked too familiar; too similar to the mirror you were stuck in. But there was no going back.

Lining the walls of the hallway were portraits. It only took a moment to remember who each face belonged to. The chef. The butler. The detective… William. A deep chill ran down your spine, joining the heavy emotions resting at the bottom of your stomach.

All of them were there. You remember the butler, crying over that mess in the cellar. The chef, who threatened you every time you so much as glanced in his direction. Abe, your partner in solving the murder. And William. Your murderer. A pink moustache was crudely painted over his portrait, and nothing in your memories could answer why. But you remembered falling over the banister. The way he reached out to grab you. And then waking up… And…

The final portrait at the end of the hall was of Mark, back when everyone was alive. Back when the only worries you had involved poker and drinking. The paint flaked away and fell to the floor, disintegrating into ash.

“It’s… good to see you, old friend.”

That voice…

You turned to its source. A man in a white suit, rimmed with red and blue. His skin was grey. All of him was grey. Yet even through the strange aura surrounding him, you knew. You knew exactly who this was.

“Damien?”

A blue afterimage of himself glitched to the side at the sound of his name. It was gone as soon as it appeared. His lips formed a tight grin. “I don’t go by that name any more.” The strain in his voice, in his entire body, softened as he fully took you in. “It’s been so long, my dear district attorney. I was so worried about you.”

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” you repeated back to him. Your emotions were laid out on your sleeve. Your face contorted with confusion and sadness and longing and betrayal. You were angry, but you wanted to run into his arms. You were so sad, you missed him so much, but you wanted to stand your ground. You took in a shaky breath. “Why didn’t you come back for me?”

“I did,” he stated. “I did come back for you.”

You shook your head. “No, you didn’t. You left me in the mirror. You stole my body. You left me there for years, Damien.” He flinched at the name, but said nothing. “You have no idea the hell I went through, waiting for you to come back for me.”

“Then let me make it up to you,” he began. He stepped forward, hand outstretched carefully, as if he carried an olive branch. “Let me free you now from Mark’s silly games. You can stop running around in endless circles, making choices that mean nothing. You can be free from the hell he’s putting you through - be truly free, once and for all.”

You frowned at the poor, naive entity before you. “You have no idea, do you?”

A frown took over his own hopeful expression. “What-”

“There you are!” A voice, energetic and irritated, split the darkness. You didn’t need to turn to feel the man’s presence behind you, glaring daggers over your shoulder at not-Damien who did so right back. “What are you doing here?”

Dark’s entire form tensed up. His hands found their place behind his back. Glitches and afterimages shot out from his body. “I’m here to free them,” he growled.

Mark’s laugh, as cocky as ever but laced with menace, sounded next to your ear. You nearly cringed away from it. “Who do you think you are?” Even his voice was interwoven with incredulity. “They couldn’t go anywhere even if they wanted to.”

You turned and placed a firm hand on Mark’s chest. “Stop.” It was weak, pleading. If anything, he was spurred on more by your weakness.

“Stay out of this, dear attorney” he mocked, “the adults are talking.”

The entity snarled, egged on by Mark’s dismissal. “I’m not going back alone,” he threatened. “I came to take them home, and I fully intend to.”

Another raucous laugh. “Oh, you don’t know?” Cold eyes full of amusement looked down at you, as they always have and always would. You avoided his gaze. Another pair of eyes stared at your back, waiting for answers you wished to avoid giving. “When you abandoned them, I gave them a deal to get them out. You weren’t coming back around any time soon to free them, were you?”

Dark grit his teeth.

“They signed the deal themself,” he sing-songed.

“You’re lying.”

“And now,” he spun you back around to face your old friend, arm wrapped around your shoulder to keep you close, “they belong to me.”

“It isn’t true.” Dark eyes met yours, pleading for a different answer, for a different truth. He came back to rescue you; free you from the world Mark trapped you in. But, after all this time, it was still his fault you were here. “What he said-”

“I did,” you cut him off. Your voice was thick. Your eyes burned. You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I do.”

Mark’s sickening grin appeared right over your shoulder, his face pressed right next to yours. You visibly flinched, and oh how Dark longed to rip you away from that son of a bitch. But his feet were glued to the spot. His shoes were filled with lead.

“Now,” the actor began, “go back to where you came from.”

Chapter Text

White, shattered porcelain littered the floor. Its liquid contents were splashed across the room. His eyes followed the trail, dragging across the floor until they reached regulation boots. Dark eyes trailed up the figure, who was slumped in on themselves and panting, and his heart shattered, too. The Captain threw their mug.

Your chest shuttered with a strained breath as you finally realized Mark’s presence in the room. You couldn’t even bother looking him in the eyes as you scurried out, head down.

The Bridge was empty. It felt wrong to stand at the helm alone, but the Captain and Head Engineer had been dancing around each other for weeks since…

He swallowed the thick lump forming in his throat. Now wasn’t the time.

He tread lightly across the floor. One step crunched under his boot and he paused, wincing. He lifted his foot and carefully stepped slightly to the side, avoiding the minuscule fragment.

Deft fingers plucked and picked up every shard, all cupped within one gloved hand. When it became too much for one hand to hold, he, admittedly, floundered. Unwilling to drop all the pieces back to the floor and give up his self-assigned mission, however, he began shoving the handfuls of porcelain into the many pockets of his coveralls. Every once in a while, a fragment would poke through the fabric and into his skin. He would just sigh and readjust them.

His heart fell further into the pit of his stomach when he came across black-colored fragments. One of the largest shards read “#1”, though a portion of the number was broken off into another shard. He knew exactly which mug this had been. Memories of handing you a steaming cup of coffee after waking from your cryo-pod flooded his mind. Maybe it didn’t happen in this universe, but it happened in this mug… metaphorically speaking.

He slinked away from the Bridge with pockets full of porcelain and a heart heavy with grief.

-

“Thank you for your reports. Tomorrow we will be discussing supplies. Please prepare any requests for shipments before the meeting.” You fixed Gunther with a pointed glare. “Dismissed.”

Murmurs followed the department heads as they filed out of the meeting room. You’d been… distant lately, to say the least. It was easier now, after jumping through countless universes and endless timelines, to separate yourselves from others. It felt almost necessary. Some small part of your mind was always on alert, just waiting for a blue wormhole to open up and force another crystal into your hand.

You absentmindedly ran a thumb over the scar at the thought.

Someone cleared their throat, startling you out of your rapidly descending thoughts. Mark stood before you, shifting from one foot to another and fiddling with a box he held with both hands. He had held it in his lap throughout the entire meeting. “Captain, I, uh…” His eyes flickered to your palm and down to the box. He held it out, avoiding eye contact all the while. “I just wanted to give you this.”

The box wasn’t anything special - the ship wasn’t equipped with wrapping paper or fancy gift boxes. It was just a plain brown cardboard box, taped with a string in the middle for easy “unwrapping”.

You looked to him for answers. He just nodded toward the box.

Mark and you were on rough ground after everything. You tore apart universes looking for him, you held on even as he cursed the very air you breathed. You died with him after destroying the warp core, and yet neither of you could look each other in the eyes. You almost missed jumping across multiverses, if only to see him smile.

The string cut through the tape as you pulled on it. With a little more effort, the flaps were no longer taped down at all, and the box was opened. A shaky gasp fell from your parted lips, gaped in awe at the barest hint of the contents held within. Mark watched with bated breath as your gloved fingers dipped into the box and lifted out with them the cracked, put-together form of your mug.

Some pieces were glued back together, others were barely being held on by tape. The handle looked atrocious. The rim of the mug was sharp. It would not be able to hold water. None of the words were even or lined up correctly, yet the bold black lettering proudly read “#1 CAPTAIN”.

You cradled it in your hands so carefully, as if it contained a soul within and you didn’t want to hurt it. That said, your hands trembled and shook with the rest of your body as you fought back strangled sobs that tore their way free anyway. Fat, wet tears rolled down your cheeks in waves. They had been held back for too long.

Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a broad chest and holding you firmly, being careful the mug between you didn’t get crushed all the while. Apologies sputtered from your lips, uttered like prayers begging for redemption. Mark just shushed you softly and rested his cheek on your head.

You would always be his #1 Captain, even if you didn’t feel like you deserved the title. And he would always forgive you, in every universe.

Chapter Text

Why were you still scrolling? It was almost 3am, for one thing. Your partners were asleep, snoring away on either side of you, and yet, there you were, continuing to go through the same tags you went through a thousand times before. The same art, shitposts, and fics popped up. And you’d seen them all, no matter how you sorted the feed. But you needed more . You needed new art, new shitposts, new fics.

Despite the mounting frustration and boredom, you kept scrolling and scrolling and scrolling.

An arm wound around your midsection, startling you out of your focus. Yancy peeked at you through half-lidded, drowsy eyes. He was always a light sleeper.

“What’re youse doin’ up?” His words slurred a little, accent seeming unfamiliar to him at this hour. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shook your head and turned off your phone, allowing the device to rest on your chest. “No, I just…” Yancy waited patiently as you found the right words. “I’m hyperfixating on something right now, and nothing seems to really… satisfy it.”

He hummed. The bed shifted as he scooted closer, nuzzling his face against the pajamas you wore. He didn’t want to trigger you with the feeling of his stubble, especially not when you’d apparently been awake all night.

“Youse wanna tell me about it?”

He felt more than saw the way you lit up. Excitement ran through your whole body like a shot of adrenaline.

“Really?”

He hummed. “I’ll try to stay awake.”

A pang of guilt shot through your heart. You didn’t want him to stay up just so you could ramble his ear off about something he isn’t even interested in. You opened your mouth to protest, but another face nuzzled into the shoulder of your pajamas, opposite to Yancy.

Illinois’ voice was rough. The languid, almost haughty accent he carried was almost unnoticeable. “What’s goin’ on?” he murmured, eyes squinting in the dark to peer at his two partners.

“They’re hyperfixatin’ on somethin’,” Yancy slurred. Sleep was already pulling his eyelids shut, but he forced them open again. “Was gonna let ‘em talk about it.”

Illinois hummed and turned to look at you, though his neck was at an awkward angle trying to do so. “You sleep at all yet, darlin’?”

You floundered, under the sweet way Yancy had said explained your problem so unbothered by its absurdity, and at the equally sweet pet name Illinois used. “I don’t want to keep you up just so I can talk,” you finally mumbled.

They both seemed affronted at the idea. “We love hearing you talk about your interests,” Illinois assured.

Yancy, seeming a little more awake, sat up so he was sure you saw the grin he bore. His eyes twinkled. “Youse is so passionate about the things you love, how could we not?”

“But-”

“Don’t worry about us, doll.” Yancy settled back down, resting his head on his pillow so he could look at you as you spoke. “We’ll just take a nap later.”

Illinois nodded against your shoulder and wrapped an arm around you. His hand rested easily on Yancy’s arm, tucking calloused fingers under the songbird’s t-shirt sleeve. They both waited for you to speak, to ramble for as long as they could stay awake about your hyperfixation. There was no way to deny them any longer.

You slid down further into the blankets. You told them about everything you could think of. You explained what it was you were fixating on, the goods and bads of it. Ships you loved or hated. The lore, history within the universe, character design. Everything.

And as the sun rose, all three of you were curled together in a mass of blankets, fast asleep.

Chapter Text

The realization is slow. Not in the way a predator creeps on an unsuspecting victim. Nor in the way an illness would, slowly taking over your body and mind until you can no longer ignore your decreasing abilities. No. It’s not even noticeable at first. Little hints here and there, indicative of something bigger.

And then it dawned on you. Suddenly. Like a spark igniting a rampant fire.

It happened when you looked up. The sky was different here. Strange. Nothing like Earth’s. There were no constellations - at least not yet. Two moons circled and twirled around the planet. Your new home.

You had neglected to look up since you landed. You couldn’t blame anyone. There was simply too much to do - buildings in need of building, resources to discover and study, maps to draw up of the surrounding area. Not only that, you joined your leads wherever you could.

You assisted Celci as she and her team revived colonists. You welcomed each new citizen with a smile and Welcome to our new planet! All 100,000 of them. Celci told you to take a break, get a nap, eat something. You would argue that everyone deserved to be welcomed, and it helped you get a grasp on just how many carpenters, engineers, scientists, medics, gun hands and others there actually were. She gave you a worried and disapproving side eye, but she couldn’t do anything to stop you.

Gunther worked to set up a perimeter where the first buildings could be set up. You helped to plan out which buildings went where, and exactly where your borders should be laid. And when he started setting up armed droids to keep an eye out for raging wildlife that could threaten your new beginnings? You were all too happy to put yourself to work, hauling the heavy automechanicals to each designated spot. If he made a comment about exerting yourself, you ignored it and kept on working.

Burt, with the lack of necessity for warp-core engineering (the thought made you flinch), helped out in home-building. He acted as foreman, making sure each sheet of metal had its place. As the framework finished, he and his team went in to affix lights and other electronic necessities. A few engineers even took plumbing jobs. (There was, unfortunately, a lack of those sent over from Earth.) Quiet as he was, the only time he pointed out your willingness to dive head first and help build foundations, framework and walls, was in a poetic waxing after a rather large building neared completion. You said it was a beautiful poem, but you didn’t quite understand its meaning. (You did.)

And Mark. Oh, god, Mark. With each new job you threw yourself into, he was always right there, running around like a headless chicken trying to help. If you were building a wall, he was right behind you (sometimes even right next to you, holding the metal in place as you bolted it in), keeping you up to date with the progress of the colony, messages from Earth, and other such things. He worried over you the most out of anyone else.

You couldn’t blame him, honestly. After the… adventure you both went on, you wouldn’t give yourself the time of day to even close your eyes. Once dark settled in, you threw yourself into paperwork and managerial nonsense. You couldn’t stop.

It had been one of these nights when you realized. You just finished talking to Celci, discussing the discoveries being made. The scientists just started working with the security crew to go out on excursions to study the flora and fauna. They just brought back a strange plant that they believed could be medicinal. It was exciting, truly.

But Celci had been short with the discussion. She had her arms crossed the whole time, shutting down branching topics with quick retorts. You need rest, she’d scolded. She shoved a protein bar in your hand and sent you to your tent, with orders not to do any work tomorrow. When you tried to protest, she enacted a rule that stated she - as lead officer for medical - could confine you to your quarters if you were not at your peak health, physical or otherwise. You couldn’t argue with her, and so trudged like a pouting child toward the temporary camp of tents everyone was staying in.

That’s when you looked up. You stopped, staring at the unfamiliar stars, the strange moons that lacked craters. The Invincible could just be seen, hovering in the atmosphere. You were waiting for orders from Earth to know what to do with her. You refused to dismantle the grand spaceship. Most likely, it would continue to remain high above the planet, run by a skeleton crew. Forever up there. Alone.

That is when the realization overcame you.

It was slow. And then it all came crashing down over top of you like a tsunami. A growing sense of guilt filled your chest. Was that it? Guilt. No, maybe it was… loss. Yes. A powerful sense of grief within you, bubbling to the surface.

Maybe it had always been there. You couldn’t rightly tell. But it was powerful. It grew, bubbling like a thick paste within you until it reached your tear ducts and buckled your knees. The ground was warm beneath you, and the sky full of strange new stars blurred into a swirl of watercolors. Maybe this was how Van Gogh saw the world. Through tears.

“Captain?”

Your lip trembled. You couldn’t look at him.

A warm body knelt next to you on the ground. His dark eyes burned into your skin, searching desperately for answers. Why were you crying? Why were you sitting out in the middle of the camp, staring at the sky? When he glanced up, following your gaze, he caught sight of the Invincible. He mentally damned the ship.

Was it because of the ship that you were crying? Far too often to be healthy, he, too, stared up at the ship. He remembered the warp core. The mistakes he made, and the ones he caused.

He had no idea what you saw up there. You never spoke about it. Now he wished he had. He wished he asked. He wished he knew what worlds, what alternate realities, what different timelines you’d witnessed. Maybe then he could understand what was wrong.

“Cap…?”

Your eyes were red now. Your face crinkled with grief and sorrow, fighting back the onslaught of tears. You gasped in a shaky breath. Out came a whisper. He thought, perhaps, you would tell him about the things you’d seen. You witnessed thousands of deaths; he had, too. But that was not what came out of your mouth.

“I don’t remember my name.”

Mark was stunned. Shock and confusion overtook his body. Your name? Well, of course, your name was… It’s…

Confused and frustrated, he remembered the IDs on file for every single crew member. He sifted through so many every day, trying to keep track of who was who. It took a few taps on his wrist pad to pull up your ID. He skimmed it for himself before holding out his arm to show you.

The image was fairly recent, only from a few months ago. But you looked… brighter. Hopeful. Determined. Your hair was a little shorter then, too. The bags under your eyes from rigorous study weren’t as prominent as they were now. You looked like a hollow shell of who you once were.

And, yes, that was your name. Or… was it? Was it really your name after everything that had happened?

No. That was their name.

You shook your head and furiously wiped at the tears on your cheeks. Every crass name, criminal title, and disparaging nickname flooded your mind. No. They didn’t have those titles. They didn’t deserve the hatred and vitriol that followed you through that wormhole. They were not the Captain. And you were not them.

“That’s not my name anymore,” you croaked. You shook your head again. You looked like a child having a breakdown in kindergarten over a broken toy. “That’s- That’s not me anymore.”

Mark couldn’t say he really understood why. The image of you, all crooked grins and academy-fresh confidence, was you. He remembered you gushing to him over flying your first airplane, and going through the rigorous training of outer-space flying. He remembered because it was you who gave him the idea for all those stupid windows. When you gushed over being so close to the night sky you felt you could reach out and pluck Polaris right out of the inky black.

But when he looked from the picture to you? He was reminded of the hardships. How you jumped from universe to universe, wracking up casualties, just to save him. And he started to get it. You went through too much to be even near the same plane of existence as your young, naive self.

“Who am I, Mark?”

When you fell to press your face unceremoniously into his shoulder, he wasted no time wrapping you up in his arms. The ID flickered away as the screen turned off. He tried to hold on tight enough to physically stop you from shaking with your sobs, but it was impossible.

“You’re our Captain.”

Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. But they were the only words he could find.

Anybody who passed by pretended they didn’t see anything. He hoped, anyway. He couldn’t meet their eyes. All he could do was hold on, as you had done for him once. Your sobs turned into stifled cries, and then only whimpers. He wasn’t concerned at first. In fact, he was a little relieved you were beginning to calm down. Until you became completely limp in his hold.

Even then, he still paused a second, before pulling you back until he could see your face. Had your skin always been so dull?

He shook you slightly. Maybe you were just sleeping, right? Your eyelids didn’t even flutter. Panic shot through his heart.

He shook you again, harder this time. No response.

“Captain?” Another shake, perhaps a little more vigorously than he intended. Your body was a rag doll, flopped in his lap. “No, no, no, you can’t close your eyes right now!”

His mind, scared and jumping to all the worst conclusions, raced to figure out what to do. He laid you on the ground and pressed an ear against your chest.

…

……

Okay. There’s a heartbeat. A little weaker than he thought was normal, but it was there. And your chest was moving, albeit slowly, with each breath. He pulled away. His hands, calloused with years of fiddling with wires and heavy machinery, floundered in the air. He didn’t know what to do.

Desperate cries for help, for Cici, for anyone were ripped from his lungs. He was gasping for air by the time half the camp rushed out to see what the commotion was. He couldn’t catch his breath until you were safe again.

He just needed you to be safe.

-

Word spread about the Captain’s health quickly. Mark couldn’t say he was surprised. Actually, he was sort of embarrassed.

That night - almost a week ago now - Celci had rushed to his side. She was the rational and cool-headed one. She commanded medics to grab a stretcher, to ready an IV, prepare a bed and equipment. All the while he screeched like a banshee, whaling for his old friend.

Uncharacteristically, though, she didn’t say a word about it. Nobody did. (Or, at least, not when he was within earshot.) She grabbed him a chair, some water and snacks, even a blanket. And as he sat by the Captain’s side, a permanent frown etched within his features, she kept him up to date on your condition and on the colony.

He knew his fears were wholly rational. After jumping through wormholes and witnessing first hand what consequences it brought, it was only natural for him to fret over the permanence of life now.

How stupid he’d been. Really. How many times did he grab your hand and jump back into the wormhole? More than he could count on one hand. The way he would be torn apart by a black hole or exploded by a supernova, and still step out of that pod with a giddy little grin, asking, almost begging, the Captain to jump in again. And again. And again.

Vaguely he remembered an airlock.

Neither of you were immortal now. Honestly, he hated immortality. It seems to amazing in theory…

He drags a hand down his face with a sigh. His shoulders are hunched. He leans his elbows against the edge of your bed.

He’s tired. Not like before. This wasn’t an exhaustion fueled by some silly false heroics or nonstop building of a catalyst to all your issues. No. He was exhausted with worry, and fear, and- God, emotions he didn’t even have words for. It all sat heavy in his soul.

Guilt, he decided to call it. But different. Guilt if it was slightly to the left.

Celci told him you just passed out from exhaustion and overworking yourself. Maybe he felt guilty for not picking up on it sooner, or for stopping you before it got so bad. It’s not as if the bags under your eyes were invisible, or that the way you carelessly rushed in to help every single person in need was subtle. He should have noticed.

Maybe then you would remember your name. Or, he thought back to your ID, believe you’re still you.

He wished his mind could shut up, for once.

A distraction. That’s what he needed, yeah.

He dragged his eyes from your face to your monitor. He was never very good with medical stuff. The numbers were odd. Was that blood pressure normal? Too high? Too low? Hell if he knew. Was your heart beating fast enough?

He contemplated for a brief moment the components that went into a monitor like that. The wires, connectors, screws, bolts, etc. And then he remembered this machine was making sure you were still alive. The idea of dismantling it was no longer appealing.

He turned to the IV next. A slow, continuous drip of fluids, hooked up to your arm. Needles always gave him a bad feeling. He felt nauseous looking at it.

Strange flowers caught his attention next. There were no roses or tulips or irises out here. Just… Well, they didn’t have names yet. The exobiologists were working on formulating latin names, genuses, and everything else that came with cataloging different flora. They were still beautiful, he couldn’t deny it. Bright orange petals with neon blue stamens that glowed at night. Razor-leaved stems that started as purple by the bloom and morphed into an odd black hue. They looked poisonous, actually. He was sure they wouldn’t be allowed in here if that was the case.

Paper was becoming a luxury at this point. Not that it mattered much, with everything accessible at the press of a button on their wrists. Still, they thought it would be best to ration out the remaining scraps throughout the colony. And everyone, seemingly unanimously, decided to use the rare material to write get well soon cards.

The little folds of parchment filled every possible surface. With 100,003 people writing get well and thank you, at some point the excess of good will notes had to be tucked away in a bin to be read later. He caught a nurse, once, rotating out the cards.

His frown softened when he thought of the very human way in which they cared about you. How human to utilize a precious resource just to say Thank you, wake up soon. How human to see something beautiful in nature, and to display it tenderly next to you. We found something beautiful, it made us think of you. How very human for those who stopped by, who saw him ever at your side like a steadfast protector, rested a hand on his shoulder or patted him on the back. You are not alone in your pain.

He wished, desperately, that you could be awake to witness the love humanity so freely handed out. Maybe then you could rediscover who you were.

“You look like shit.”

Mark startled awake. When did he fall asleep? Ah, dammit, it was dark outside. He must have been out for hours. He scrubbed at the exhaustion crusting his eyelids shut.

Wait…

His body froze. He was too scared to breathe. His heart was racing.

He couldn’t have heard that. He couldn’t have.

Heart in his throat, he slowly removed his hand from his eye and dragged his eye along your frame, still tucked safely under the blanket. Sure enough, when he finally reached your face, there was a smug grin waiting for him.

And with a jolt, his body came back to life.

You watched, half-amused as Mark threw himself from his chair to press a Call Nurse button on the opposite side of your bed. His eyes were wide and frantic. His hair was a mess. Bags under his eyes carried the weight of the world, tears of relief slipping down his cheeks before he could even think to stop them.

“You’re- You’re awake!” he croaked. His hands instinctively grabbed onto your shoulders. They were trembling.

You tried to reach up to hold onto his shoulder, maybe even his face to feel his concerning amount of stubble, but it felt so heavy. You held onto his forearm instead. “How long-?”

Celci came storming in, looking about as frantic as Mark, but better put together. Once she saw you were conscious, her expression morphed to be somewhere between joy and fury. Uh oh.

“Captain!” The only freedom from her intense stare came when she checked your vitals. Mark backed away so she had plenty of room to do so, but he kept a hand on one of your shoulders. He couldn’t pull himself away just yet. “I’m not going to say ‘I told you so’, but I told you this was going to happen if you kept pushing yourself so hard!”

“What exactly happened?”

The cryonics lead faltered. Mark gave her a pleading look. She realized, for the first time since stepping in here, that he had been- no, was crying. She had never seen him cry before.

Celci sighed and tapped a few things into her wrist pad. “I’m assigning you to bedrest and low-effort work until you decide to put your needs before those of the colony.” She leveled you with a concerned stare. “The colony needs you, Captain. You can’t be everywhere at once, helping with every last fiber of your being, no matter how much you want to. Let the rest of us carry the responsibilities we were sent here to carry.”

Mark turned away to wipe away his tears before she could glare at him next and give him a lecture, too. She huffed, nodded to you with a Captain, and left.

The air was thick. Things unsaid hung around in the air like dust caught in a sunbeam - everywhere you look and hard to ignore.

Mark didn’t look at you as he tried to gather himself together. The motes would continue lingering until he was ready to answer your questions.

Deciding to give him some space (as much as you could while bedridden), you looked to the side. The hordes of cards was utterly overwhelming. Each one was different from the next. Some had Captain written on the front in neat cursive, heavy-handed scrawls, or chicken scratch. Some people did their ‘C’s differently, or slurred their writing together in their plain-text handwriting. Other cards simple said Get well soon! or Feel better! You could see small paragraphs of writing inside the folds.

A rush of warmth flooded your chest. All of the command leads, all of the colonists - everyone thought about you. Maybe the idea of being thought of was just so foreign, but you didn’t think in any earnest capacity that this many people would care. The Leads, sure, you spent so much time with them up on the ship (more than they realized), but the most contact the vast majority of the colonists had with you was the simple welcome you gave them as they were thawed. And yet. Despite it all. Everyone had left a card.

Everyone cared about you.

The warm feeling in your chest turned sour as you remembered your conversation with Mark last night. ( Was it last night?) The way the stars glimmered back without a care for you. The way you squeezed that protein bar so tight it became mush in its package. The way Mark held you.

I don’t remember my name.

Who am I, Mark?

You squeezed his arm, as much as you could in your weakened state.

You’re our Captain.

Reddened eyes met yours. His eyes were so dark, but they held a thousand thoughts, emotions, and ideas behind them. You remembered looking into those eyes, as you held onto him, refused to let him go even as he called you hateful names and ripped the crystal from your palm.

“You’ve been asleep for a week.” He sniffed. His hand trembled as he gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Cici said… You were overworking yourself, pushing yourself past your limit just to be there for everybody, and you weren’t taking care of yourself like you should have been and she said-” He swallowed thickly, fighting to speak through the lump in his throat. “You could have died.”

Oh. It had been that bad? You couldn’t recall feeling weak. Though, maybe it was from the endless running you did during the warp core fiasco. How long had you been awake during that endless nightmare? Your body had recovered once the cycle was broken, but your mind…

“I’m sorry.” It was all you could say. His shoulders fell. “I didn’t…” Your voice was quiet, almost too soft to be a whisper. As if you were afraid to say what was on your mind. “When we were in the wormhole, I was so tired. We both were. But it’s like, I don’t even know what it’s like to feel tired anymore, because nothing compares to what happened.”

You looked up at him, like a child seeking approval. In your eyes, he saw universes colliding, supernovas, and someone who never gave up hope. For the briefest hint of a second, he saw that same determined graduate from the ID.

“Does that make sense?”

He nodded without thinking. His hand left your shoulder, following the length of your arm to hold your hand. You didn’t have gloves on. It was… odd. He ignored the calloused scar that brushed against his palm. “I feel the same. I remember building the… it. I didn’t sleep at all, then. And now that I can, it feels… wrong. I’m not tired, but I am. I can’t explain it better than that.”

“I think we both need a nap.”

He huffed. It was nice to see him smile again. “On your orders, Captain.” His grin flickered, eyes darkened. “If you’d like, you can choose a different name. It wouldn’t be too hard to change your ID.”

“No,” you said. You smiled. “You were right, all along.”

“About what?”

“I’m your Captain.”