#the kitchen is from the seveties

[kentucky-daisey]

The undeniable urge to do renovations.

I am a queer woman and I want to fix something with my hands!!! Take me to Home Depot and set me free!

[the-letter-horror-lover]

night."

Chapter 11

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter, a dark night of the soul, transformation, shenanigans, a loss, and a strange way to wake up.

Notes:

With thanks to my betas, commentators, readers, and everyone who lets me know what they think of the story. You are all utterly awesome.

Chapter Text

Ron came back to an epic cooking jam. There was music blasting, all six burners on the stove going, four ovens with timers counting, bread just out of the stone-lined oven, assorted slow-cookers and roasters lined up like soldiers on the long steel prep table, and the fading scents of charcoal and applewood smoke. Eric needed to get laid a lot more often if this was the result.

Sneaking upstairs with Eric in Full Metal Chef mode was easy, and Ron wanted to show some of the new swag and style. Grungy - gone. Sharp - arriving. And sharp enough to cut, baby.

The black-under-blond undercut mirrored the dark/light of Eric's fauxhawk, and his new black wayfarer glasses replaced the seveties aviators. All his skinnies, his belts, jackets, his Uggs, his shirt collection, and every pair of his vintage Frye boots were gone - dispersed judiciously among the coterie of used clothing boutiques that paid sweet cash.

And with that cash, Ron made a run on a specialized tier of used clothing stores.

Mad Men was mainstream. The fifties and sixties were over, and the seventies were fading into the eighties, making the nineties resurgence inevitable. He had a better idea, and had put it into play. He'd bought abandoned garments from dry-cleaners, old samples from multiple sources, returned clothing from discounters, and costumes from costumiers, stuff from thrift stores off the hipster maps. Hock-shops turned up accoutrements like cuff links, collar stays, and a vintage repousse gilt-over-silver pocket watch. There was a while-you-wait tailor in Chinatown, and some sharp trades there brought the price of altering his new wardrobe down considerably.

Running his knuckles over his smooth jawline, Ron smiled. Eric was going to keel over.

Everything was smooth and sharp from trousers and layered waistcoats to the tailored frock coat. The blacks and greys set off the white of the hidden-placket shirts, as well as the patterns and deep gem-colors in the under-waistcoats and on the reverse of French cuffs. It was twenty-first century Victorian down to the buttoning boots, and sharp as hell.

Oh, he looked good. Ron turned and took a look at the rear view. Nice ass. "Yeah. I'd fuck me."

Wait. Was he gay for his own ass? Or if he was a girl, would he fuck him? Or a guy?

Wait, if I were a guy... no, I am a guy… but hypothetically… if I were another guy checking me out...

Confused. So confused.

Still, he had to show off to Eric.

Making a last check in the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door, he adjusted the fall of the watch chain against the jaquard of his waistcoat and the set of the scarlet square in the pocket of his frock coat. The short-crowned tophat gave him a rather raffish look, Ron thought. He could hear the music being dialed down in the kitchen, and the sound of Eric's voice, probably talking to someone on his headset. Perfect timing, he'd just go down the stairs and wait for Eric to notice.

"Yeah, I put in the red pepper and eggplant soup, too," Eric said as Ron came down and posed on the landing, turning to acknowledge his presence and then stopping cold.

"Well, big bro? What do you think of this sharp shit right here?" Sweeping the frock coat open, Ron strutted into the kitchen as Eric stared with jaw hanging. "Smooth as silk, I tell you. Come on, butthead, say something."

Eric smiled then turned his head and gleefully shouted, "Rox! Lunch!"

No. Noooo. FUCK.

"Honestly, Eric. I'm right up front - there's no need to shout." High heels tap-tapped on the linoleum behind the shop counter. "Do you need an extra hand?"

An utterly inhuman noise worked its way up from Ron's chest, followed by a strangled falsetto, "-going to kill you."

The fucker blew him a kiss. "Come and check out this fine stuff, Rox."

And ze came into the kitchen, wearing something that looked as if it had walked out of a Bergdorf's window, swiveling on a stiletto-heel to follow Eric's gaze. Then ze looked over the rims of zir tortoise-shell sunglasses and made a thorough job of it.

"My, my. A young gentleman with a new spin on the classics. How avant-garde."

Eric leaned back against the counter, folded his arms and looked content. Ron gave him a smile that he hoped screamed, 'YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE.' Then he smiled at Rox - was that a corset under the jacket? - and said, "Good afternoon."

And stopped cold, literally too tongue tied to continue. Rox blew his line of patter to bits.

Eric took pity - sometimes a good thing. "Ronnie, you've got to show Rox that artwork for your brew."

"Wh- Oh. Um. Wait a minute - I left it in my room."

Now that the cat was out of the bag, there was no getting it back in. He just hoped that Rox wouldn't take offense.

Ronald pelted back up the stairs, though the living room, down the hall to his bedroom and grabbed the print copy off his desk.

What if she… ze didn't like it? The finals were tomorrow!

Funny how the thing you were the most certain was awesome suddenly seemed full of flaws when it got down to the wire.

"Quit dithering!" came the bellow up the stairs. "It's great!"

Fuuuuuck.

Okay. Since he was already in the water, he might as well swim.

Ron came downstairs and handed the poster tube to Rox, then was snagged by the boutonniere and held still as ze opened and unrolled it. He broke a sweat as Rox pursed zir lips and examined the work - zir smirk breaking into a smile at the sight of the flattened fire hose at Fire Engine Red's feet.

"You sweet, naughty dear." Truthfully, Ronald had never experienced having one cheek pinched while the other one was kissed. Man. If he thought he was confused before... "It's very flattering, Ronald. And ze is an excellent likeness."

"You… you could come with me and Eric to the Beer Bash. If you wanted. It would be fun."

Smooth. Real smooth, you dork.

With a slightly dimmed smile, Rox fixed his hair and his tie. "Ronald, it's a lovely thought, but I am what I am - and people don't like their comfort zones pushed."

"You are who you are, or I wouldn't have asked," Ron said bluntly. You didn't have the kind of family and upbringing that he and Eric had, then step back and give bigots a pass. "You're Fire Engine Red."

"Rox? You'd blow their doors off." Eric nodded, "And fuck comfort zones. I'll even wear a Sharps shirt."

His brother was awesome - still an asshole, but awesome. Rox kissed them both, and then scolded them for making zir mascara run.

Rox, as crushy-hearts as Ron was for zir, did Good Things for Eric. And he'd wanted Eric to Find Someone who loved him, so even if it was an Arrangement instead of a Thing, Ron was just going to step back and let stuff happen.

They made plans. Saturday night at eight, they'd be with Ronnie at the South Street Brewery to support him at the finals. Rox was going to wear Valentino, and it cheered Ron immensely. It would be to be great to show up with the two people who were genuinely happy for him. It was too bad that Alan thought he couldn't come, but Ron would brace him again when he came to get his card in the morning.

Rox left with zir goodies to go back to the shop, Eric promising he'd be over not long after closing.

"Sorry, bro." Eric hung up his jacket and looked over the results of the cooking binge. "You were just so asking for it with that strut."

"I'm still planning revenge in some as yet unspecific way. I mean it's like you have a Ph.D. in Assholery sometimes." Ron punched Eric's arm. "But oh fuck did I ever give you the opening…"

"Yeah, it was just too good to resist with 'Look at this fine shit!' and all," Eric snickered. "Oh, your Wall Street Twink called. He figured out he'd left his card here and I told him it would be in the cash drawer tomorrow morning."

Ron widened his eyes. "You spoke with him? Like, real words?"

"I said he called, didn't I?" Eric's ears went a touch pink. "So that implies I spoke to him, Beer Brat."

"Were any of the words more than one syllable and did any of them involve fennel? Hey! Put that pie down! Not on the new clothes!"

~

Alan came home to a spotless apartment, packages from Amazon, and rapidly worsening nausea. While he'd been able to maintain in the car, by the time he reached his foyer he was pale, sweating, and shaking. His cleaning service had happily eaten the cookies Alan left out for them, brought in his clean laundry, and taken out the stuff to be washed.

It was worse than last week, but not the unmitigated hell of the first week.

Alan took another dose of his anti-nausea medicines, changed into sweats, and curled up in a blanket on two couch cushions placed on the bathroom floor. Friday evening and Saturday were the worst of his week.

Tuesday was pretty bad, too. Wednesday was tolerable and-

Oh. Oh, no. Fuck. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

His guts tightened into a hard little ball, and Alan cried out in sheer misery - glad only that there was nobody here to see this. He could get through this on his own. It was going to be fine.

At around four on Saturday morning, Alan stripped off his soaked sweats, crawled into the shower and turned it on. The worst had passed, and he felt wrung out both physically and mentally. How could he do this for another twenty-one weeks? No. Not this. Worse than this? How could he keep his weight up? How could he function enough to remain on his own and retain some modest handful of dignity and privacy?

Alan leaned against the marble tiles and let the pulses of water hammer at his neck and shoulders. "I just want it to be over."

It startled him, because he couldn't specify what he actually wanted to be over - chemotherapy, the disease, or… him. He'd never felt so… useless, worthless. Never so alone… no, not alone. Isolated.

Temporarily warm, Alan turned off the water and wrapped himself in a terrycloth robe. It was six hours until he could go claim his debit card from Ronald. He'd have some of the clam chowder, then get some sleep. God, it was good. He thought Mr. Hot Butch Honey was using half-and-half to get that kind of creamy finish. It was nice of Eric to make things not on the regular menu for him.

Alan rinsed the dish and put it in the dishwasher. "I'm just tired. I'll feel better after I sleep."

He'd learned the hard way to spare the bed and pajamas until after the worst passed, so the bed was clean and soft for him, the flannel pyjamas fresh and dry. Once he got in, it was as if he was sinking into the softness and into sleep. He fumbled off his glasses and set them on the nightstand, and just before he fell asleep, Alan thought he saw a pigeon on the windowsill looking in at him.

~

Eric slept in the red satin of zir bed, well and truly tapped out at just a quarter after midnight. What a lovely display he made sprawled on his belly with that perfect rump just asking for a wake-up call. The dog collar around his neck was a plain black nylon - sweaty leather chafed - and Eric slept the sleep reserved for those who gave their all. Rox relished the top-high, indulging in a glass of vintage champagne as ze watched him sleep.

Eric was a service bottom - in the kitchen, serving dinner, scrubbing zir back in the tub, or on the bed. Sensation play was a big yes to bondage, cock and ball games, ass play, hot wax, suspension, and five licks with Rox's belt. Head games fed into sensation play; chastity play was lovely, and washing him down in the shower before putting collar and cage on him apparently scratched all the right kink spots. As a top Eric was powerful, tactile, would not come until you had your goodie, and he spanked hard enough to make zir lip wobble. Rox stretched, spine loose and arse warmed.

Granted, he was a mortal and ze a god, but he was still as randy and happy-cocked as Grell's Eric had been.

Now to undo as much of the mess Buckland had left as possible. Alan was out there somewhere, the red thread of She Who Spins still connecting them, and ze was not going to hand him a dog's dinner of trauma and neuroses. Especially with Eric so afraid of the disease he carried that he'd have an panic attack when he was about to come - even when there was no chance of fluid exchange.

It was tempting to… keep him. Ze could. Ze had his trust, and a hard-won thing it was with being three years in the forging. How simple it would be to evoke that devotion and love that could take root so easily. And how hard to watch this mortal Eric age or sicken and die; his life ending, all their lives ending, leaving Rox with three souls to hold next to zir heart.

Ah, melancholia. What was ze thinking, getting involved with mortals - much less trying to fix one so broken? Who, exactly, was ze trying to fix, trying to save and redeem? Tipping the glass back, Rox drank the rest of the champagne and considered opening another bottle. Mortal intoxicants lacked the punch of Reaper-brewed, but tasted nice nonetheless. Now, Rox mused, if ze really wanted an adventure, entering the Reaper realm to steal a bottle of Skulle & Bownes Centennial whiskey would be a bloody scene-

Flapflapflapflap.

Speaking of bloody scenes.

"I'm thinking of taking up falconry, William. Some archery, perhaps." Rox shut the bedroom door and turned to face him with zir teeth going to points. "Possibly skeet shooting, too. And if you crap on my carpet, I'll feed you to a cat."

Will shifted form and looked at the closed door, making no comment.

"If I'd only known you were a voyeur, sweet old soul, I'd have been happy to play along." Oh, yes, zir edge was still sharp. "Me fucking Eric, or Eric fucking me - tell me, William, which do you like better?"

"I must ask what it is you intend, Grell. You're meddling with mortals." Will lifted an eyebrow. "That never turns out well."

"You should talk, using Mnemosyne and Lethe on a mortal. Forbidden by the Code, and punishable by exile." As Will knew well. "They're mortal now, but they should never have been. One of us should have found their souls and returned them to be reborn as Reapers - that didn't happen and so here they are."

"There was no way to foresee-"

"They died. All three of them. On your watch, though it seems to have troubled you little." When it cost her everything - including William, when ze counted that as a loss. "Now, after better than a third of my life lived without you, what the hell do you want?"

Will was silent, then swallowed. "To fix it. If I can."

So. That's what 'gobsmacked' felt like. Hm.

"You. You have the nerve. You absolute fucking brass-bound bastard." No yelling. Don't wake Eric. Don't summon your weapons. "Who do you think you are? After a century? Out. Get out. Or find out just how much Reapers' steel there is on the black market. OUT."

The last word came on an exhalation of pure rage.

William, showing that he still had an instinct for self-preservation somewhere under that immaculate suit, went into the ether so fast that there was a popping sound as from a large balloon.

Rox crossed zir arms. Clenched zir jaw. Sniffed deep and hard. Blinked until zir eyes stopped watering. Ze would sunder William's heart for the pain he'd given zirs. Checking on Eric ze found that the darling was undisturbed and still deeply asleep. Ze crawled in with him, bare skin sliding on the satin until ze was next to him. Eric, just like former Eric, immediately curled his warm mortal body around zir.

"Mf Rox? Y'r freezing." Eric woke up enough to wrap them both in the quilts.

Bloody hell, ze'd forgotten to breathe again. "I'm fine, pretty man. Just had a bit of a distraction pop up that needed binning." He felt lovely against her and smelled delicious with a whiff of rutty musk under the scent of zir rose-and-ginger soap. "All taken care of."

Sleep or play? The way Eric nuzzled the back of zir neck, it could go either way. Rox wriggled back against him, rousing as his hand caressed zir thigh. Even with his prick in a silicone cage, Eric was game and eager.

"I have a lovely way to warm up, Eric." Play it was, then. "It's called 'fuck Eric silly.'"

Eric nibbled zir earlobe and tugged on one of the gauges with his teeth. "I like that one."

Rox turned in his arms and rolled Eric onto his back. "Do you now?" Ze reached down and gave a wicked caress. Ze hoped Will got a burning eyeful.

~

Saturday mornings were slow, and traffic light. Ron kept an eye out for Alan while handling the shop, worried when noon came and went with no sign of him. He went so far as to look at the caller ID on the phone and write down A. Humphries' number just in case. They closed at four and were to leave at seven-thirty for the Beer Bust finals.

"Has he come in yet?" Eric called from Rox's. "And how are we getting there - going in the Snot Rocket?"

"It's a pearled mint-green, butthead. God, sometimes you're just... nine, or something." Ron picked a Cubano sandwich for himself. "I'm thinking of getting it another paint job, though. You know, something less mainstream."

"Oh, man. Not again. That poor car's been through more colors than Sherwin Williams has paint chips." Ron could hear the eyeroll. "How's business so far?"

"Super light. I think I might shut it down after Alan picks up his card." A drink - one with no caffeine. He was jittery enough. "I want to be there at eight on the dot."

"Nervous?"

"Yeah. Scared. I mean, what if I did all this and I don't win anything? Not the distribution deal, or the equipment, or even a free dinner?" Ron's guts actually quaked at the thought. "So many people I thought were my friends have just been such shits about this-"

"Ronnie? If they were shits about it, then they were never your friends," Eric said flatly. "Your friends would be straight out happy for you, they'd have your back. That's what friends do."

"But what if everything I've learned is for nothing? If I don't win-"

"If you don't win, you're still a brewer. If you don't win… fuck. Okay, I applied for the grocery-beer off-license to go with the microbrewery permit." Eric sighed. "So Knoxhouse Brews LLC can sell beer to The Pearl Street Kitchen and Grocery LLC for sale to the general public."

Ron's jaw unhinged. "You're still a butthead, but I love you." Even if he didn't win, Eric had his back. "And you're one hell of a friend, too."

"Yeah, yeah. See you in a while. Rox is throwing me out while ze gets ready for the big night. Call that number if Humphries doesn't show up in the next thirty minutes. Maybe we can drop it off or something."

"Yeah, I'll do that. Hey, where did you put the extra Bubblehead sodas?" Ron looked for the cherry-vanilla cream - not there.

"There should be some in the reach-in."

"No, just a dozen of that blue shit that tastes like floor cleaner. They're taking it back, right?"

"Yeah, do me a favor and put that in a milk crate at the back door, they're supposed to pick it up on Monday." Eric hummed for a moment. "There's a mixed case in the small walk-in in the kitchen. Don't know if your favorite's there."

"Thanks, man."

"Welcome. Rox calls, gotta go."

"Have fun."

"Oh, yeah. Not even a question. See ya."

Ron smiled as he hung up. He might have a crush on Rox, but Eric… it was like watching a bare-bones sketch become fleshed out and colored in. Ron looked around the store, then went down the hall and into the walk-in. There was no cherry-vanilla cream soda, but there was a chocolate-cherry. Good enough.

The shop door opened and closed with a jingle of bells. "Be there in a second!"

"It's all right, Ronald. It's just me."

Alan's voice, but Alan did not sound… right. Ronald came out of the back and stopped in his tracks, staring. Alan. clad in a hoodie and knit cap, held himself up with his bicycle smiled wanly. "That bad?"

"Yeah. Sorry, but Alan-" You look like death. How did you even say that to someone?

"I'm okay. It looks worse than it is right now." He leaned the bike against the wainscotting and came to the counter. "I'm just a little rocky after my treatment."

"Look, I'm going to close early. Let me give you a ride back home." Ringing up a no-sale on the register, Ron fished out the card and handed it over. "I've got a station wagon and can fit your bike in the back."

"I'm fine," Alan insisted, pulling his wallet out and slipping the card inside. "It's just that after my treatment-"

A hank of brown hair came loose from under the knit cap and floated down to land on the counter. He and Alan both watched it fall. Alan did not look up, standing there as if frozen with his wallet in his hand. A drop of water splashed next to the hair, and then another drop fell next to it and Alan's shoulders shook.

"Alan." Ron reached out and took hold of Alan's shoulder as more drops spattered silently on the counter. Nobody should cry like that. "Alan."

Nothing. Ron went around the counter and to the front of the store, flipped the sign to 'Closed,' turned off the neon, then pulled the shades. He locked up, and when he turned back, Alan had not moved. Poor bastard. Oh, the poor guy. Cancer. Not an ulcer, not a stomach bug, not 'gastro-intestinal' anything. Cancer.

Ron put an arm around Alan's shoulder. "Come on. Come in the back." And without really waiting for an answer, he herded Alan behind the counter and down the hallway.

"Sorry. Sorry. Oh, fuck. Ronald-"

"It's all right. It's okay." This was going to be a category five bad-brain-day event. "Come on."

"I just- my hair- fucking stupid-" And the sob that followed was somehow even worse than the silent tears had been.

Recliner. Brownie. Eric had made a fresh batch that was in their fridge, waiting to be cut and wrapped. It was easier to ask forgiveness than to obtain permission and even easier to pretend that Eric didn't grow marijuana in his bedroom closet, but this was a… a… humanitarian emergency! That. Exactly. Ron fairly herded Alan into one of the big brown recliners.

"Wait here. Okay. Give me a second."

Alan just buried his face in his hands and nodded through wracking sobs.

Fuck.

Ron shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then ran down the hall to their kitchen. Fridge. Brownies. Cut a palm-sized slab of inch-thick brownie with two edges. Plate. Milk. Wait. Kleenex. Downstairs to where Alan was visibly trying to pull himself together.

"Man. I'm sorry, Alan. But it's cool - okay? Here." Alan took the Kleenex first. "I know, you're a private kind of guy and oh my god I am such an asshole for trying to set you up with my brother-"

Alan blew his nose. "Leukemia. I started chemotherapy at Sloan-Kettering three weeks ago. Ronald. I'm so sorry. but oh my god i'm losing my mind-"

Fresh tears welled and spilled, and this time Alan just… crumpled. There was no other way to describe it.

"It's okay. Eat the brownie. You'll feel better - I promise." He'd seen it work on Eric's worst bad-brain days. "Eric makes them special."

The somewhat incoherent reply was that brownies couldn't fix this. He couldn't do this. It wasn't working. He was losing… something.

"No. Shh. No. Come on, just a bite and a little milk and it'll feel better." And this time it was hysterics - wordless weeping that was terrifying to watch because you knew you were seeing a soul in agony. "Trust me - okay? It will help. That's right, come on wash it back with this. Yeah, it's good. Come on, a little more."

It took some coaxing, but half of the brownie went down and a second milk was needed. Alan calmed slowly, cradling the box of Kleenex. "I'm-"

"Look, don't be sorry. Man, that's as serious as it gets."

"It was just… that was just the last thing, you know?" Alan took another bite of brownie. "I'm not at my best on Saturdays."

"It's okay. It's cool. Don't worry about it."

"This brownie's very good." Alan took another bite. "It's your brother's special recipe?"

"Yeah, a personal reserve."

"Chocolate is a kind of antidepressant, I'm told." Alan blinked slowly and took another bite. "It's very tasty, but I can't place the difference. Nice and chocolatey, but not gooey."

"Yeah." Ron was suddenly very conscious of having given Alan a rather hefty dose. "It's okay. Relax. Take a deep breath."

Another bite, and Alan blinked when Ron reclined his chair. "Why do you have recliners in a kitchen?"

"Eric spends hours cooking, and when he's tired he just kicks back. Sometimes he even naps down here, listening for timers to go off."

Alan reclined. "It's nice."

"Look, just stay here and have the rest of that brownie. I have to close up… no, just rest, okay?" Alan showed signs of getting up, apologizing for his meltdown. "Just hang out. I'll come back and we'll talk about getting you home."

"Tonight's your big night, you should-"

"It's not a problem." Be firm. Be confident. "You relax and I'll be right back."

Alan reluctantly sat back, nodding.

Holy shit. It worked.

He did have to close up - cash out the register, get a deposit bag ready, roll down the gate and make sure the Bilco was firmly locked. The unsold items that were about to expire went upstairs to their personal fridge, and Ron marked them down as a discounted sale, moving funds from the cookie jar into the day's cash receipts. As he went upstairs with a dozen sandwiches, a few cups of soup, and a mushroom-barley turkey-thigh dinner that someone hadn't picked up, Ron saw that Alan lay in the recliner, curled on his left side and fast asleep.

Ron stopped, carefully removed Alan's glasses, and set them on the table next to the empty brownie plate.

~

Eric did bath-boy duty before being shooed off around three.

"But I want to see you put your bike gear on," Rox insisted, pushing his armored jacket and chaps at him. "It's such a post-apocalyptic techno-dystopian look."

So he did, then the bike gear came mostly off again. Shenanigans ensued with Rox as a Bad Cop, followed by assorted naughtiness with handcuffs and nightstick in the stairwell. By the time Eric finally got on his Ducati, just starting up the engine gave him a goofy smile in his helmet. Yeah. Rox was fucking merciless and Eric was fucking grateful.

He'd go home and get ready for the big night. Rox banned him from wearing a Sharps shirt or anything red, so maybe he ought to get out his black suit. It make him look - in Ronnie's words - like a better class of hitman. The traffic in Lower Manhattan was Saturday light, and in a very short time he was easing the black-and-blue bike into the parking spot next to the Snot Rocket.

And walked in to find Ron sitting on his prep table, brow furrowed. "Hey, bro. 'Sup?"

Ronnie pointed into the alcove, so Eric turned to look - and stopped in his tracks.

What?

Mr. Snippy Undersalt VanTwinkbait III was out like a light in one of his recliners.

There was also a plate with some very telltale crumbs.

Eric frowned and gestured at the alcove. Just what the fuck is this? Then pointed at the plate with the brownie crumbs. And that better not be what I think it is. Then he slapped his forehead. What were you thinking?

Ronnie grabbed the front of his jacket and towed him to the front, shutting the door between kitchen and shop. He cued the security camera footage and hit play.

"Say nothing. Just watch."

He opened his mouth to give Ronnie a piece of his mind, and then the security camera footage made Eric snap his jaw shut. Nobody in good shape had to hold himself up on a bicycle in the first place. It hardly looked like the same guy, really.

The hair. And Eric really didn't want to watch. It was an offense to the guy's dignity to see him break down like that, though Eric knew from his own experience that it felt more like a meltdown.

The news just kept getting worse and worse, hitting you until the person you thought you were was chipped away. "It's cancer, Ronnie?"

"Leukemia. He's been in treatment for three weeks."

Eric knew what those drugs did. Bradley Duncan had used small doses of cytotoxins to simulate some of the symptoms of AIDS. He rubbed his forehead. "Ronnie, go get cleaned up and dressed. Rox is going to be here soon and you don't want to be late."

"Wh-"

"It's your big night, you're going to beat those other guys like their mamas don't know them, and you're going to go with someone who's happy for you." Eric got him by the shoulders and turned him around. "I'll stay with this guy until he wakes up."

Ronnie stuck his hands in his pockets and looked woeful. "How long will he sleep?"

"Depends. How big was the brownie?" Though Eric knew from experience that sometimes it didn't take much. It depended how tired and wired you were in the first place.

"About the size of my palm." Holding up his hand Ronnie marked it out. "And milk."

"Wow. He's out for a while. Those were made with Purple Afghani Kush butter. It's a serious indica strain - the nighty-night stuff." Whooboy. This was going to take some explaining. "It couchlocks me for a full eight. I can only imagine how it hit him - he's a little guy. Good thing you didn't give him anything with a sativa strain or he'd be flying around the room like a toy airplane."

"Fuck. I am so sorry-"

"No, Ronnie. You likely did him a favor - I can say that from having been in a similar place." Eric smiled tightly, opening the door to the kitchen. "Go on. Get your shit together. I'll explain things."

"You're sure?"

"Go upstairs, eat something - not a brownie - then clean up, shave, and dress. I'll talk to Rox."

Ronnie went upstairs and Eric took out his phone, shutting the door again as he called Rox.

"I'm leaving in a few minutes-" ze answered. "Wait, what's wrong?"

"I didn't even say anything."

"Sometimes not saying anything says more than saying anything."

"Wh-? Okay. News first - and this is going to sound bizarre, but one of Ronnie's friends-" Eric explained the whole thing. "So this guy Alan is passed out in one of my recliners and considering he's a little twerp, he's not waking up before the wee small hours."

"Well. Gobsmacked twice in twenty-four hours. Goodness me." Rox sounded utterly flat-footed. "Alan, you say?"

"Yeah. And Rox, it's so fucking important for Ronnie to have someone there with him who really gives a- I mean who's happy for him." Eric rested his forehead on the plate glass window, looking out at the street. "His so-called friends have just been jerks about it."

"Of course, I'll go with him if he wants me to."

"Rox, he has the biggest crush on you."

"He's a puppy, Eric, and I'll be delighted to escort him."

"Wearing red?"

"Valentino from head to toe."

"Rox. It's a brewery," Eric groaned. "You're going Michelin five-star when this hipster pose-off would have to class up to be allowed into Hooters."

"MEOW," Rox laughed. "Who says that butch boys can't be catty?"

"I am not catty."

"A tomcat, and I do like to make you purr and claw-"

Eric could hear zir putting on zir coat, and imagined her getting dressed. "No fair giving me another boner. I couldn't come one more time."

"Behave. Now, what's Ronnie wearing? And which perfume for me?"

"The sandalwoody one with the spice notes. Ronnie's going with this whole neo-Victorian look - why? Do you want me to police the wardrobe?"

"No, I can do that when I get there." The sound of car keys and the freight elevator. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

Eric checked the roll-down gate, locked up the rest of the way, and hesitated for a second before firmly turning off the store lights. "Yeah. I'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on him and cook something that takes a lot of prep work."

Mr. VanTwinkbait was still out like a light, curled up in the recliner. Eric pulled one of the thick throws from the arm and covered him up. "See you when you get here, I'm going to go change."

An engine started. "Where's Ronnie?"

"He's in the shower, and I'm not letting him out of the bathroom until he shaves." Eric went up the stairs. "He's new to it, and needs supervision. Just park in the back and come on up."

"I'm on the way."

Eric hung up, and rummaged the fridge - picking a gazpacho and a linguica roll for his own dinner, then bolting both. In his room, he checked on his plants, stripped, and took out fresh chef's whites, a tank top, and his Dansko clogs. Then he took a very hedonistic stretch. Goddamn, Rox rode it like she stole it and it felt better than Eric had remembered.

Dressed, he tied on a bandana, then sneaked into Ronnie's room to slip a c-note into his wallet. The kid ought to have some cash for dinner and drinks.

In their kitchen, he cut up and labeled the two different brownies so Ronnie wouldn't get them mixed up, then looked over his wall of cookbooks. What to make…

He had a First Edition Mastering the Art of French Cooking. There were the Robert Carrier Cookery Cards - vintage 1966, and his first 'real' recipes. The Marcella Hazan classic Italian cookbooks were great any time, but not what he was in the mood for either making or eating. When you absolutely needed a recipe that worked, you couldn't do better than the Cooks' Illustrated collection. The Smithsonian Folklife book was good, but still not… hm.

The red potato and kale colcannon with garlic. A very simple roasted chicken with classic pan gravy. A soothing tomato and basil soup with a grating of asiago. Then ricotta-honey cakes in a not-too-sweet red berry sauce. While he was at it, he'd get some stocks done and start some new breads. There was a bunch of stuff he wanted to use up before he did the ordering and marketing Sunday and Monday, too.

A buzzing from the bathroom made Eric smile. No more face-weeds! He was a little quieter than usual going down the stairs, though he would bet that Sleeping Twinkie wouldn't stir if the A train went clattering through. In the basement walk-ins, he loaded up the prep cart with fodder. There was nothing he loved more than to get in the kitchen and just jam.

Well. Sex. But it was a neck-and-neck tie.

He sent a stuffed prep cart up in the dumbwaiter, and then went up to the kitchen. Rox was standing next to the prep table, resplendent in red-and-black, zir hair in a cascade of curls, and zir expression solemn as ze looked at Humphries.

"Hey," Eric greeted zir and Rox glanced at him.

"It hardly seems fair, Eric. He's so young." Rox slid an arm around his waist. "It just isn't right, and though I see it all the time-"

"It isn't fair, and it isn't right," Eric slid an arm around zir in return. "It's a horrible thing to say, but shit happens and keeps on happening."

"I just wish I could make it happen to those who've done something to merit shit happening."

"Yeah, but that would make you God, and who would want the job?" Eric tugged a curl. "Come on, before Ronnie tries to get dressed by himself."

They went upstairs and found themselves too late, but Rox walked right into Ronnie's room and picked his outfit. "Too much damask, Pup. Plain cuffs. Where are your cufflinks? No red ties. No blue ones, either. This one. Have you ever heard of Trinity knot? You have now. Come here. Hold still."

Rox was not only a force of nature, but apparently of menswear. Ronnie came out of his bedroom looking his age for the first time since he was in high school. Rox had put him in a dark charcoal grey wool three-piece accented with touches of light purple in tie and pocket square, with bloodstone cufflinks and tie.

"Hot damn, little bro." Eric slow-clapped. "You're going to be peeling them off you."

Ronnie straightened up, put on his hat and offered his arm to Rox. The Beer Brat could charm when he tried.

"Text me when you win. I'm going to cook and wait for Sleeping Twinkie to wake up. Wait." Eric took out his phone and activated the camera. "Right. Defeat your enemies!"

And he had to admit that Rox handled the sight of the 1974 Snot Rocket-green landwhale with grace, however Ronnie cast a covetous eye at the 1928 Packard Roadster.

"You guys are already making an entrance-"

And off they went into the night.

They were going to have a blast together. Eric turned and went back into the kitchen where Humphries was still out cold. He'd really wanted to go and cheer Ronnie on, but you couldn't begrudge someone a trainwreck. Not once you'd been there yourself.

He pulled the cart out of the dumbwaiter and started his prepwork for dinner.

~

Alan became slowly aware of waking, and the first thought was that he was warm. There was softness under him, softness on top of him, and it was wonderfully warm. Cradled in softness and warm to the bones in a way that made his toes and fingers knead at the thick duvet in primitive delight. It was blissfully good to be warm.

Other things gradually seeped in, such as the lack of pain. Alan marvelled at the absence, that he could have become so inured to hurt that the lack of it was remarkable. The nausea, too, was gone. There was no tightness in the guts, the feeling of being slightly seasick and off-balance. In short, he felt good and even at at peace.

And then he remembered what happened and where he was and what...?

What was in that brownie in the first place? It bore the same resemblance to the 'magic brownies' he'd eaten in college that tap water had to Ketel One. He must have frightened the hell out of poor Ronald. But they were 'Eric's special brownies' - and what did Mr. Hot Butch Honey need with serious cannabis?

And then Alan dozed off again.

It was nice to feel good when you woke up. Despite the humiliation he knew he ought to feel, that he had felt, at the moment all he could feel was warm and safe and good. Slowly Alan opened his eyes, finding himself still in the recliner and tucked into a warm duvet. It was dark in the alcove, and he had to feel for his glasses - then looked around in astonishment. How Alan had slept through all that was beyond him. Massive pots steamed on the stove, and all along the steel prep table doughs rose in stoneware bowls. Task after task on the whiteboard was marked with a big red DONE. And Alan's mouth began to water as his nose picked up the scent of roast chicken and something garlicky. Something berry-scented hovered to one side, and he was aware that someone else was here. A timer beeped and Eric strode across the kitchen to one of the ovens, crouching to remove a pan of something giving off the scent of honey.

"Mhm, that's the ticket…" He stood and froze - staring wide-eyed at Alan who was staring at him. "Hello."

"Hello." Alan reminded his lungs to work, please. Oh, he had it right when he speculated that neither of them were good at meeting new people. If Eric were a tomcat, his tail would be bushed out as wide as his head.

Eric set the pan - filled with little golden cakes - on the prep table, then seemed not to know what to do with his hands. "You've been asleep for a while."

Alan nodded. "I… it was… a bad day."

This was accepted with a nod. "So. Um. Can you eat?"

And that was the last thing Alan expected to hear. "Yes, I can eat… thanks."

Eric seemed to need breathing reminders as well. "Okay."

"Okay."

Chapter 12

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter - William does not operate in a vacuum, as much as he sometimes wishes that were the case. Someone has to keep him grounded. Eric and Alan have a lot to chew on.

Notes:

With adoration to everyone who tells me, in whatever way, what they think of the story.

Chapter Text

It had gone as well as one might expect, Will thought, and perhaps even slightly better. Grell had not tried to kill him, unless one counted the verbal barbs as the Death of One Thousand Cuts. In his office, with the door shut while the staff changed shifts, Will allowed himself to order and evaluate the facts on a purely emotional basis.

He had misread, and disastrously so, Grell's state of mind following the events of a century back. Possibly his own shock at the deaths of both Slingby and Humphries, and his own involvement in the debacle, had caused Grell to become utterly unhinged. Had it not been for the demon…

Well. No. Will could not entirely place the blame there.

The motivations of his younger self had been perhaps tainted by youthful passions, as well as a desire to rid himself of a highly problematic reaper. Grell's involvement in the Ripper murders was too fresh to have upper management tolerate another rogue field agent. Moreover Grell had never allied with an effete occultist to incept a wholesale massacre. Though in terms of body count, Slingby's toll was a paltry thing next to the works of the demon known as Sebastian Michaelis and the Ancient known as Pytheas. Sometimes done separately, at times in partnership, the pair left a bloodied trail through history on scales as grand as war and plague, or as petty as smothering infants in their swaddling.

It was the idea that Grell had loved Slingby that was what burned now. Not a fling, as Grell was prone to during their frequent partings, but a meeting of hearts. At the time he'd berated Grell that he gave him (her… whatever… just Grell) a trainee, not a plaything. Grell had responded saucily, and at the time Will simply dismissed it out of hand as more of Grell's theatrical personality.

Humphries dying of the Thorns… only he hadn't, had he? Slingby's scythe ended his life and freed his soul before the parasite could anesthetize and consume it. Slingby was killed by the demon - who had been ordered to kill and not to feed. Both souls, lacking a Reaper to collect and return them to the Origin, had simply… wandered off. Neither he, nor Grell, nor Ronald had arrived in time to gather them up.

And none of this was resolving the problem at hand, or all the other problems that problem spawned.

"Director Spears?" London Dispatch Manager Midford sounded tetchy as she knocked at his inner office door. "Director? If you've finished kicking yourself-"

William rubbed the permanently sore spot over his right eyebrow. "Come in, Cordelia."

When his second-in-command was tetchy, William's life became difficult. If being Supervisor, Manager, and now Director had been an expansion of rank, it came along with with the herding of ever more cats.

And Cordelia came in, giving him a look over the tops of her pink spectacles. "Done kicking yourself?"

"I am not kicking myself." William composed himself behind his desk.

"Well, you should be." His sweets dish was flagrantly burgled of the wrapped toffees. "You're the most organized, detail-oriented, intelligent, bone-headed, arsebackwards idiot I've never met."

"Insubordinate."

"But generally correct."

"On certain things." The problem was that Cordelia - as she prefered to be called - was rather insightful about matters of the heart as Reapers in general (and he in particular)were not. "I am a mortis, not a mortal."

"You went to New York, again. Visited Grell, again. Possibly contacted one or more of the reincarnates. Then had a big fluffy snit because Grell has a lover." As she said this, Cordelia helped herself to his whisky. "And this makes you a hypocrite."

"Trust you to get to the point - and give it." William huffed. "It is beside the point-"

"Isn't."

"-that a rogue and exile-"

"-coincidentally your former lover-

"-should conduct themselves with respect to mortals-"

"-and the emotionally constipated-

"-again beside the point-"

"-not to mention a green-eyed jealous little beastie-"

"-I am not, Cordelia, and as I was saying-"

"-and a stubborn one-"

"At some point this evening I should like to finish a sentence!" Will exploded, the flat of his hand connecting with the desk.

"You just did. Happy now?"

"No." Will crossed his arms on his chest.

"Grell has changed, William, and not only from the passage of time She was sentenced to exile, a life without any others of her kind - no companionship, no protection, no contact. Could anyone expect her to be grateful and forgiving?"

"I had no idea that Grell could become more disordered than previously." He had left it alone. Grell had touchy pride, and maybe - no, not maybe - he should have spoken more forcibly on Grell's behalf. "It would seem that I was in error when I thought it best to let it lie."

"Meaning you had no idea how to approach the situation and flailed."

What was it with him and the sharp-tongued? "I did not flail, Cordelia."

"Fled."

"And I am not 'emotionally constipated' - this coming from a being who persisted in speaking of 'limbs' and 'bosoms' well into her fourth decade despite marriage to Phantomhive, intercourse, conception, and parturition-"

"No changing the subject - which is not me, but you."

"And toffee and whisky is an execrable combination." It was. One or the other, but Threads bind him, not both!

"William, you read Rachel her bedtime stories from the Codex."

Oh, not this again. "Reading your daughter her bedtime stories from accurately recorded and sourced Akashic Records was intellectually sound since her mother became a Reaper-"

"Not hearing from you must have hurt Grell terribly, William."

Could she not go in a linear direction? Here to there and this to that. It was a brilliant strategy, but there were times that Will wanted to hammer his head on the desk.

"I thought Grell would come back. Grell always came back." Will rubbed at the sore spot, trying to urge the overstimulated muscle to unknot. "And when that didn't happen, I couldn't find him. Her. Whatever Grell is now."

"Wounds fester, left untreated." Cordelia nudged his untouched glass of whisky a little closer. "It's paining again, isn't it?"

This time Will simply rested his forehead in one hand and picked up the glass with the other, sipping at the Skulle & Bownes. "Cordelia-"

How did one ask a former junior, current executive officer, occasional inamorata, and steadfast friend to grant you the anodyne of her company and her bed?

Without sounding like an idiot.

Or, worse, a lech.

"Tch. Will." Setting her glass on the desk, she came around to his left side. "I've been saying for years that you need to let the medics look at it." Cordelia shooed his hand away and began to rub. "Hush."

It was annoying that when she rubbed, it stopped hurting. "I didn't say anything," he protested mildly.

"And I said hush."

William decided that he didn't understand any of it. "I told Grell that I wanted to fix it."

"You're very fortunate to have made it back alive," Cordelia scolded him, fingers combing through his hair. "There are times, my old fellow, when things cannot be fixed, but must be mended."

Will simply leaned his head on her belly. Cordelia was always warm, since her heart beat and lungs worked from the habits of her mortal life. For the life of him William could not remember if he took Cordelia to bed or she took him to bed, only that she was warm and sweet. Being freed from the mortal consequences of disease and pregnancy allowed her passion to bloom.

Other things he had left unattended brought themselves to his attention now. "I do not think I understand grief, as mortals feel it. I, too, deeply miss Rachel's presence. I have been remiss if I did not make that clear."

Reapers did not procreate, a mercy granted to those who must archive the Akashic Record and take each soul to the Origin to be spun out again. Reapers had no kin aside from each other - no parent, no child. Though Rachel had lived more than a century, mortal flesh gave way, and Cordelia had attended the Passage of her offspring herself.

"If you thought me to be… unaffected by her Passage or your grief-"

"William. Hush." Her fingers carded through his hair and he wrapped an arm around her hips, sitting in silence Cordelia rubbed the pain right out of his head.

When she stopped rubbing, Cordelia stayed in his arms and stroked his hair. While she bore him a tender affection and friendship along with her puzzling passion, William was unsure that he had earned such. As remiss as he might be in the appropriate placement of emotions and their application, perhaps Cordelia was a better friend to him than he to her.

"Come, dear fellow. Get your coat and we'll be off. Mustn't give the juniors ideas about overtime."

~

There was chicken and gravy on top of mashed potatoes and kale, and Sleeping Twinkie turned into Eating Twinkie - no doubt with an assist from the brownies. Eric was bemused, both with Humphries and with himself. Had he really become that much of a social hermit?

Apparently so, if his first question was, "Can you eat?"

This was only marginally mitigated by Humphries consuming a pile of chicken and gravy and so forth. Eric dug into his own portion with a solid appetite. Sometimes there was nothing more satisfying than the basics. He almost wanted to twit the guy about the salt, but after a meltdown like that Eric couldn't be much of an asshole.

"The gravy's really good." Humphries spoke softly, and Eric almost jumped out of his skin.

"Thanks. It's a reduction added to a brown roux."

He took another spoonful, tasting instead of just filling up. "Dripping? Not butter. It's richer than butter."

Eric eyed him. "Dripping. What are you, a food critic?"

"I'm a forensic accountant and risk consultant at a capital management firm." The spoon scraped the bowl. "I've been enjoying the food since I moved in down the block. I really thought that there were three or four chefs working out of one kitchen. You're really versatile."

"I like to cook. It's my version of music, or painting." And it was. Since he was a kid, Eric wanted to make good food. Mom had been a grilled-cheese and Campbell's soup kind of cook. Eight-year-old Eric got his hands on a cookbook for the kiddies and was out of the gate from then on. "I've been doing it since I was a kid."

"How did you get started?"

"Mom loved used bookstores." Some of his best memories came perfumed with the scents of old books. "Ronnie and I would each get ten bucks to spend on books of our own. One day I bought this book because it had brownies on the cover, and Mom sat down with me to pick out something to make."

"Ronald told me that she'd passed. My condolences." Then Humphries' eyes opened wide. "The Brew Bash! Oh, FUCK. You were supposed to go-"

Okay. This guy actually seemed nice and not like some Wall Street BSD.

"It's cool. A friend of ours went with him and-" Eric pulled out his phone and showed him the selfie of Ronnie and Rox. "He took second, but that's fifty grand in brewing equipment. With what he has going in the basement, that's about doubling his capacity to 500 barrels a year."

Eyebrows raised at the sight of Rox, but he only said, "But that's just brewing - what about bottling, storage, and distribution costs?"

"Wholesale bottles, used four-bottle filler, hand-crank labeling machine, and a printer. Huge basement. And he's going to be exclusive to Pearl Street for a while." Eric nodded at the empty bowl. "Want seconds on that?"

"Please." He looked embarrassed and a little self-conscious. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose it like that-"

"It's okay. I understand it."

Mortality punching you repeatedly in the face - yeah. Something to lose it over. Humphries gave him a somewhat skeptical look, but was smart enough not to pick a fight with a cook in his kitchen. Well, Eric was just in what Ronnie would call 'That Kind of Mood.'

Setting the bowls on the table, Eric shrugged down one shoulder of his jacket and pulled aside the strap of the tank top, showing the biohazard trefoil, then shrugged back into his jacket. "Believe me, I did."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I had no idea." Humphries stared and Eric waited for the questions, the revulsion, even a freak-out at eating food prepared by a person with HIV. "You're waiting for me to lose it, aren't you?"

"Yeah. A lot of people do, even other fags."

"Well, a lot of people are ignorant, bigoted assholes - including other fags." Pointedly looked at the empty bowl, he asked, "And what do you use to get the texture on the red potatoes when you mash them?"

Eric tamped down the smile that wanted to come. "Steam. You have to steam them until they fall apart on the fork, then mash with garlic and a little olive oil. The butter doesn't go in until the kale's drained and evenly beaten in."

He picked up both bowls and refilled them, adding a drench of gravy. Humphries reached eagerly for his bowl, and looked blissful when he put a spoonful into his mouth. "It's not just the after-effects of the brownie. About twenty-four hours after chemotherapy, all I can do is eat and sleep."

"How do you feel now? Ronnie gave you one hell of a dose." It was an opening, and the guy didn't seem to be upset. "That was also some pretty heavy stuff. I use it for my PTSD - I'm not symptomatic."

That made for some wide eyes. "Wow. Iran? Afghanistan?"

Eric laughed without humor. "No. My ex. I'm just a little bundle of fucking sunshine, huh?"

"I can see why it would be good for that. I'm very calm for someone who's just lost his mind. And his hair." He took another bite. "And there's no pain. I noticed that right away. No nausea at all. And I'm warm."

Goddamn, that was hard. The only way you knew you felt good was when you didn't feel like absolute shit? "They're not giving you anything for all that?"

"Well, vicodin and ativan. And it doesn't so much make the pain go away as it makes me not care that I'm miserable." He frowned. "How long was I asleep?"

"A little over eight hours."

And Twinkie burst out laughing. "That's great! That's amazing! I haven't done that in over a month."

As loath as Eric was to part with his medicinal brownies, he'd have to be a hard-hearted son of a bitch not to. "I can hook you up. Can't charge you for them, because that's a no-no, but I can make sure you're good."

"I can't ask you to do that. It's your medicine."

"I can always make more." Because he had a big closet, LED grow lights, and a commercial-grade vent with layers of charcoal filters. "It's cool."

"It's tempting. I haven't felt good, normal, in weeks. And I still have almost two years to go, if everything goes by the book."

"Okay, chemotherapy takes it right out of you. You've lost weight, you can't get good rest, you're anxious, you're nauseated and hurting. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"The stuff they're giving you doesn't make you feel good, it just knocks you out. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"So when you get something that not only lets you eat, knocks out the pain, and puts you in dreamland for a full eight, that's a good thing. Right?"

"Right, but-"

"But?" Eric prompted.

"I'm not sure, I was waiting for you to interrupt again."

"Okay! Happy to help. So, if you find something that works, you should go with it because you're not an abstract - you're sick, you need to eat and sleep. So be practical - what works? Cannabis. What doesn't work? Ativan and vicodin - both addictive. Ah-ah-ah - sit back and relax." He wagged his spoon at Huffy Humphries. "I'm interrupting, here. So, you need a pan of brownies and I do not under-salt though it is possible you're depleting a lot of minerals such as magnesium, calcium, potassium, and iodine provided by high quality unrefined salt and perceived as a salty taste-"

"You just had to go there, didn't you? And I do not eat crappy Chinese food-"

"- as proven by the fact that you've eaten two bowls of chicken and etceteras without commenting on the salt."

"It's the reduction."

"My ass, 'reduction.'"

"Mr. Slingby?" Humphries deadpanned, "Mental image not good. Please enunciate the comma."

Eric cracked up. "Oh, man!"

"I mean, I know that Ronald claimed you were a stickler about your seasoning." He was grinning and had a wild gleam in his eye. "But I had no idea about that particular personal touch."

It was weird and on some level Eric knew that it was Humphries being brownied to the the eyeballs and him being… himself, but it felt good. Like something missed for so long that you forgot how good it had been, and that you'd really missed it that much.

"Look, eat some dessert, have another brownie, and you can crash upstairs until Ronnie gets in. I'll run you and your bike home in Ronnie's car." Eric offered. "It's pouring rain again, and this time of night, on a weekend, in the Financial District you're going to wait forever for a cab."

He considered. "I'm not bumping anyone out of bed or getting in the way?"

"Nope. I'll fix you up a spot on the couch. It's warmer than it is down here after I put the kitchen to bed for the night."

Warm and comfortable were powerful persuaders, so after dishing out the ricotta cakes and berry coulis, that's just what Eric did. The Purple Passion Pit made a nice nest when it was miserable outside, so Eric just loaded it with extra bedding and an electric blanket. And this time, a smaller brownie would do.

It was nice, when Eric thought about it, to have an appreciative eater. Humphries might not be a chef, but knew his shit nonetheless.

Eric came back down to find empty bowls and a Sleeping Twinkie. It was hard work digesting all that food. Poor squirt must feel like a python with more ambition than room. "Wakey-wakes, sunshine. Let's get you upstairs."

They didn't even have to part Sleeping Twinkie from his comforter, and the second brownie was not needed. Humphries was asleep before his head met the pillow. Eric turned on the electric blanket, took off Humphries' glasses and put them out of harm's way, then spent a few minutes in the kitchen cutting and wrapping brownies. It was a little after three in the morning when he turned out the lights and pulled the covers up, thinking that he might not get to sleep.

He woke up, slightly confused, at around noon on Sunday. Ronnie was home, passed out in his room, and there was a note from Rox on the fridge that ze had a marvellous time and Eric's benjamin was back in his wallet.

I took Ronnie for a treat at Jack's Oyster Bar. We smoked pipes and drank port - both of which made him queasy - and then I brought him home. Alan was sleeping soundly. I helped myself to two roast beef sandwiches and apple mini pies. Call me when you're up and about.

XXX,

Rox

Chapter 13

Summary:

Alan Humphries is a man who has it all together - until a diagnosis of leukemia leaves him adrift, alone, and afraid.

In this chapter - new courses.

Notes:

I am very sorry to be so late with this chapter, but have tried to make it worth the wait. With thanks to Kitty and Poppy for their endless patience and to my readers for theirs. And especially than all of you who let me know in whatever way, what you think of the story.

Chapter Text

Alan woke to kitchen sounds. Eyes closed and warm in his guest-nest, he listened as someone rummaged the fridge and started coffee. Still no pain and no nausea, though the real test would be injecting the Filgrastim this evening. Part of his mind clung to the state of feeling good and wailed for those brownies. Though Alan did not want to deprive Eric of his medicine - that was some ex - he did not want to feel miserable long enough to become accustomed to it.

A peek out of the quilt-cocoon provided him with a view of his host in a pair of tartan-pattern flannel pyjama bottoms and a pair of… bear-paw slippers?

Nicely toned back, though. Complete with gravy train.

Hush, Alan.

His host stumbled down the hall and into the bath - which Alan had found well enough at some point when it was still dark - and turned on the shower. Ronald came down the hall a few minutes later and peered blearily at the coffee pot.

"Aw, fuck. Hurry uuuup."

Alan made 'waking up noises' to let Ronald know he was here, then lifted his head out of the blankets as he adjusted his glasses. He must have scared Ronald horribly, breaking down like that.

"Um. Good morning, and congratulations."

"Hey, Alan! How're you doing?" Ronald, hung-over and steampunky ensemble nowhere in sight, took three mugs down from the hooks under the cabinet. "About the brownie…"

"Ronald, your brother explained things. It's fine, and I am honestly grateful." He still felt pretty good, too. "I haven't slept so much or so well in a month."

A wave of coffee scent rolled from the kitchen and Alan breathed deep.

"Good. You look better, too. I mean, that's a lot of sleep."

"And food," Alan added.

Ronald grinned. "He stuffed you, didn't he? That's Eric - if it holds still, feed it."

"Wiped out again after two bowls of chicken and gravy, plus ricotta cakes and coulis."

"Yeah, I ended up not liking oysters and port so much."

"But you took one hell of a prize - one I think might be better than first place."

"I was bummed for about five minutes until I figured that out." Coffee was forthcoming, and Ronald brought Alan a cup with cream. "I mean, I'll be exclusive to Pearl Street for a while, but I have my brand to build." The shower shut off and Ronald held up a finger to Alan, signaling for silence, then shouted, "I'm making breakfast!"

"Touch that stove and I break your fingers, Beer Brat!" came the bellow. "And we've got a guest, so keep your fucking voice down!"

"That's a poor thing to do to someone before coffee," Alan reproached, trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, but it's fun." Ronald raised his voice again. "And lend Alan some sweats!"

"Be reasonable. Your brother's clothing would fit me like a lawn bag."

"Quit jerking my chain before I have my coffee, you ass," Eric growled. "I can do things to your food that would fuck you up for life."

"He's under the impression that I can't feed or dress myself," Ronald confided.

"You do look more mature without the face foliage and with the the new glasses," Alan ventured. "Very Millennial Alternative Entrepreneur."

Ronald absolutely preened. "You think? I thought my look was getting too mainstream."

"The Trinity knot is very distinctive." Good Lord. It wasn't just Eric who was the peacock. Ronald was fanning his tail and having a strut, too.

"He buys a shirt without someone else's name on it and all of a sudden he's Joe Fashion Forward." Eric came grumping down the hall in a bathrobe that looked to be a concession to Alan's presence and made straight for the coffee maker. "You probably blew the competition away last night, though."

"It was Rox that made the scene, man. When I grow up, I want to give that few fucks." He laughed. "The guy from the Village Voice interviewed her first, then the Hot Sheet, and the Daily Smoke blog."

"I told Rox ze'd class up the joint too much." Eric poured an extravagant amount of cream into his coffee and drank deeply. "Oh, coffee. How I love you. Hey, Humphries, how're you feeling?"

"Really… good. Rested. Hungry again. Good. After sixteen hours plus of sleep, it's like getting my body back." And it was. How could he be this relaxed? It was amazing.

"You want to grab a shower, go ahead. I'll make pancakes and then run you and your bike back home in the…"

Ronald growled with unexpected ferocity. "Don't you dare."

"Moby Melon," Eric finished with Ronald glaring at him.

Alan hid his smile in a long sip of coffee. Brothers.

"And then I'm drafting you to bring back the new equipment with me, Eric."

"What, second place doesn't include delivery? What a fucking rip. Do we need a U-Haul?"

"Yeah, and it's in Brooklyn."

"Of course it is." Eric sighed.

"Alan, Eric's a total Manhattanite." Ronald proclaimed, "He just won't budge out of the borough. He's like Dracula with sunlight."

"Nuh-uh. Not getting in that one." Alan made the time-out sign. "I'm in no condition to duck flying pies."

"Keep it up, Ronnie. Keep messing with me. I'm the one who makes the pancakes."

"Eric makes beer pancakes, Alan." Then he turned to his brother. "I want blueberries."

"It's good to want things, butthead." Eric grumped and hooked a thumb at his brother, bringing Alan back into play. "This guy, Humphries. Big brass balls."

"Beer pancakes?" Alan steered for the neutral course, trying to stave off laughter. "How does that work?"

The two of them launched into a whipsaw explanation of the art and science of brewing and the exacting nature of pancake making, and Alan went along for the ride. Yes, he and Eric might be awful at new people, but they had their enthusiasms. Nothing would do but to make a batch of pancakes with pumpkin, spice, and a rich brown porter ale. And Eric was right. Most pumpkin pancakes were soggy mess, but the addition of beer lightened the dough, and made for spongy, airy cakes that sopped up butter and blackstrap molasses.

Alan, as guest, was given dibs on the bath next. Ronald was detailed to the dishes and Eric went downstairs to sign for and put away a delivery of eggs and dairy. A pair of sweats from Ronald replaced his slept-in clothing, and Alan bundled them into his backpack. The moment of truth was looking in the mirror, then running his fingers through what hair had not washed down the drain. It felt like a punch in the chest.

That was him.

This was real.

He came out of the bath to find Ronald with a rather smaller brownie on a plate and a glass of milk.

"Eric says." Ronald held them out.

"It's a bit hard to deal with." Alan pointed at his head and the patchy brown hair remaining before taking the brownie. "I don't think I'm handling it too well."

"It's not like stubbing your toe on the sofa, man."

The brownie went down with a swallow of milk. Extra chocolatey. No 'herby' taste at all, just a rich and buttery undertone. "Eric offered me a share of his brownies, but I don't want to take his medicine from him."

"If they did you that much good, I'd take him up on it, Alan." Ronald leaned in and confided, "That, and he can be an enormous pain in the ass."

"You tease him, Ronald." This time Alan did laugh - the image of competing peacocks was just too strong.

"It's my job!" Ronald asserted. "It keeps him on his toes."

"Beer Brat. Pie. With your name on it." Ronald jumped a foot in the air and then turned, coming down facing his brother. "You have a delivery. Cayuga Farms bundled your oats and barley with mine. Go check yours in."

Ronald looked around for imminent flying pies, and seeing none but perhaps not wishing to push his luck, scooted down the hallway.

Awkward was really awful. Hands. What did you do with them? Alan stuffed his in the pocket of the sweatshirt as Eric tried not to look at his patchy head. "Um. Chemotherapy's catching up with me, I guess. It looks awful."

"I have clippers. Can lend them to you." Eric took a good look - his eyes were such a piercing blue-green that the effect was unsettling. "It's not even that bad. You could even get away with kind of a low fade."

"Probably, but for how long? At least it wouldn't be as bad when it fell out, though." Alan ran his fingers through and came away with more hair. "I'll make an appointment with my barber tomorrow."

The thought was dispiriting, but it probably would feel better to be sheared short. At least then it wouldn't fall off in hanks. Perhaps not especially in front of Mr. Hot Butch Honey, but his pride simply could not get any lower than this.

Eric seemed to be having hands issues as well, stuffing them in the pockets of his jeans and giving Alan another of those unsettlingly keen looks. "I can give you a fade. I do my own 'hawk and clean up Ronnie's undercut when he's tight on cash."

And in a few minutes, Alan was sitting on a stool in the middle of the bathroom floor, towel around his neck, and the clippers humming along his scalp behind the combing of Eric's fingers. There was a quibble over a fade or just an overall buzz, and excellent care taken around his ears. And it might make him a big wuss, but Alan had closed his eyes when the clippers started.

Eric had very gentle hands for such a brusque presentation. Though since he was a chef, perhaps Alan should not be surprised. There was a hint of a citrusy aftershave and a warm, almost spiced scent that Alan could not put a name to.

The clippers clicked off. "Okay. You can look."

As if it was Eric's idea to have Alan close his eyes. But okay. Alan opened them and regarded his reflection in the mirror. It was a fade, but with the thinning of his hair at least he didn't look so pathetic. "Thank you."

"S'all right." Eric unplugged the clippers and removed the blade.

Objectively, it wasn't so bad. Alan ran a hand over the scant quarter-inch fuzz left him. "It's a good job. Looks good."

Eric shot him a look of disbelief, but said nothing.

"I need to jolly myself along sometimes, so just let me do it, okay?" Right now, Alan couldn't bear to have that taken away. It might have to go at some point, but not yet. "I'm trying, you know."

"Yeah. I know."

"Thanks."

"You can roll over here any time, you know," Eric blurted. "I'm shit for company, but Ronnie thinks the world of you."

Simple presentation, Alan reminded himself, but complex seasonings. "That means a lot, but I don't want to… you know… be a Debbie Downer."

"You're not bad company. You don't tell me how to cook."

Alan was not going to mention the fennel. "I promise to at least check in."

"And if you feel like shit, we can bring stuff to you."

Alan parsed for a hint of pity or condescension, and found only the blunt pragmatism of someone who isn't interested in theory, just results. "I'd appreciate that. But I really like coming down here. It feels less like I'm living in a fishbowl."

Eric nodded. "Just so you know."

Alan pulled his knit cap over his new fade. "All I need is a goatee and I'll look like a hipster."

"Facial hair is so mainstream." Eric smirked. "Next thing you know they're going to cultivate their ear hair."

"Fuck, but that's gross." Alan laughed out loud, carefully taking off the towel so that the hair didn't go everywhere. "But you know, someone's probably already thought of just that?"

"If they haven't, there has to be a way to plant the idea somehow. It would be a good laugh." The towel went in the hamper, hair and all, quite neatly. The clipper took a spray of Clippercide and Eric glanced at him. "Okay?"

"Yeah. As okay as I'm getting. I appreciate… everything. You and Ronald have been wonderfully kind over this." Andrea was kind, but he took care not to let her know how bad it could get in his head. "The brownies have really helped. More than I thought they would."

"Good. Because you've got a pan waiting downstairs."

Well. 'Eric says' indeed.

"I am not going to take your medicine away from you."

"I have a steady and reliable supply."

"I don't know how that works but I know that if you need it for yourself, I don't want you running short-"

"Which is not going to happen-"

"People do not normally talk when I am talking-"

"New things happen every day." Eric took his arm. "Come and see."

Somehow Alan managed to argue down the hall and into Eric's room - a rather monastic space with a daybed, desk, armoire, reading chair, bookshelves, and dresser. No carpet, bare walls, and a… capacious closet full of… stuff. Lights and little tubs filled with squat, bushy plants, a pump humming quietly from under the tables and a vent that sounded like a 747 taking off from LaGuardia.

And a rather… sweet funky smell.

"I'm not sure when I'm looking at, here. The stuff I had in undergrad was green and smelled like skunky corn chips."

"This is a hybrid - about 40 percent indica and 60 percent ruderalis. I wanted something lower in THC and higher in CBD." Alan must have looked blank at that, as Eric continued. "Cannabidiol - it's the 'second cannabinoid' behind delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol."

"THC being the stuff that gets you stoned?" Alan hazarded, hoping he didn't sound like a total idiot. "The munchies and all?"

"Yeah, it does that, but a lot of other things, too. I have some research." Eric took a binder out of a desk drawer and held it out. "Most of it's related to PTSD and HIV, but there's a lot of other stuff in there. There's even evidence that THC is cytotoxic to certain cancer cell lines."

Alan took it, looked in at the plants, and thought of all the time put into growing and learning about them. "If I'm not putting you out by taking your medicine and your research, then thank you. Yes, I will take the brownies."

They drove back to Alan's in Ronald's station wagon - and there was a discussion about Ronald's color aesthetics. Eric mentioned that he called the car the Snot Rocket, and Alan dubbed the sofa the Grape Grope Grotto. "Still, he did look well in his outfit."

"Rox dressed him. Alan, you should have seen it before. He looked like Scarlett O'Hara coming down the stairs in that dress made out of her drapes-" Eric peered at Alan's building and whistled. "Nice."

"Thanks. I bought my co-op here about the time that you and Ronald opened up." Eric eased Alan's bike out of the wagon, visibly impressed with the light titanium frame and the fat urban wheels. The brownie pan Alan strapped to the cargo deck. "I'll run Ronald's sweats back tomorrow when I come to pick up my supplies. Thanks for everything."

"Welcome. No problem." The awkward came back and Eric stuffed his hands in his pockets again. "See you Monday?"

Alan smiled. "See you Monday."

Upstairs he hung his bike on the stand and put the brownies in the refrigerator. The place felt quiet and empty, as if it hadn't missed him at all. As it he was not really home.

"Come on, asshole. Do not brain, do yoga."

Unzipping the hoodie, Alan went to change and then set up the Wii.

~

Eric drove Humphries home in the Snot Rocket, that fancy-ass titanium hardtail bike in the back of the station wagon. Alan held the pan of brownies on his lap like precious cargo. Eric watched him wheel the bike in the lobby door, waving awkwardly when the squirt looked back at him. So he was just making sure that he made it home.

And then Alan waved back.

[werezmastarbucks]

xenia

honeymoon masterlist

word count: 2851

warnings: mentions of parental abuse

music: damsel in distress by neck deep, beautiful stranger by halsey

You did shots that night.

Xenia has been one of the stops on your ridiculously meticulous search through Ohio. One mention that one of Kai’s grandmothers might be buried here somewhere, and that she was a siphoner, too, which is a rare, and you stopped in Xenia, digging up every inch of the earth.

In fact, at some point, as you lived on in this weird world, systematic search has grown into a kind of manic entertainment.

You took everything to extremes. Searching for the grave, that might have answers and magical solutions, you basically unearthed the whole cemetery, because Kai said that maybe somebody wanted to hide his nana’s body, because she was a shameful accident, being a siphoner and all that. And that random guess got stuck in your heads, turning you into paranoid diggers. Really, you were just keeping yourselves busy. Doing the things you would never normally do in your usual life. Why would you walk around a town, digging the ground randomly, and putting so much effort in it? After a couple of days of incredible stamina fueled work, Xenia looked like it’s been ravaged by gigantic moles. Then Parker remembered. She has never been to Xenia, she lived, and died in Cincinnati.

And that’s why you were doing shots.

You invented a reverse never have I ever game which was called nobody has ever. The point was to think of all the things other people never did for you, and the luckier one had to drink, but obviously, pretty soon the game turned dark.

You found this nice house on the Creek Green Street that overlooked an old alley with a post office that must have been about sevety years old. You wondered how it survived the tornado.

The kitchen was big, and the table, square and made of very thick, nice looking wood, consumed the soft golden lights of the evening. Although your shoulders were hurting you almost to the point of whining, since no matter how many days you dug, your body wouldn’t get stronger, you made a salad. Kai cooked up a myriad of snacks, and they were all piling up on the table in a colorful, tasty mess. It felt like you were both drunk from work and the absurdity of your chore even before you opened up the bottle.

“Nobody has ever”, he said, narrowing his eyes, “hit me in the throat with a tennis ball”.

You shook your head slowly. The shots rested on the table. You were leaning against the table, one foot under you, and listened to music and your joints singing the mournful song of pain. Kai was rubbing his chin musingly. Days in Xenia were very warm - unlike in all other towns. That was amazing to you. Without the people, and the hurry, you could concentrate on the world itself and actually found every location had its own smell, temperature, color. Once you got out, you’d never be the same.

“Nobody has ever cut my hair while I was sleeping”.

Kai nodded responsibly and downed his shot. You raised your brows.

“Oh, I was way too agitated, and never liked scissors near my face. Mom always cut my hair while I was asleep. I was ugly when I was little. One more reason”, he shrugged, “to be hating on lil Malachai”.

You hummed.

“Nobody has ever said they loved me”, he continued, gravely.

Air got stuck in your throat.

You swayed in your place.

“Come on. Not ever?”

“Nah”.

You took your shot and thought, who actually said that to you, except your mother. People usually said it in a friendly way. You couldn’t count how many times Elena said she loved you, and it didn’t mean much at the end of the day.

“Not even in a casual way, like, oh my god, you like Metallica, too? I love you!”

Kai chuckled.

“I don’t like Metallica”.

“Jesus. Okay. You wanna go hardcore. Nobody has ever chose me over everything and everybody else”, you offered.

Kai smirked and took his shot, and then reached for the bottle again.

“How? How come? And they never said they love you? Who?”

“I have learnt to manipulate people into choosing me over everything else. That’s how I keep sane, ha”, he noted. You frowned.

“Who was it?”

He looked at you with surprise.

“You. You chose me over everything else in your life when you decided to spend an eternity here with me. That was pretty nice of you. Cheers”, and he drunk again, forgetting he had already done his shot. You could feel the blood flowing to your face.

“I did it because I thought Damon would stop. I didn’t expect him to send me here”.

Kai shrugged, as if saying, it wasn’t really his problem Damon was a piece of shit.

“And why did you mainpulate me into it?”

Bold of him to assume he had manipulated you into liking him, but his way of thinking is different.

“Because I like you. I wanted you to stick with me. You’re the only person who doesn’t make me feel like a burden”, he replied with a lot of importance. He was a little tipsy.

You sighed heavily.

“Nobody has ever buried me under the ground in a drain pipe”, he ogled.

“Mm-hmm”.

He grinned as you drank.

“By the way, after that, when I made a scene (because I was sixteen) about Damon not killing the love of his life over me, Katherine called me a delusional teenager. God I hate that bitch”.

“Katherine Pierce never infuriated me because I never met her”, he put it.

“It’s not your turn”, but you drank anyway, “Nobody has ever called me an abomination”.

He saluted you with his shot.

“Nobody has ever made me his door boy”.

Shot.

“Nobody has ever took away my natural right of being the leader of my coven”.

Shot.

Your right shoulder stang you with annoying pain, and you glanced at the clock. Midnight would come in a couple of minutes. You always started drinking just before midnight because the change of the day brought you back to sobriety, and you could go on and drink the same amount again without feeling bad in the morning.

As the midnight struck, you suddenly found yourself sitting so close to Kai your foreheads were touching.

You both straightened up and looked at the time. He stretched his neck.

“Were we drunk-confessing our mutual respect for each other?” you asked.

“Think so”, he pulled a bowl of salad to himself and started eating, without forgetting to fill the shots again.

“Happy birthday”.

You clincked your tiny glasses together, and the game went on.

“Nobody has ever cooked for me”, he said.

You downed your shot thinking about how fabulous it is, to have your own chef who is also in love with you.

At the same second, you wondered if he has ever thought about poisoning you, just for the sake of it.

“I have hard time believing it. You’ve made it to twenty-two, which meant your parents cooked for you”.

“We had lots of kids in the house. We always had to eat all together”, Kai shook his head, “if you were late to the table, you had to starve. Besides, I started cooking for myself pretty early”.

“Okay. Nobody has ever locked me up in the basement”.

He was so good at this game, taking his losing drinks like a champ, like a very diligent student. As his adam’s apple went down, you gasped.

“Oh, wait. Spit it out! Spit it out. I recalled. I’ve been locked up in basements plenty of times, it was just... more like... a dungeon”.

“In the Salvatore house?” he asked, displeased.

“Yeah. And once, in the Lockwood mansion. Damon was raging then. We got stuck and...”

“Whatever”.

You licked your lips and shut up, seeing the familiar irritated spark in his eyes. Kai hated Damon at this point; for sending him away; for being not his type of person; but most importantly, for the fact you still lingered on the memories of him.

Gradually, you started running out of ideas, drunk again, and it was barely past one in the morning.

Kai at least was constantly eating, while you just drank, so you now had a hard time focusing on one thing, your thoughts drifting apart like ripples on the water. You looked at his white wrists, his knees hopping lightly as he bounced to the music, and tried to think of something.

“Nobody has ever... ever...” you puffed. Kai smiled. “Ever stood over me at night, watching me sleep”.

“Yes, I have”.

You didn’t get it at first.

“What?”

“I have”, he repeated.

“Oh, you mean... of course, I mean, back in the outer world”.

He nodded, like it was just a tiny misunderstanding about the size of a cheesburger he’s ordering.

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I was in your house at night before we got here”.

“What?!” you snapped.

All your body moved you towards him to slap him on the head, but out of instinct, the unkillable, fundamental instinct that kicked in when he was around, you took his head, let your palms slide down to his neck, as you hugged him.

“Kai, why would you do that?”

“I don’t know, I just wanted to see what you look like when you’re not around me”, he said simply. You could feel his mouth moving against your hair close to your ear. “What you look like when you stare at yourself in the mirror. What you do when nobody’s watching”.

You shut your eyes with embarrassment, your brain trying to recall all the things you did alone back in your house one hundred years ago.

“Oh god...”

“What you smell like when you’re just out of shower. You know, stuff like that”.

“God, this is so embarrassing”.

He laughed out with amusement.

You pulled away and took his head, covering his ears with your plams. His face swayed in front of you a little, as you muttered,

“You have to promise me something, Parker”.

“Okay”, he said carefully.

He could’ve said, of course! because you knew him. You knew how he pretends to be this enthusiastic person. Who is only serving you. But he was real right then, at that moment, looking you in your drunk eye, really considering what you’re about to ask. He could’ve said of course! and not mean it. But he said okay, ruffling up like a ferret, and you loved him at that moment.

“Once we get out, don’t stalk other girls”.

His face moved with laughter he contained inside.

“Why would I do that?”

You thought of that wretched universe full of good-looking girls, and all their different shapes and colors, the way they smell and how gracious they are, and felt scared of losing him for the first time.

“They’re all so pretty, and I... just don’t. Do whatever you can to...”

“You don’t think you’re pretty?” he asked in his are you dumb tone. “You’re a solid eight”.

You have lived enough to feel all kinds of wonders when intoxicated. You’ve sang, blacked out, stumbled, yelled, fought and slept when drunk, and now the very logical reaction followed, which you have also experienced many times.

You started sobbing.

“Eight”, you put your hand to your face, cradling yourself, and consoling yourself immediately.

Kai’s face went almost pale with shock. Then he started giggling uncontrollably, reaching his arms for you.

“I’m joking! Hey, I’m joking”.

He couldn’t start laughing.

“What are you upset about? I’m just fooling with you”.

“I’ve always been an eight!” you cried out, suddenly.

“For your information, eight is fantastic!”

“Katherine has always been a ten”, you finished solemnly, drowning in the pleasure of digging into your deepest wells of insecurity.

Kai froze.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about Damon right now. I swear to fuck, I’ll break your neck”.

You tilted your head miserably, letting the tears stream down your face in a dramatic fashion.

“Aaaahhh”.

“Y/N...”

“Damon has made me think that I’m a fool for ever thinking somebody can be into me”, you said quietly. You could feel his hand on the base of your neck. As your hot tears dripped down, heating the perfume on your skin, his grab tightened lightly. He didn’t know how to hold tenderly, it was always half-clutching with Kai. With time, you came to realize it was so reassuring you felt the safest when his hands were around your throat. Whether it was playful or menacing depended on his mood.

“Let me rain on your self-pitying parade”, he murmured, “okay? My parents made me think I didn’t deserve to breathe even. Pretty natural, don’t you think? Everyone has their right to have air in their lungs”.

You looked at him. Kai was being serious. You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, and his face softened a little.

“But my dad decided I wasn’t worth even that”.

“What are you saying?”

“Once I was sitting in the bath, when I was about five. That was the time you start getting your magic and learn how to control it. That was the time the whole coven found out I don’t have it. That Jo is useless, too, because I’m a siphoner. So one night, when I was in the bath”, he repeated, like he was trying to hypnotize you, “he came in, and...” he looked away, blinking several times. “I remember, he was wearing this dark green shirt. Green is the color of the coven. He held my head under water”.

There was a short break between two songs, and when the next one came in, blasting sounds, you shivered uncomfortably.

“He decided he’d spare himself and everybody else the headache. That’s why I don’t like water much and barely ever go near it. And now you taught me how to swim”.

“How did you survive?” you whispered.

“My mom barged in and pulled him away. I don’t know how she knew. Maybe it was her motherly instinct. She used to have that one for me long time ago”.

The tears welled up on you, pressure pushing on the sides of your skull. You took him, kissing his face, kissing his mouth, as Kai leaned in, quiet, and just let you dote on him. You held him tight, trying to kiss the memories out, begging him to forget.

“I’m okay. Hey, I’m fine. It was a long time ago, and he’s dead. And I’m alive. And I have you”.

You were so drunk, falling apart at the seams like a badly sewn jacket, that he had to hold you so that you didn’t fall off the chair. Hangover was guaranteed.

“Let’s just go... let’s go to bed”, you whispered, your face against his. “You can do whatever you want”.

Kai smiled. His eyes glinted in a familiar way. This kitchen, the house, it all grew on you. The way he held you, you didn’t even know if your feet touched the floor.

“Whatever I want?” he asked.

“Whatever you want”, you echoed.

He put your body onto the couch, and you could feel he moves your limbs a little, and then the weight of his body was next to you.

Fifteen minutes later, you pulled the covers down, and turned towards the light, and saw the TV shining through the blackness of the room.

Kai was watching Lethal Weapon on VHS and cuddling against you.

You inhaled, feeling he room spinning. The light stang your eyes, so you rolled back away and pressed your face into him, into the darkness.

The next time you woke up it was already dark.

You moved a little just to know where you are, and indicated his arms around you. Comfort settled down immediately, but the insane temperatures of his dozing body was too much, so you tried to kick the cover down to your feet. Kai lifted one of his arms unwillingly. It was still deep dark outside the window, and the old post office must have been standing there in complete fright.

“How many parts have you watched?”

“Three”, he said sleepily. You considered whether you were thirsty enough to try and go to the kitchen. Decided it wasn’t worth it. Your face felt a bit swollen with tears, but you felt comfortably tired. You wouldn’t leave this couch even if somebody lit it on fire.

“It’s not true, by the way”, he said.

“Huh?”

“My dad never tried to drown me”.

You rolled your eyes without opening them up.

“Wha...”

“I made it up, I was just trying to make you feel better”.

“You moron. You unbelievable moron, you...”

“You really have to stop calling me names, it hurts”.

“Douchebag. Why... Kai, you told me you weren’t a liar”.

He did something resembling a shrug. You felt his knee between yours, and slid your arm onto his back.

“You made me a liar. You’re changing me”, he mumbled, “I’m changing here with you. I can feel it”.