#one second my icon was normal. i refresh the page and boom

[neptunym]

ms paint doodles for @post-it-notes7 's fic series, heart and soul. i highly recommend it to anyone that either likes the kirby anime or meta knight bc it's a delight to read :]

[pink-ink-goblin]

Welcome Back Ch. 1

(This is a pet project I’ve been toying around with for much longer than I should have that I’m sure has been covered a million times over. Sarcasm aside, this intends to be a mutiichapter series where Mark reintroduces himself to his egos one at a time, with maybe a bonus second ego thrown in for fun. It’s a lot of banter, and way longer than I wanted it to be, but I hope it turned out okay!)

Warnings: None

The Host

The darkly-stained oak door had been an impressive start. It stood tall and menacing amidst the rather bland hallway, laced with riveted black metal designs and twisted bars that not only made it stand out all the more, but told tales of warning that would have deterred all but the most brave, or perhaps ignorant, of souls.

The black knob was cold and large, escutcheon plate adorned with a large keyhole that could only be the destination of a key of equally impressive, and perhaps a little showy, character. Naturally, it creaked when it opened, but the sound was quieter, more of a well-maintained feature rather than from the neglect that would normally accompany such an iconic sound. It created chills, or perhaps that was from the blast of cold air that hissed around the edges of the door like a long standing seal being broken.

First impressions of the room were not particularly welcoming. It was dim, every window papered over with only a few sun beams slipping through. They, by themselves, could afford some form of light, but the majority of it was given off by a few bulbs, bare and hanging by a single wire, strewn across the ceiling to create spot lights of light here and there throughout the room, highlighting various areas like a museum showcase.

If, of course, that museum was instead a library.

The entire room was a maze of shelves and bookcases that touched the ceiling, the same dark color as the door, so that it added to the sense of cramped dimness that one got from within. The echo from his footfalls on the polished wood floor, however, suggested a much bigger area that one had yet to see, hidden away behind the large structures that were piled high with books of different sizes and colors. They even seemed to give off their own unique smell, something detectable amidst all the other sensory heightening aspects of the room.  

It was prominent, but not overpowering. An old smell, archaic and nostalgic, filled with chemical sweetness and promises of both good adventure, and terrible deeds. It filled every corner of the room, aroma mixing with the weathered smell of old wood and dried ink. It almost soothed the spirit in the way only something of such long standing could. A ghost of time's past; of promises for the future.

A contradiction to all things presented prior that left the mind dizzy from all the conflicting information.   

This was all by design of course. The Host may not have been as flashy as he once was, but he could still appreciate a well set scene, even if he himself could not physically see to enjoy it. He felt it well enough in the reactions of others, and that delicious sense of unease and wonder satisfied him just fine. And if it acted as a deterrent to the wayward, bothersome soul, well, all the better.  

Another smell entered the fray, warm and rich with herbal tang. With a few soft words and a gentle click, he reached over to turn off the hot plate and poured not just one, but two cups of tea. Earl Grey with light honey. A personal favorite, and one that could be easily agreeable enough to someone who did not partake in drinking tea frequently. A tragedy truly, for tea was a cure for all ails. It soothed the temper and quieted the mind. Both things that the Host cherished deeply when he found a moment of respite.  

Where narration was his calling and precognition was his curse, complete mental silence was a very special kind of lull that he did not take for granted. And tea was the perfect thing to bring forth this inner peace. Just holding the warm ceramic in his hands was enough to have him relaxing into his chair.

Unfortunately, it did not seem to have the same effect for his current guest who simply held his cup flat on one palm, fingers barely gracing the handle. Poison seemed to be the word echoing in the man's mind and while Host could have made a compelling argument, it really wasn't worth the effort. His loss honestly.

But, Host supposed it was a little hard to find your center when the racket of the various inhabitants of the building amalgamated together to make as much noise as possible, even from the secluded and general deadened stillness of his library. The building shook for the second time in as many minutes and his guest jumped like he had been electrocuted.

Host could have made a joke about the man's choice of occupation in relation to the scare, but he highly doubted Mark would have appreciated such humor with as tense as he was. The man was at least trying to be subtle, but Host could ‘see’ it in the way his knee bounced with barely suppressed nervous energy. He was like a tightly coiled spring on the verge of spilling some very good tea.  

"Apologies," Host started, resting the cup, along with his hands underneath it, on the table that separated them. There was a vintage Continental typewriter pushed off to the side along with a thick stack of linen paper - pages both blank and filled - to make room for the guest he had foreseen coming. "It seems you picked a rather hectic day to show up here."

"What the heck are they doing down there?" Mark asked, a hint of concern laced in his suspicious words.

"I believe Wilford and Bim are at odds in redecorating the studio." Host may not have been able to see Mark's face, but he could feel the man's stomach go cold. "Don’t worry, they are both being overseen. One cannot leave two reality warpers to their own self-absorbed devices."

Mark made a derisive noise, but made no further comment about it. Host could feel the man’s eyes watching him, examining him. Host’s every breath, every movement, every nonchalant sip of tea. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore, but he supposed the man would consider it of no need. Host understood. He knew his presence to be unnerving, even to the most brave of souls. It was a feeling Host wasn’t fond of, but one he was very much used to. He could almost hear the questions without the man saying a word.

Host humored the silence, and subsequent scrutiny, for a little while longer before clearing his throat lightly. Their creator was here for a reason, and prolonging the silence was only taking even more time out of both of their days. "If I may pry, what brings you here today? Quite out of the blue, might I add."

"Nothing in particular," Mark starts, sounding mildly uncomfortable. He’s drumming his fingers against the side of the cup with no beat and it’s starting to irk the writer. “It’s not like I could have called ahead anyway.”

Mark is here reluctantly. Host didn’t need eyes to see that. “Miss Amy has the entry desk number.”

All activity from the man ceases and Host vaguely wonders if that was perhaps too forward. Cautious silence reigns for only a little while before Mark, in a low voice, asks: “How did you know that? How do you even know about Amy?”

“If it assuages some concern, she has never actually contacted any of us.” Host offers calmly, before adding: “Just because you have stopped watching us, does not mean we ever stopped watching you.”

The monotonously spoken sting seems to have an effect and Mark, with a moderate sigh, leans back into his chair. There is no guilt in the action, and Host would never ask him to have any. To be honest, Dark wasn’t the only ego with a serious chip in their shoulder at the human’s neglect, but Host didn’t particularly care one way or another where this went. He had his writing, and that had always been enough.

“... Amy wanted me to get to know you guys again.” Mark relented, seeming to have calmed enough to attempt his tea, quickly pulling a face right after. Lukewarm probably. Such a waste.

"Does she?" Host takes a small amount of amusement from this, a soft breath escaping his lips that could have been a laugh. "That’s nice of her. However, you did make us. Hard to know someone more than that."

“Hey now,” Mark frowned, placing the tea cup on the table to resist gesticulating with it. "You know that's only partially true. I might have had a hand in making you, but you've evolved into your own beings while I was... gone. You all have my face, but I don't feel like I'm looking into a mirror anymore."

Host hummed at this, a small smile ghosting the corners of his mouth. “That’s a refreshing perspective. Am I to assume Miss Amy feels the same?”

Mark made an exasperated noise, looking off somewhere to the left of Host. “Okay, okay, you caught me. Amy was the one who wanted to be here today. It took me an entire hour of trying to talk her out of it before I convinced her that I would like to…” He trailed off, searching for a polite word.

“See if it’s safe,” Host completed helpfully. Mark winced, but Host was not offended. “Very wise. There are more than a few here who might accidentally do something we would all regret.”

As if the two egos ears were burning, another boom sounded, rattling so hard that some books fell off the shelf near the door. Mark had to snatch up his teacup to prevent it from spilling.

“Aren’t you afraid they’re going to take down the whole building?!”

“No,” Host replied simply, looking wholly unbothered. “But, if it makes you more comfortable…” Host cleared his throat, setting his empty teacup aside and leaning forward to clasp his hands over the table before he began to speak; soft, rapid words that Mark had to listen very closely to in order to understand.

“‘The two egos looked to each other fiercely; a combative and creative fire burning in their eyes. One desired of colorful chaos and the other of impressive order; both seeking to satisfy their massive and wildly unnecessary prideful natures, but there is a pause in their fighting, one that tells of the need for a break. They both suddenly realize they have been going at it since four in the morning, and perhaps it is time to stop.’”

Host took a small breath, pulling back as if finished, when a small irritated frown pulled at his mouth. The narrator, leaning forward predatorily, suddenly continued in an irked tone: “‘And they now realize they have been bothering the Host this whole time and that if they don’t stop, he will send them to the far reaches of the universe where they can make all the noise they want in the cold, unforgiving, depths of space.’”

Mark watched as Host waited patiently, still as a statue, most likely waiting for assurance that he would not have to follow through on his rather frightening threat, before sitting back up when it seemed he was satisfied. The two tv personalities could be frustratingly thick, but both had a fair sense of self preservation at least.

As he took a calming breath, Host could sense an interesting feeling radiating from the creator, a trepid familiarity, one that spoke tales of past experience. The man could probably remember what happened when people resisted Author’s stories when it was still just him playing a character. Seeing it in action may have finally made it visceral and Host could only imagine how chilling that might be.  

Mark cleared his throat with an apprehension that Host did not miss. “I thought you said someone was watching them?”

“Yes, me.” Host responded flatly, feeling renewed warm wetness collecting on his eye cloth near his nose. It would have to be changed soon. Mark seemed to be mulling the answer over if his sudden silence was anything to go by. He had something to say about it, as was evidenced by his renewed fidgeting, and Host supposed he could humor him. “You’re curious.”

“Not about the omnipresence, no,” Mark replied without missing the implication.

“But that is part of it,” Host tutted, giving the man a small, if slightly bitter, smile to indicate that his current train of thought was okay. “Go ahead and ask. You wouldn’t be the first.”

Mark nibbled his lip for a second, seeming to deliberate on how to ask without being offensive. It was kind of him, if unnecessary. Ultimately, the man seemed to decide to avoid the touchy subject and instead asked: “Do you watch everyone?” Host hummed thoughtfully. “That question could mean a great many things, but I supposed the general answer to your general question is yes. I watch all the egos. I watch all of the people of this city. I watch an unsuspecting family over in Beijing. They have a fascinating life. Their book is on the shelf near the door.”

Mark made a displeased face. “You mean all of these books are people whose lives you’ve ruined?”

“Not at all. Some of them were doing just fine ruining it themselves.” Mark didn’t seem to appreciate the dark humor, so Host saw fit to amend. “Not to worry, that part of my life is over. I am simply a Host to the world now; an observer turned scribe, and I make sure their stories live on even if they don’t happen to. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Very noble,” The human remarked dryly.

“If one chooses to take it that way.”

“I don’t remember you ever being able to see that far,” Mark commented absently, and then had the sudden awareness to be embarassed for the slip, talking about the very real ego in front of him like he was still a character being played. Host found amusement in his floundering, but decided to withhold commenting to allow the man to continue unpressured. The human cleared his throat before pressing on to clarify. “We, uh, never really got into the finer details, but I know your control was limited to more or less a single city’s boundaries. And you were required to write the change for it to work.”

“You’re speaking of the previous me,” Host clarified, the consonants in his following words popping with resentment. “I believe I’ve had some events happen since then.”

And if Host focused hard enough, he could still feel the burning agony that that bullet had inflicted upon his side on the day of his death. He would never forget the helplessness and fear he felt in those final moments. But Mark didn’t seem to be interested in the how. He knew, and Host knew he knew, even if the reasons were different for both of them. The inherent knowledge was eating away at the human, and it was manifesting as a strange sense of sudden irritation. Host knew exactly what Mark was going to get at and spoke before he could.

“He appeared before me when I had nowhere else to turn,” Host said quickly, his tone a no nonsense clip. “A trap certainly, but I had already been dying before the bullet ever left that gun.”

“But how could you let him do that to you?” Mark asked, touching his own cheek just under his eyes, and Host could sense the pit the human felt in his stomach, but the narrator had no tolerance for this brand of critical sympathy.

“Would you like to enlighten me about your own deal?” Host replied venomously, startling the man with his sudden ferocity, quiet and calm as it was. Mark seemed to be trying to find a counter-argument that Host knew for a fact did not exist, when something shot across the barrier of his mind, pulling the narrator away from their current conversation with jarring suddenness, making him tense, and forcing his power to surge upward to fill the space.

“Hey, are you okay?” Mark’s concern managed to bleed through the intrusion, but it was mixed with an overwhelming amount of sensory input that would have brought any other being to their knees. The narrator could not respond, not directly. Instead, with practiced precision, he narrowed his focus and allowed the words to fly from his lips with a near breathy quickness that Mark struggled to keep up with.

“Sneaking quietly, footsteps muffled by the carpeted halls, the ego crept down the corridor with horrible purpose. They had looked in every room the building had to offer before finally managing to narrow their search to the one place he was sure the maker would be. And they had every intent to make full use of this opportunity to...”  Host broke free from the hold with frown and turned to Mark grimly. “You need to hide.”

“Wha - from what? Who?” Mark demanded, standing up so swiftly he almost knocked his chair over. Host simply shook his head and lost himself again.

“They reached out and knocked - one, two, three times,” Three quick, sharp taps echoed amidst the bookshelves. “Before testing the, unfortunately, unlocked door. They peered in cautiously, unable to see beyond the immediate maze of bookshelves, an arm hiding behind their back in a manner they considered inconspicuous. The hidden hand held something small and clean that glinted fatally in the low light.”  

That was all Mark needed to hear before he, after a moment of frantic searching in the unfamiliar territory, found a somewhat dark alcove between a burgundy leather couch a wall that housed a small alcove with ever more books packed into it. As Mark ducked into the spot, Host tamped the overbearing power back down, remaining in place and simply pulling the pushed aside typewriter right back in front of him.

“Hosty?” Came a trepid, but still familiarly deep voice, just a tad closer than Host was expecting.

“I’m here,” The narrator responded in a nonchalant tone, pecking away at the keys of his typewriter as if he had never stopped. The footsteps came closer and closer until, after a beat of hesitation, a shock of bright red hair peeked shyly around the last shelving unit before the opening. “Greetings, Yandere. Are you looking for a book?”

“Uh, no, not today,” The ego muttered, sounding hesitant, but his eyes were sharp as they voraciously scanned every detail of the room for what - or who, Host knew - he was looking for.

“Then what brings you by?” Host pressed, pretending to be oblivious to give the ego a chance to turn back of their own accord. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Nothing much,” Yandere replied, easing a facade of well practiced casualness into his tone that Host saw right through. “I’ve just been busy with a few... projects.”

“As am I,” Host hinted, hands gesturing to the mess atop the table that he lamented having to organize once more in the near future. Instead of taking the clue as Host hoped he would, Yandere instead stepped around the bookshelf fully. Host could feel a very specific type of displeasure radiating from Mark who, he guessed, had hazarded a chance to peek.

Idiot.

“Oh yeah? Whatcha writing?” Yandere asked with feigned interest, walking around in what would have been construed as a casual manner if Host didn’t know better.

“A young couple in Denmark. Secret lovers by starlight, absolutely wretched people in the sun.”

“Oh, that sounds so romantic!” Yandere gushed, a sigh of lament leaving his lips. “I wish I could write. Then maybe senpai would actually notice me.”

“Senpai has not noticed any of us for a while,” Host responded with such disdain that he felt Mark grow even more uncomfortable in his corner. “I would dare say he’s probably left us for good.”

Yandere made a noise in his throat, a sort of chuckle, but it was wrong sounding. “Now that’s not true. A little squirrely told me he saw senpai walk in the front door not too long ago.”

Host grimaced in his head. He would be having words with the woodland monarch later. “King says many things; some of which pertain to the idea that the Google’s are the four horsemen, Silver is secretly a lizard under his costume, and that Ed can’t find anyone to sell his son to because he doesn’t actually want to. You ought to know better than to take anything he says seriously.”

Host waited for the rebuttal, the insistence that he knew more than he was letting on because everyone knew he always did, but it didn’t come. Instead, the dangerous ego suddenly paused in their searching, head slowly cocking to the left with quickly growing delight as his eyes fell upon a terrible, horrible clue.

The second teacup.

That damn idiot.  

“Expecting someone?” Yandere asked darkly, picking up the ceramic cup delicately by the rim with the tips of his fingers, waving it lightly to watch the tan liquid and tea leaf particles swirl within.   

“You, naturally,” Host retorted smoothly, unmoved in his nonchalant nature while preparing a very specific narration to spit should the ego decide to pull anything unsavory. “Although, I imagine it must be cold by now.”

“Still experiencing lost time?” The response was good-natured in tone, genuine concern laced in it even, but Host could sense the frustration brewing just beneath the surface. He was countering Yandere faster than the stalker could find reasons to push, and the building tension had the obsessor twisting the poorly hidden knife between his fingers in agitation.   

“I suppose I do get a little absorbed here and there. Would you like me to warm up another for you?” There was a bout of silence, one filled with Yandere casting one more scrutinizing glance over the small area, before, with an unsatisfied frown, he sighed through his nose and placed the cold ceramic cup back on the table with a soft tap.

“No, thank you,” Yandere didn’t even bother to hide the disappointment in his voice now. “I have some other… things I need to attend to.”

“As you please,” Host bid warmly. “You know you’re welcome anytime.”

As Yandere turned to leave, skirt twirling behind him, he paused, a hand reaching out to grip the dividing bookcase with a firmness that Host knew would leave nail marks.

“Hosty, you would tell me the truth if you’ve seen anything, wouldn’t you?” His voice was soft, vulnerable, manipulative, and wholly convincing if it had been to anyone other than Host.

“Haven’t I always?” The narrator replied with a soft smile, fingers poised above the keys of the Continental in a show of eagerness to return to his current project.

There was a tense moment where the stalker stared him down, searching for the lie that had to be there, when, with an unsatisfied farwell, Yandere finally disappeared behind the bookcase entirely. Host waited a few minutes after he heard the door close before letting Mark know it was safe to come out. The man was slow to rise, a curious mixture of caution and stiffness in his movements as he looked around.

“I’m guessing Yandere is one of the ones holding a grudge?” Mark said after a moment, resting a hand on the back of his chair, but not quite ready to sit back down. He looked a little shaken and that nervous energy was most likely going to, understandably, keep him on his feet for a while.

“Quite the opposite actually,” Host responded, his tone flat and lightly serious as he pushed the typewriter away once more in favor of leaving room for his hands. “He’s been looking for you for months.”

“Comforting,” Mark bit back sarcastically, running his fingers through his hair.

“Not to worry. It’s been a mutual effort of us all to be evasive around him. While a good few of us may not like you, we do understand how important your existence is.”

“Actually comforting. Ish.”

“But, as much as I am actually enjoying this chat, I wouldn’t recommend you tarry much longer, lest you prefer a visit from someone else.” Host was certain he wouldn’t have to say who. He knew every ego there would all like a piece of the man at some point, but having them swarm all at once would certainly have nothing but negative consequences. And he very much liked the state his library was currently in, thank you.

Mark sighed deeply, and Host could hear every bit of worry and future weariness in it. “How on earth am I going to do this…?”

“Perhaps an arrangement can be made,” Host offered, and couldn’t help the playful smile that spread across his lips when Mark gave him an alarmed look. “I don’t require much anything in return, except for a promise of peace of course.”

“What kind of peace?” Mark asked cautiously, and flinched a little when Host stood slowly, reaching out and offering him a hand across the table.

“The kind where we can clear up any and all hostilities, and work together on good terms,” Host remarked as if it were obvious, not at all put off by the human’s suspicion. “Assuming that your sudden resurgence means we aren’t going to be closeted anymore, I’ll set the grounds for your return in our next meeting. This should be enough that you don’t need to be smuggled into each floor, and keep the others from… well, being themselves. More than fair, I think.”

“Especially since you don’t require my soul,” Mark joked, reaching out and taking Host’s hand firmly. “Thank you, that’s very generous.”

They shook once and Host smiled lightly at him before, without warning, he yanked Mark forward, forcing the man to find balance on the table between them with his free hand, while Host leaned into his shoulder so close that their cheeks almost touched.

“Be warned though,” Host growled in his ear. “If any of this falls through, and all your presence does is disrupt what we worked so hard to achieve here… let’s just say I don’t need permission to ruin someone the same way Dark does.”

Host felt the quiver that shot through the man’s spine in his shaky grip. He probably hadn’t needed to threaten Mark - he’d really been more than accommodating thus far - but Host had finally found found a place for himself amongst equals and he’d be damned before he let it all be stripped from him once more by some careless mistake. Never again. 

As they parted, Mark cleared his throat, pushing away his obvious discomfort in the action. “I promise that my being here isn’t only to test the waters.”

“I should hope not,” Host remarked, all traces of threat gone from his tone as if they had never been there at all. He could tell by Mark’s words that he meant what he said, and his intent was enough to give the writer cautious hope that their future might be a bright one, if the groundwork was laid carefully of course. How everything was set would determine whether this endeavor would succeed brilliantly, or fail with dire results. At this point, only time, and Mark’s future actions, would tell.

“I appreciate your help in this. Really. Thank you for not smiting me as soon as I walked in the door,” Mark smiled, and Host couldn’t help finding himself returning the gesture.

“Of course. It wouldn’t be pertinent to reject potential amends. Now, go on,” Host said with a light bow and a palm up gesture towards the door. “I believe there is a female eagerly, and rather anxiously might I add, awaiting your return home. Oh, and Miss Amy too.”

Mark actually chuckled at that and didn’t bother asking how Host knew about Chica. It all finally seemed to be sinking in, and Host was glad to know that already not everything between them would be met with suspicion. 

“Thanks again,” Mark bid cheerily, Host simply nodding in return as the man moved past him and disappeared behind the bookshelves towards the door, pausing only to put away the fallen books from earlier. Incorrectly, but the gesture was still nice.

As Host returned to his seat, he reached over to the keys of his antique typewriter and smiled widely as the final words to his most recent story found their way out not only on paper, but through his lips as well.    

“And Mark,” The narrator called over the clicking keys, making the man pause with his hand just on the doorknob; Mark looking back even though he couldn’t see the writer behind the bookshelves. Host chuckled a little, feeling a sense of unease brewing in the human as Host’s amusement was broadcast through both sets of words. He only waited a moment longer before uttering, with a touch of playful wickedness: 

“Welcome back.”