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xpocketeer · 7 months ago

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VI. Fungus Between the Glow of Late Hours and The Little Genius

X leans heavily on his workbench, a sleek, compact apparatus cradled in his gloved hands. It’s something he’d been tinkering with for days now—a miniature weather analyzer that could detect humidity levels in a single breath. Genius, really, but it doesn’t hold his attention. His mind is elsewhere, floating in the memory of Vertin’s suitcase.

He still hears it in his head, Medicine Pocket’s gruff, almost reluctant words, “I just find you interesting, so I may or may not be enjoying spending time with you.”

A ghost of a smile tickles his lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. That night felt monumental to him—like a breakthrough, one he hadn’t even realized he needed. And yet, just as easily as it started, Medicine Pocket had left, retreating to their usual brusque self. Why?

X stares blankly at the device in his hands, his vision unfocused. Why had they been so quick to leave? And why did he care so much about it? Medicine Pocket had called him interesting. They’d stayed up with him, talked with him, joked with him. Even smiled at him.

They don’t smile often, but when they do…

A pointy snap of fingers right in front of his face yanks him back to the present. He flinches, blinking rapidly as he looks up to see John Titor staring at him, her brow furrowed, a half-peeled orange in one hand. She’s been munching on those all morning.

“48656C6C6F20746865726521,” she says flatly, popping a wedge of the orange into her mouth.

X shakes his head, dazed. “Huh?”

John sighs, peeling another piece of the fruit. “48656C6C6F20746865726521,” she repeats, slower this time.

X processes it, his brain catching up. Oh. Hello there! He flushes faintly, realizing how out of it he must look.

John Titor rolls her eyes, chewing deliberately before pointing to the clock on the wall. “4C756E63682054696D65.”

“Oh.” Lunchtime. Right. He sets the weather analyzer down carefully, his fingers loosening their grip on the smooth metal surface. “You’re right. Thanks, Ms. Titor.”

She gives a curt nod, eating another orange wedge as she turns back to her own project.

X grabs his clipboard, shoving it under his arm as he steps out of the lab. His feet slow as he approaches the lab next door—Medicine Pocket’s lab. The sign on the door, riddled with bite marks and scratches, sways slightly with the soft airflow of the hallway. ‘Keep Out.’

He gazes at it, a surge of heat settling over his chest, aching, like a hot iron. It doesn’t make sense. At first… But now X knows—it’s because he misses them. It’s been a week since their time in Vertin’s suitcase, but the cramp in his chest feels acicular, needle-like today. He shakes his head and forces himself to keep walking.

The journey to the cafeteria feels slower than usual. The hallways of Laplace are thronged as ever, with staff in white lab coats and arcanists moving about purposefully. X offers polite nods as he passes colleagues, his mind only half in the present.

When he finally makes it into the cafeteria, the lull of conversation fills the space, but his heart still feels oddly reticent.

“X!”

He looks up to see Sotheby waving enthusiastically from across the room, her blonde curls bouncing as she gestures for him to come over. X smiles and nods in her direction, but he heads first to the food counter.

With a tray in hand—containing a plate of pasta, some soup, and a cup of tea—he navigates through the tables.

Jessica, the half-deer changeling, passes him by, her delicate, furry ears catching the light. “Hello, X,” she greets softly, her voice melodic.

“Hello, Ms. Jessica,” X greets back, bowing slightly.

Further down, he spots Lilya, leaning against the counter with her ever-present flask in hand. She raises it in greeting, her usual smirk in place. “Oi, X! You look like you’ve been hit by a train, mate. What’s wrong? Lose another invention?”

X chuckles awkwardly. “No, Ms. Lilya. Just… tired, I suppose.”

��Sure, sure,” Lilya replies, clearly unconvinced as she takes a swig from her flask.

By the time X finds a seat, his tray untouched, he’s already spiraling back into his thoughts. Every smile, every word, every faint grin from Medicine Pocket replays in his mind like a looping reel. Why did they leave so quickly that night? Did he do something wrong? Say something wrong?

He sighs, poking absently at his pasta, his tea growing colder by the second. He’s grateful for the chatter around him—it keeps the silence at bay—but the only voice he really wants to hear is nowhere to be found.

I’ll… see you around, Medicine Pocket had said.

But would they? Would he?

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

X returns to his lab with slumped shoulders, the booming of the cafeteria chatter long gone from his mind. The hallway had been void of any sign of Medicine Pocket, not even a shred of their distinctive white hair tied with those asinine scissors. He sighs heavily, dragging his feet. Could Medicine Pocket be out on another field mission?

Doubtful, he reasons, his thoughts swirling. The Timekeeper had been away since last week, and X distinctly remembered seeing her with Sonetto and Ms. Druvis III. That likely meant no field missions for Medpoc. So where could they be?

Probably in their lab. They’ve got to be there, he surmises, clinging to the hope as he pushes the door to his own lab open.

Inside, Mesmer Jr. is tapping away on one of the computers, her short, curly hair bouncing a bit as she works. She doesn’t even look up when she calls out to him. “Oh, hey, X. Great timing!”

X blinks, stepping closer. “What is it, Mesmer?”

Mesmer grabs a small stack of papers from the desk beside her and thrusts them toward him. “Do you mind taking these to the director’s office? They’re for Madam Lucy.”

“To Madam Lucy?”

“Yes, X,” she drawls, finally regarding him with a smirk. “Unless you know another mechanical overlord in this building?”

X smiles, taking the papers from her. “Right. Of course. I’ll take them there.”

“Good lad,” Mesmer says with a mockingly cheerful tone, already turning back to her work.

Clutching the papers, X steps back into the hallway, his nerves buzzing faintly. He’s only been to Madam Lucy’s office a handful of times, all for mundane errands like this one. But now, knowing how closely tied she and Medicine Pocket are, he feels a flutter of anticipation. What if Medpoc is there? What if he bumps into them?

The thought makes his steps quicken, his heart racing a little faster as he navigates the hallways.

When he arrives at Madam Lucy’s office, the heavy steel doors loom before him, their polished surface gleaming under the artificial light. Taking a deep breath, X presses the intercom button.

“Researcher X,” comes Lucy’s neutral, metallic voice almost immediately. “Enter.”

The doors slide open with a soft hiss, revealing the sparsely decorated office. The walls are sleek and tinny, with ill-defined lines of glowing circuitry embedded within them. At the far end of the room, Lucy sits behind an alloy desk, her robotic body perfectly still except for her synthetic face, which is set in a serene expression. Her human-like brunette hair is neatly combed, at odds with her otherwise mechanical form.

“Researcher X,” she receives, her voice even and diplomatic by default. “What brings you here?”

X holds up the stack of papers. “Ms. Mesmer asked me to deliver these reports to you, Madam Lucy.”

Lucy inclines her head slightly, extending a hand with polished, metallic fingers. X places the papers in her grasp, watching as her eyes glaze faintly with light, scanning the documents.

“Thank you,” she says after a moment, setting the papers aside. “You are efficient.”

“Oh,” X breathes out, caught slightly off guard by the unexpected compliment. “Uh, thank you, Madam Lucy.”

As he turns to leave, Lucy’s voice stops him. “Researcher X.”

He pauses, glancing back. “Yes?”

Lucy produces a small device from a compartment on her desk, holding it out to him. It’s sleek and solid, a communicator similar to the one he knows Medpoc carries.

“This is for you,” she says. “A communication device. It will allow you to contact the Laplace network directly and access restricted files related to your assignments.”

X steps forward, albeit hesitantly, taking the device from her outstretched hand. “Oh… thank you. I’ll make good use of it.”

“I expect you to,” Lucy replies, her voice unwavering. “Your progress has been noted. Continue to deliver results.”

X blinks, nodding quickly. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Madam Lucy.”

As he turns to leave again, the door slides open ahead of him, and he nearly collides with Enigma, who strides into the office with his usual air of indifference.

“Watch it,” Enigma mutters, barely sparing X a glance as he holds up a folder of his own. “Reports for you, Madam Lucy.”

“Researcher Adler,” Lucy acknowledges, her tone identical to the one she’d used for X.

X steps aside to let him pass, glancing back at the two briefly before the door slides shut behind him. As he walks back down the hallway, communicator in hand, he can’t help but wonder: What does it mean that she gave me this? Does Medpoc know about this?

The thought lingers in his mind as he makes his way back to his lab, his heart a tangle of curiosity and uncontrollable yearning.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

X steps back into his lab, the cool hum of machinery a constant, calming presence. In his hand, the communicator Madam Lucy had given him feels both exciting and unnervingly personal. He presses a few buttons, navigating through its interface. The sleek little device seems straightforward enough—contacts, messages, a direct line to the Laplace network.

But then his heart skips when he sees it.

Medicine Pocket.

Their name, clear as day, sitting right there on the contact list alongside their Laplace employee number. X stares at the screen, the raving text making his pulse hasten. Just one tap. One tap, and he could hear their voice, find out where they are, what they’re doing—what they’ve been doing all this time without him.

He slumps into his chair, gripping the device tightly. What would he even say? Hi, Medpoc, just wanted to call because I—uh… miss you? No, no, that’s too obvious. Stupid.

His eyes dart around the empty lab. Mesmer Jr. is gone, likely off to do something more entertaining than babysitting him and his coiling thoughts of doom. He exhales shakily, staring at the communicator like it might bite him. Friends call each other all the time, right?

At last, after some extended rumination, with a deep breath and trembling fingers, he presses the call button. The receiver rings once, twice, and then clicks.

There’s no immediate voice on the other end, just a friendly automated blurb about Laplace communication policies and trivia about lab safety. He listens anxiously, his knee bouncing under the table.

“Hello?”

The voice isn’t Medicine Pocket’s.

“Hi…? Medicine… Pocket—?”

“Oh, no, this isn’t them,” the voice responds kindly. “They’re sleeping right now. Hold on, let me go check on them.”

X bites his lip as he hears rustling on the other end, a clatter that sounds suspiciously like something being dropped.

“Ezra, I swear—STOP messing with my stuff!” comes a muffled, irritated growl in the background. Then, clearer: “Who is it? Ezra, I’m TIRED.”

The voice—the voice is apparent. X’s heart skips as Medicine Pocket’s grumpy tone comes through the line. It’s Medpoc.

“Oh, but the caller is… X. X, it says here on the caller ID.”

A shuffle, a muffled sound, and then Medicine Pocket’s voice enhances, groggy but unmistakably surprised. “X? Give me that! …X? Why’d you call? Need something?”

“U-um…” X stammers, gripping the communicator like it’s a lifeline. “I’m sorry for calling out of nowhere… I was, uh, given this device just now and I wanted to try it. I saw your name on the contacts list and thought I should… you know. I’m sorry. This mustn’t be a good time. I woke you up—”

“No, no!” Medicine Pocket interrupts instantly, their voice jumping a tad, the sleepiness replaced by something lighter. “It’s okay! Besides, I was NOT sleeping. Just… closing my eyes is all. Counting sheep! Hahaha!”

X chuckles softly despite himself. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s nothing,” Medicine Pocket says, their tone becoming a little more casual. Then, “Wait. How’d you get my number anyway? Oh, never mind. Lucy’s always giving away my info without asking me.”

X bites back a smile. “Who… who are you with? The person who answered?”

“Oh!” Medicine Pocket trills, sounding more animated. “That’s Ezra. This weirdo of a friend of mine. Psh. I’ll let you meet him, don’t worry. We’re just leaving his rented apartment, actually.”

“We are?” comes a smaller, softer voice in the background. “But I thought you said you wanted to study mushrooms—”

“WE ARE, EZRA,” Medicine Pocket snaps, though there’s no real venom in their voice. Not that X knows of. “Come on, you little chump. Anyway, X, we’ll be there soon, so.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course,” X agrees, nodding even though they can’t see him. “So, I’ll see you in a while?”

“Yup!”

Before X can say anything more, the line clicks off.

He stares at the communicator, the glowing text of Medicine Pocket’s name still on the screen. His heart is still racing, but now it’s joined by a new feeling. Ezra? Who’s Ezra? …And why are they sleeping at his…rented apartment?

The voice from earlier replays in his mind—velvety, angelic, definitely not what he’d expect from one of Medicine Pocket’s ‘weird friends.’ A mushroom researcher? He frowns, swallowing a lump that’s formed in his throat.

So, Medpoc has been busy. And… with someone else.

His chest squeezes, but he quickly shakes his head, standing from his chair. “I’ll meet him soon,” he says softly, willing himself to focus. “Medpoc said so.”

Although the pressure in his gut doesn’t fully lift, at least now he knows the person he’s been seeking is nearby. Soon, he’ll see them again. And whoever this Ezra person is… well, he’ll find out soon enough.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

X waits. He waits, and he waits some more, pacing the lab in an aimless rhythm that not even revisiting his old projects can entirely distract him from. At first, he pulls out a stack of notes, scanning through them with the intent of follow-ups. Then he starts making small adjustments to the schematics of an older Goldberg machine. Before he knows it, he’s fully immersed, like the natural originator he is.

He conjures a cappuccino with a flick of his fingers, sipping from the cup as he works, his focus finally shifting into a steady groove. His thoughts drift now and then to a Certain Researcher, but at least the edge of anticipation dulls fairly with every new line of text he scribbles.

It isn’t until much later, just as the lab grows quiet except for the drone of machinery, that he hears it.

A voice. Their voice.

Medicine Pocket’s unambiguous, slightly raspy tone floats down the corridor, accompanied by a lighter, satiny voice.

X freezes for a hot second, his heart skipping a beat. Then he’s on his feet, nearly knocking his cappuccino over as he rushes out of the lab.

“Someone’s excited,” Mesmer Jr. remarks dryly, smirking over her shoulder.

John Titor pops an orange wedge into her mouth, muttering a string of numbers that sounds suspiciously like a snicker.

He doesn’t stop to acknowledge them. He’s already halfway down the hall when he sees them—Medicine Pocket, standing tall and animated as ever, grinning widely. But they’re not alone.

“Medpoc! Hi!” X calls out, beaming as he jogs over.

Medicine Pocket perks at the sound, their grin widening. “Hey, X!”

Standing beside them is a small figure—a delicate blonde child, no more than fourteen or fifteen, with light blue eyes framed by impossibly long lashes. The kid is dressed in a neat outfit, complete with mustard yellow gloves and a matching brown hat. The sight is… unforeseen, to say the least.

Medicine Pocket gestures toward the child, clearly unfazed by X’s confused stare. “Oh, right. X, meet Ezra.”

“Hello, I’m Ezra,” the little blonde says in a polite, clear voice, giving X a slight bow.

X’s brain short-circuits for a moment. He blinks rapidly, leaning closer to take a better look. “Wait… Ezra? As in…” He trails off, his initial assumptions about Medicine Pocket’s mysterious companion crumbling into dust.

“Yup, Ezra,” Medicine Pocket grouses, grinning as they clap the kid on the shoulder. “A human prodigy working with Laplace’s Australia branch. He’s here for research, which, by the way, he’s annoying about.”

Ezra huffs softly, adjusting his hat with a dignified air. “I’m thorough, not annoying.”

X stares, still trying to reconcile the sweet-looking child in front of him with the voice he’d heard over the communicator. “I—I see,” he splutters, stunned. “Hello there, Ezra…”

Ezra tilts his head, studying X with an almost clinical curiosity. Then, as if reaching some conclusion, he smiles politely. “So, this is X…” He glances at Medicine Pocket briefly, his eyes twinkling. “Wow. Nice to meet you, Mr. X.”

X smiles sheepishly. “Oh, um, just X is fine.”

“Right. Of course,” Ezra replies, still impeccably gracious.

“Come on,” Medicine Pocket steers, already walking toward their lab. “We can talk inside. You’re blocking the hallway, X.”

“Oh, uh, right,” X says, following quickly as Medicine Pocket, who’s chuckling, and Ezra lead the way.

Inside Medicine Pocket’s lab, X feels a faint wave of nostalgia. It’s as chaotic as he’s last seen it, with papers scattered across every surface, and the familiar smell of antiseptic and Medicine Pocket’s experiments wafts in the air.

Ezra wastes no time making himself comfortable, perching on a nearby stool and folding his gloved hands neatly in his lap. “So,” he begins, his voice brightening as he dangles his legs, “I heard you’re an inventor, X. That’s wonderful. I adore innovative thinking—it’s the root of all progress, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, definitely,” X concurs, feeling oddly charmed by the kid’s earnestness. “I kind of dabble in a lot of different things.”

“He’s being modest,” Medicine Pocket interjects, flopping into their own chair with a lazy grin. “His machines are riotous. They’re so overcomplicated they loop back around to being genius.”

Ezra chuckles lightly. “I’ll have to see one sometime.”

“I’d be happy to show you,” X says, his grin widening. “But Medpoc mentioned you’re researching fungi? That sounds fascinating.”

Ezra’s eyes light up. “Oh, yes! Fungi are extraordinary organisms. Did you know there are species of mushrooms that can break down plastic? Or ones that communicate through intricate mycelial networks? It’s like a natural internet! And don’t even get me started on bioluminescent varieties—”

As Ezra launches into an enthusiastic explanation of his research, X listens intently, captivated by the kid’s passion. Even Medicine Pocket seems vaguely amused, though they’re already pulling papers toward them, muttering about needing “another injection of caffeine,” to deal with this.

Ezra doesn’t notice, however, his small hands gesturing animatedly as he describes the beauty and complexity of fungi. X nods along, asking questions here and there, completely charmed by the boy’s enthusiasm.

“Well,” Medicine Pocket cuts in after a while, their voice loud and teasing. “Looks like X has a new favorite friend, huh?”

X flushes, chuckling nervously. “Oh, come on, Medpoc…”

Ezra tilts his head innocently. “Favorite? Is there a ranking system I should be aware of?”

Medicine Pocket barks out a laugh, while X hides his face in his hands, a warm blush spreading across his cheeks.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

Later in the day, X leans against Medicine Pocket’s cluttered workbench, his arms crossed as he watches Ezra shuffle through a stack of papers with the precision of a much older scientist. The kid’s focus is impressive, his blue eyes scanning the notes with the quiet determination of someone twice his age.

“So,” X says casually, trying to break the silence, “you’re, uh… human?”

Ezra glances up briefly, his delicate lashes batting over his pale blue eyes. “Yes,” he affirms, smiling. “Completely human. No Arcanum abilities, no latent gifts. Just a regular boy with an affinity for science.”

“‘Regular boy,’ my ass,” Medicine Pocket snorts, leaning back in their chair. “Kid’s got more brainpower than half the people in Laplace combined. Hell, I’d trust him with my projects more than most so-called geniuses around here.”

Ezra blushes at the compliment, ducking his head. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t say I’m that extraordinary. I just work hard and stay curious.”

X’s brows furrow as he takes in Ezra’s small frame, his delicate features and frail posture. It hits him then, just how vulnerable the boy must be, especially in a world where Arcanum abilities often tip the scales.

“Doesn’t it get… dangerous?” X asks cautiously. “Being human, I mean. With the Storm and everything?”

Ezra looks up again, his expression soft but unwavering. “It does. I can’t survive the Storm like you all can. If I’m outside the foundation or Vertin’s suitcase when one occurs, that’s… well, that’s it for me.”

X feels a pinch in his heart at the frankness of Ezra’s words. Medicine Pocket, on the one hand, doesn’t bat an eye, reaching over to ruffle the kid’s blonde hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture.

“Yeah, well, that’s why you’ve got us,” Medicine Pocket says firmly. “Between the Foundation’s tech and whatever crazy gizmos X dreams up, you’ll be fine.”

Ezra smiles at that, adjusting his gloves. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

X straightens up, a spark of an idea lighting in his mind. “Actually… that gives me an idea.”

Medicine Pocket raises a brow. “Uh-oh. He’s thinking.”

Ignoring the jab, X steps forward, his hands gesturing animatedly. “Ezra, what if… I made you something? Like a gun that can release Arcanum energy. That way, if you ever need to defend yourself, you’ll have a fighting chance.”

Ezra blinks, visibly surprised. “You’d… do that for me?”

“Of course!” X cheers, grinning. “It wouldn’t be too hard. I could integrate some of Laplace’s Arcanum tech and make it lightweight so it’s easy for you to handle.”

Medicine Pocket smirks, leaning their chin on their palm. “Careful, X. You’re gonna make the kid cry with all this generosity.”

Ezra laughs softly, his smile brightening. “I’d love that, X. Thank you.”

So that’s settled. As X begins scribbling rough designs on a nearby scrap of paper, Medicine Pocket gestures toward a corner of the lab where a bulky, intricate machine is taking shape.

“While he’s planning your space gun or whatever,” Medicine Pocket begins, “check this out. The Fungus Ecosystem Machine. My latest project for our dear fungal prodigy here.”

Ezra perks up immediately, practically bouncing on his stool. “Oh! You finished it?”

“Almost,” Medicine Pocket hums, their grin acute and satisfied. “This baby integrates biology, chemistry, and physics to create a portable ecosystem for your mushrooms. Mature nutrient solution recycling system, oxygen control, light adjustment—the works. It’s like carrying a forest in a box.”

X steps closer to the machine, his curiosity piqued. The device is compact but incredibly intricate, with a series of transparent chambers connected by thin, winding tubes. He can see faint traces of condensation inside, as well as small clusters of vibrant fungi thriving in the controlled environment.

“This is incredible,” X breathes, his eyes wide. “You really made this for Ezra?”

“Damn right, I did,” Medicine Pocket attests proudly, folding their arms. “Kid’s got good taste in projects. Plus, it’s a nice break from all the boring research Bucket Head keeps dumping on me.”

Ezra laughs again, his cheeks pink. “Thank you, Medicine Pocket. This will help immensely with my studies.”

Medicine Pocket waves him off, though the corners of their mouth twitch upward. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t let it break down on you. Or do—so you’ve got an excuse to come back and bug me.”

X chuckles at that, his chest feeling lighter than it has in days. Standing here, surrounded by the thrum of innovation and the coziness of sociability, he feels something patch up within him.

“Between the gun and the ecosystem machine,” X says, glancing at Ezra, “I think you’ll be pretty unstoppable.”

Ezra’s smile widens, and for the first time, X notices how genuinely radiant the kid’s energy is. “With friends like you two, I already am.”

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

The rest of the afternoon passes in a whirlwind of productivity. He, Medicine Pocket, and Ezra huddle around the ledge, bouncing ideas back and forth as they bring the design for Ezra’s Arcanum gun to life.

X decides early on that it should be pastel blue—a soft, kind color that reminds him of Ezra’s polite demeanor and cherubic nature. Medicine Pocket mocks him lightly for the choice, muttering about, “too many rainbows in his head,” but they don’t actually protest. Ezra, for his part, is thrilled, his delicate features lighting up every time X makes a breakthrough in the design.

The lab is alive with activity:

X meticulously assembles the internal mechanisms, his fingers steady as he places each piece with precision.

Medicine Pocket scribbles chaotic notes on a nearby whiteboard, barking instructions to X and Ezra as they sketch out alternative features.

Ezra helps to test the components, his small hands deftly handling the delicate pieces under Medicine Pocket’s watchful eye.

The atmosphere is warm and collaborative, the kind of day that reminds X why he loves working in Laplace. By the time they’re nearing completion, all three of them are tired but undeniably pleased with their progress.

That’s when the door bursts open.

“X!” Regulus’ voice cuts through the room like a crash of cymbals. “There he is, right there.”

“Regulus?” X looks up, blinking in surprise.

The pirate radio captain saunters in, her signature sunglasses perched atop her head and Mr. APPLe floating at her side, bowtie perfectly straight. She grins, jerking a thumb behind her. “Heya, mate! Someone here is looking for you.”

“Who?”

Another head pokes through the doorway—disheveled brown hair, stained cheeks, and a pair of eye-goggles being twirled lazily in one hand.

“Oh,” X says, his eyes widening. “Oliver!”

“Alrighty then,” Regulus opines, stretching her arms behind her head. “I’ll leave you all to it. I’m looking for Matilda myself. She owes me tea money.” With a jaunty wave, she’s gone, the sound of Mr. APPLe’s deep, posh voice trailing after her as they disappear down the hall.

X turns to his lab colleagues for the day, a faint crease of apology on his brow. “I’ll… just be a minute, guys.”

Medicine Pocket shrugs, their expression shifting to something distant, almost cold. “Sure. Whatever.”

X hesitates, feeling a small prick of guilt at their sudden indifference, but he nods and steps out into the hallway with Oliver.

“Hey, what’s up?” X asks, taking in his friend’s unusually disheveled appearance. Oliver’s khaki jumpsuit is rumpled, revealing a white tank top underneath, and his usual pristine demeanor is replaced with the aura of someone fresh off a hard shift.

“Just dropping by to see you,” Oliver admits with a faint smile, leaning casually against the wall. “It’s my break time.”

“Ah, right,” X says, nodding. “So, have you eaten?”

“Not yet, actually.”

“Oh, then—”

“I’m thinking maybe we can eat together?” Oliver interrupts, his tone gauzy but his gaze steady.

X pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, um. See… I’m a bit busy right now, Oliver. I’m making this gadget for a new friend, Ezra, and—”

“With Medicine Pocket?”

“Yes,” X says, his voice softening.

Oliver’s expression averts briefly before he recovers, nodding. “Okay, got it.”

X chuckles awkwardly, pointing to the door behind him. “Yeah. So, I’m going in now.”

Oliver’s smile returns, a bit more subdued. “Alright. It’s okay. There will be more next time.”

“Of course,” X pronounces quickly, his tone apologetic. “I’m just working on something right now.”

“That you are.”

They part ways, and X watches Oliver go, a small tingle of remorse taking root in his chest. Then, with a steadying breath, he reenters the lab.

The moment the door slides shut behind him, Medicine Pocket looks up from their seat with a serrated grin. “Your little boy friend gone then?”

“Boyfriend?” X repeats, tilting his head in confusion.

“Yeah,” Medicine Pocket drawls, their grin turning almost predatory. “Boy… friend. Boy. Friend.”

Ezra giggles from his stool, his soft voice chiming in. “They mean your friend, who is a boy.”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes. “I know what I said. And I doubt X didn’t catch it.”

X flushes, fumbling for a response. “I—it’s not like that. He’s just… a friend.”

“Sure, Alphabet Boy,” Medicine Pocket replies, their tone dripping with acerbity as they cross their arms. “Whatever you say.”

Just then, Ezra jumps in as if to redirect the conversation. “So, X, are we adding the final details to the gun now? It’s coming along beautifully.”

X nods, grateful for the topic shift, but he can’t shake the feeling that something in Medpoc’s tone stuck—something keen, something more than just teasing.

He tries to focus on the project, but every now and then, he glances at Medicine Pocket, who is glaring at the blueprints with the kind of intensity reserved for their most chaotic ideas.

Did I do something wrong? Again? X wonders, his chest constricting. But no matter how much he tries to figure it out, the answer remains just out of reach.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

The hours stretch on in Medicine Pocket’s lab, filled with the hum of creativity and the clinking of tools. They’re making steady progress—Ezra’s Arcanum gun is at 87%, nearly functional now, its pastel-blue casing gleaming under the fluorescent lights. At the same time, Medicine Pocket tinkers away at their other project, muttering about nutrient cycles and ‘stupid mushrooms needing stupid ecosystems.’

Despite the occasional sarcastic plunge, the energy in the room is power-driven. Ideas bounce back and forth, filling the space with the rhythm of collaboration:

X tightens a final screw on a key mechanism, carefully adjusting its alignment. “What if we add an adjustable output for the Arcanum energy? So it can handle different scenarios?”

“Smart,” Medicine Pocket replies, not looking up from the circuit board they’re working on. “But if you’re doing that, you’d better reinforce the casing. I’m not babysitting Ezra if the thing explodes.”

Ezra, still awake and watching from his stool, giggles softly. “I’m not that fragile, you know.”

“Sure you’re not, Angel Boy,” Medicine Pocket says with a smirk.

Between bursts of focus, they snack on crackers and tea that X summons with quick whips of his fingers. Crumbs scatter across the workbench, but no one cares.

“Pass me the marker,” Medicine Pocket barks at one point, their platinum hair sticking out in every direction from running their fingers through it. X hands it over, watching with a grin as they furiously scribble equations on the whiteboard, their scissor hairpin catching the light.

As the clock ticks closer to 10 p.m., the excitement is palpable. But it’s late, and fatigue starts to creep in. X is knee-deep in writing notes when Medicine Pocket hisses at him from across the room.

“Pst. X. Look.”

He looks up, confused, only to follow Medicine Pocket’s nod toward Ezra, who is curled up on the stool, fast asleep. The kid’s head is tilted to the side, blonde hair spilling over his delicate features, his hands still loosely clutching a notebook.

X can’t help but smile. “He’s cute,” he whispers, glancing at Medicine Pocket.

Medicine Pocket grins back, their sharp teeth softening the usual ferocity of their expression. For a moment, there’s a silent understanding between them.

Quietly, Medicine Pocket gets up, rummaging through a cupboard in the corner until they pull out a spare blanket. Together, they carefully transfer Ezra to a makeshift bed on the small couch by the wall, X tucking the blanket around him while Medicine Pocket adjusts the pillows.

“Goodnight, Angel Boy,” Medicine Pocket mutters, barely audible.

They return to their work but keep their voices low, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional scratching of pens and the faint whirring of machines.

At some point, X looks up and catches Medicine Pocket stifling a yawn with their gloved hand, their other hand still deftly assembling a component for the mushroom ecosystem.

“Medpoc,” X whispers.

“Hm?” They don’t look up.

X swipes his fingers, conjuring a steaming cup of coffee, and places it on the table beside them. “Here.”

Medicine Pocket glances at the cup and then at him, their tired amber eyes slackening. “Thanks,” they murmur, taking it without pausing their work.

X watches as they sip, the steam curling around their subulate features. His jaw stiffens when Medicine Pocket licks their lips afterward, absentmindedly, completely unaware of how it makes X’s heart race.

The urge is sudden, almost overwhelming.

Before he can second-guess himself, X steps closer and gently takes the cup from Medicine Pocket’s hand, setting it down on the workbench.

Medicine Pocket blinks up at him, startled. “X? What are you doing?”

“Shh, you’ll wake Ezra,” he whispers, his voice rooted but his heart thundering. “Just… close your eyes for me.”

Medicine Pocket stills, their brows knitting together. “Oh—okay…? Why? Something on my face?” They sigh, relenting and shutting their eyes. “Fine. But make it quick, Alphabet Boy. We’re still doing—”

X leans in and presses his lips to theirs, soft and fleeting. It’s the barest brush of skin, but it sends a jolt through him like nothing he’s ever felt before.

He pulls back barely, his cheeks warm as he meets their half-lidded gaze. “I’ve been wanting to try that out for so long,” he admits, shyly. “How was it?”

For a moment, Medicine Pocket looks utterly bewildered. Their eyes dart to his lips, then back to his eyes, before something changes in their expression.

Without a word, they grab the front of his lab coat and pull him back in, their mouth meeting his in a kiss that is nothing like the first. This time, it’s intended, deeper, and juiced with something unspoken but electric.

X feels his breath hitch as their lips move against his, soft yet commanding. His gloved hands instinctively find their way to Medicine Pocket’s shoulder, clutching the fabric of their lab coat for support, his other hand going around their waist… very lithe waist. Their lips are warm, slightly chapped, and taste faintly of the coffee he’d just given them—bittersweet and addicting.

Medicine Pocket angles their head, deepening the kiss with a low buzz that vibrates against X’s mouth. The sensation sends a shiver down his spine, and he feels his knees grow weak. Their teeth catch lightly on his lower lip, teasing and confident, and X gasps softly, the sound swallowed by the heat of their mouths meeting again.

Time seems to blur. All X can focus on is the way Medicine Pocket kisses him—unapologetically, wetly, and with surprising tenderness beneath the rough edges. His head feels light, his heart pounding erratically, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so… So alive.

He breathes them in, the faint antiseptic scent that clings to their clothes mingling with something uniquely them—disarming yet grounding. His senses are overwhelmed, his body warm and whizzing as if he’s been plugged into the lab’s circuits.

When they pull back, they’re both panting, their breaths interweaving in the small space between them.

X’s lips feel swollen, tingling from the lingering sensation of Medicine Pocket’s mouth on his. His cheeks are flushed, and when he meets their gaze, he sees that Medicine Pocket isn’t much better. Their cheeks are dusted with an overwhelming shade of pink…that makes them look…sexy, their golden eyes half-lidded and glinting with something raw and vulnerable.

“Damn,” Medicine Pocket mutters, their voice raspier than usual, a smirk tugging at the corner of their dampened mouth. “You’re addictive, Alphabet Boy.”

X lets out a shaky laugh, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath. “I think… I could say the same about you.”

Medicine Pocket chuckles softly, their grin turning sharper as they lick their lips. X watches the motion, mesmerized, feeling heat rise in his chest again. Like he wants to kiss them again. And again. And again.

“Better get used to it,” Medicine Pocket says, their voice dwindling. “Because I’m not letting you off the hook after that.”

And that… has X grinning, his heart still racing. “I… I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They stay like that for a few minutes, the room quiet save for the humming of hardware and Ezra’s soft breathing from the makeshift bed, the rest of their projects forgotten for the time being.

Because, really, how can X return to those when all he can feel, smell, and think about is this… this person in front of him? This beautiful, wonderful person. Would it be too much to ask them to be his boyfriend? Girlfriend? Or boyfriend? Ugh. Details, details. What matters is he inquires not about a boy friend. Boyfriend (or girlfriend), one word. Would it be, then? Too much?

#syzygy 6 #reverse 1999 #medicine pocket #xpocket #my fic #laplace #x #medpoc #xpocket fic #r1999

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xpocketeer · 7 months ago

Text

V. Proximity Panic and Canine Chaos in the Kitchen

Medicine Pocket wakes slowly, eyes fluttering open, only to find Sonetto standing beside their bed. They squint up at her, frowning.

“Huh?” they mumble, voice rough from sleep.

Sonetto hums, her expression calm and unruffled as always. “We were supposed to wake you up before noon, but X insisted we leave you be.”

“Before noon?” Medicine Pocket rubs at their eyes, trying to shake off the drowsiness. “So that means… it’s afternoon now?”

Sonetto’s lips twitch in a slight smile. “Late afternoon. Around three.”

Medicine Pocket jolts, half falling out of bed. “Three?! I slept that long? Damn it!”

Sonetto tilts her head slightly. “You don’t sleep much, do you, Researcher Medicine Pocket?”

“Of course not! Sleep is for losers!” they snap, but it’s clear that the grumpiness is already settling in. They shoot out of bed, scowling. “What do you think I am? Some kind of… lazy sloth?” They huff, feeling their cheeks flush as last night’s memories start drifting back—the quiet conversation with X, the rare openness they’d somehow let slip out. Ugh. The less said about that, the better.

As they pull on their boots, fastening the buckles with quick, impatient movements, they glance around the room and frown. Right… they’re still in Vertin’s stupid magical suitcase, not in the comfort of their lab. No way this was just a dream, not with how real everything feels—especially the thought of X somewhere out there. That whole talk last night… Why had they even allowed themself to go there? Ridiculous.

Sonetto, unfazed by the rambling, merely waits as Medicine Pocket storms off to the bathroom, barefooted once more. They splash water on their face, rubbing furiously at their cheeks, and fix their hair in its usual, messy style. Something they dub anarchy; a state of disorder. Gotta be equivalent to their outer (and inner) persona, right? What they do is twist their hair back into a loose knot, securing it with their trusty pair of scissors, the way one might use a pair of chopsticks, and clip a small device into their hair as a makeshift way of keeping it from falling into their eyes. There. The mirror stares back, and they pull a satirical smile, making a face at their own reflection.

By the time they stomp back into the room, Sonetto has already left, leaving a message about how the crew would meet them outside. Great, they think, sarcastically. They’re probably starting the evaluations without them. Lovely.

Grumbling all the way, they grab their satchel and stomp into their boots, tugging at the buckles with frustration. They’re barely out the door before they start fuming. “Just letting me rot like a corpse in that stupid bed—honestly, who thinks leaving someone to sleep is a good idea?”

Lost in their indignation, Medicine Pocket rounds the corner into the main sitting area and freezes. There, in the middle of the living room, X is laughing and running around with a group of the younger arcanists. He’s dodging and weaving through a mess of giggling kids, clearly having a… blast? The kids are shrieking with delight as X playfully ducks, almost letting one of them catch him before dashing away again.

Medicine Pocket finds themself utterly fixated on the scene, the irritation temporarily slipping away. This kid, they take in, almost in awe. What is he doing? For a moment, they stand there, not realizing they’re practically staring, their mind fogging up with a strange, unsettling…what? Don’t tell them this is what most people call affection? Are they getting attached??

They opt to decipher it, to decode what this weird feeling means—

That is, until a familiar, dry voice pulls them back to reality.

“Well, look who decided to show up.” Mesmer Jr. stands a few feet away, arms folded as she leans against the wall, eyebrows raised in exaggerated amusement.

Medicine Pocket blinks, their face immediately morphing into a distasteful grimace. “And look who’s still here, taking up valuable space like an indoor potted plant.”

The girl raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. “Indoor potted plant? Please. You don’t have to be jealous just because I’m actually productive—”

“Oh, spare me,” Medicine Pocket quickly cuts her off with a dismissive stroke of their wrist. “If you call standing around like a smug weed productive, then congratulations, Mesmer. You’re Laplace’s top horticulturist.” They glance over their shoulder, noticing X glancing their way as he finally catches sight of them. But that only fuels their sarcasm further. “I bet you’d wilt if someone even whispered the word responsibility in your general direction.”

“Interesting words from someone who just spent half the day sleeping,” Mesmer replies, her smirk never fading. “Maybe they shouldn’t have let you off so easily. Three in the afternoon, Medicine Pocket? Really?”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes. “Excuse me for needing to recover from the sheer torture of being stuck in this… this museum of domesticity you all seem so fond of.” But as they say this, they’re aware of X, who’s stopped running around and is now giving them a smile from across the room.

“Medpoc!” he calls out cheerily, wiping a bit of sweat off his brow as he jogs over, his face bright. “You’re finally up!”

“Finally up, he says…” Medicine Pocket huffs, trying to maintain their annoyance even as their eyes linger on the boy. “Yeah, well, maybe I would’ve been up sooner if someone had actually had the decency to wake me instead of letting me corrode.”

X chuckles, clearly unbothered by the bristly tone. “We just figured you needed the rest,” he says, voice softening. “Besides, you looked so peaceful sleeping.”

“Peaceful?” Medicine Pocket raises an eyebrow, highly skeptical. “You’re hallucinating. I don’t do peaceful.”

Mesmer snorts in the background. “I don’t know, Medicine Pocket. You seemed pretty cozy in that bed. Probably dreaming about funds.”

Medicine Pocket shoots her a withering look. “Oh, go count ceiling tiles or something, Mesmer.”

X lets out a laugh, his eyes twinkling with it. “Glad to see you’re… well, back to your usual self.”

Medicine Pocket gives a mock sigh, rolling their eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’m back, I’m grumpy, and I’m ready to bite someone’s head off if you’re all still playing house in this witless suitcase.”

…But as X stands there, smiling at them with that irritatingly soft expression, Medicine Pocket can feel the last shreds of their chagrin melting away. Fine, they think grudgingly. I’ll stay. But only because they’d probably mess up this whole thing without me.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

Vertin gestures for the group to follow her into the suitcase’s kitchen after a while—a surprisingly spacious and polished room with gleaming countertops, polished wood cabinets, and even a large dining table. Medicine Pocket looks around, unimpressed but mildly curious.

“Right,” Sonetto says, clapping her hands together, stepping up to the counters with the draft of someone who knows what she’s doing. “We’ll make something simple for dinner. It’ll be quick if everyone pitches in.”

This makes Medicine Pocket click their tongue, crossing their arms, defensively. “Cooking? Not my style. Give me a machine to break down, and I’ll get somewhere, but don’t expect me to know a spatula from a scalpel.”

Mesmer rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Medicine Pocket, it’s not rocket science. It’s dinner. Try not to break anything.”

Medicine Pocket opens their mouth to retort, but their comeback is quickly interrupted by a small hand tugging on their sleeve. They glance down to see one of the younger arcanists looking up at them with wide, googly eyes. Huh. Creepy fellow.

“So, you really are a scientist,” the kid states, dreamily, grinning. “Like a real scientist who does, like, experiments and stuff, yeah?”

Oh.

Medicine Pocket narrows their eyes, giving a low, threatening growl. “Yeah… A real one, alright. …And I’ll experiment on you if you don’t get out of my way.”

The kid just giggles, as if they’d heard the funniest joke ever, and grabs their other sleeve. “Can I help you with your experiments? Pleeease? Pretty pleaseee?”

Medicine Pocket lets out a groan, making overripe biting motions at the kid. “Back off, or I’ll chew your head off!” They snap their teeth in the air, making a ferocious face, but the kid only giggles louder, clearly thrilled by them, seeing their ultimatum as mere antics.

Another kid pipes up from behind them. “Yeah, Medicine Pocket! Experiment on me next!” The little mob closes in, chattering and laughing, tugging at Medicine Pocket’s lab coat as they eagerly demand attention.

Medicine Pocket throws up their hands, looking over at X with an expression somewhere between panic and exasperation. “X! Get these ankle-biters off me before I go feral.”

X, watching the scene with his hands on his knees and a huge grin, lets out a laugh. “I don’t know, Medpoc… looks like you’re the kids’ favorite.”

“Ugh,” Medicine Pocket mutters, swatting away another small hand. “Favorite? I didn’t sign up for this! These kids are like… like gnats. Persistent gnats.”

One of the kids laughs and pokes Medicine Pocket’s cheek. “But you’re so funny, Medpoc!”

Medicine Pocket snarls playfully, making another snapping motion. “Funny? Ha! Keep saying that, and I’ll be showing you my canine teeth up close.”

X chuckles, looking utterly amused as he keeps his gaze glued at the tableau, as well as Medicine Pocket’s failed attempts to shoo the kids away. It’s not until one of the bolder arcanists gets a bit too close, tugging on the scissors stuck in Medicine Pocket’s hair, that the boy finally steps in.

The sight has them gasping, how X’s naturally happy eyes darken as he shakes his head. “Nah-uh…” he utters lowly. “That’s enough, okay?”

The kid stops, looking sheepish as they release Medicine Pocket’s hair and mumble an embarrassed, “Whoops, sorry…”

Swallowing for some reason, albeit very subtly, Medicine Pocket huffs, folding their arms against their chest, mumbling, “Yeah, that’s right, listen to X, the voice of reason.”

X’s lips part, Medicine Pocket awaiting what he must want to say to that, but the moment is cut short when Sonetto clears her throat, looking over her shoulder from where she’s chopping vegetables. “Researcher Medicine Pocket, if you’re done fending off your little fan club, you could make yourself useful by handing me those carrots.”

Medicine Pocket raises a skeptical eyebrow, the previous encounter already leaving their system. At least, for now. “Carrots? What do I look like, a rabbit?”

“Just pass them over please,” Sonetto sighs, bemused. “I’m sure even you can handle that.”

Grumbling, Medicine Pocket grabs the carrots, tossing them onto the counter next to her. “There. Don’t say I never helped you.”

While Sonetto works efficiently, Mesmer has set herself up beside a stove burner, stirring a pot with a look of concentration. Medicine Pocket can’t help but smirk. “Oh, look at you, Mesmer. Playing chef. I didn’t know stirring soup was such an art form.”

Mesmer rolls her eyes but smirks back. “I’m sure this is just too highbrow for a chaotic lab rat like you to understand.”

“Cooking. It’s… so important,” Medicine Pocket mutters sarcastically, rolling their eyes. “I’d much rather be tearing into a dog chew toy right now than standing around here doing… household things.”

They’re answered by coruscating laughter, causing their peeve to simmer. And they’re just about to counter some more when they catch X raising his hands in their peripherals. He conjures a little teacup from thin air, followed by a steaming stream of tea, filling it right up. He holds it out to Medicine Pocket with a soft smile.

“Here,” he says gently, “thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”

Medicine Pocket stares at the cup. Odd. Odd that one, X is doing this out of nowhere, and two, their scowl is slowly fading as they reluctantly accept the offered cup. They sip with a quiet grumble, “Thanks… I guess,” though the warmth of the tea seems to soften their usual—

No. They can practically feel their brows unknotting…

And they hear X chuckle softly, eyes twinkling. “You’re welcome.”

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

With Sonetto and Mesmer handling most of the cooking, Medicine Pocket finds themself standing around in the kitchen, surrounded by the lawless dynamism of the younger arcanists, who keep darting around them, hooting and poking at their lab coat once again. They grunt under their breath because it just doesn’t stop, does it? This thing right here, fending off small hands attempting to tug at their sleeves.

“Back off, you little… puppies!” Medicine Pocket hisses, snapping their teeth that can only be classified as a playful snarl. “No boundaries, you tiny gremlins, honestly!” They make even nastier mock-biting motions, sending the kids into… fits of delighted laughter as they scamper around. The rascals!

From the pot she’s stirring, Mesmer coos, “Look at you, Medicine Pocket—being all soft and cuddly.”

“Soft?” Medicine Pocket guffaws, cocking a brow in alarm. “If you mean rabid and barely tolerating you all, then sure, I’m soft!”

X snickers somewhere, apparently watching them fail to chase off yet another kid who’s clearly taken with them. “They’re just excited to see you, Medpoc,” the boy comments, tone considerate. “They like you.”

Medicine Pocket’s face flushes, faintly so, as they glare in return. “They’re like overgrown puppies—clingy, slimy, and way too interested in personal space,” they whine, horrified by what comes next—

The arcanists, who take it upon themselves to mimic everything they say. “Puppies!” one little girl cries, throwing her arms around their leg. “Woof!”

They look down, appalled. “That’s enough, you mutts!” they shriek, pointing at the girl. “I’ll have you tossed into the ocean if you don’t let go!”

Leaning against the counter and sipping from his teacup, X bursts into laughter. “You’re really good with them, Medpoc.”

“Oh, shut it, Alphabet Boy,” Medicine Pocket retorts, trying to look cross, though the faint warmth in their eyes conceivably gives them away. Tch. “If they keep at it, they’ll be my next experiments.”

“Right,” Mesmer says with a grin, rolling her eyes. “Let me guess: experimental puppy muzzles, coming right up?”

“Ha-ha! Funny.” Medicine Pocket makes a face at her before lightly nudging one of the arcanists away with their foot, whispering something colorful under their breath as the kids erupt in giggles.

When the meal comes together, they all gather around the large dining table to eat, a lively spread of soup, roast vegetables, bread, and other dishes filling the air with toasty scents. Medicine Pocket finds a seat, only for the younger Arcanists to immediately cluster around them, squabbling over who gets to sit nearest. It’s all they can do not to roll their eyes, but… a tiny part of them is starting to feel strangely fond of this harebrained setup. These people, this noise, these ‘puppies’…

As they start eating, Vertin clears her throat to get their attention, smiling at Medicine Pocket as she starts filling them in.

“Researcher Medicine Pocket, just to catch you up,” the Timekeeper begins, “we actually wrapped up the evaluations while you were asleep.”

Medicine Pocket’s fork pauses mid-air. “Wait… really?” They look around, raising an eyebrow. “So… we’re done?”

“Yep,” Sonetto affirms. “Finished it up just before dinner. You’re free to leave the suitcase after tonight.”

“Leave?” Medicine Pocket asks aloud, a strange stab of reluctance surfacing. Just when things were getting interesting in here, they think, especially glancing toward X, who’s grinning over a story Mesmer is telling. “So… that’s it, huh?”

Vertin nods. “That’s it. Unless, of course, you’d like to join us again for these assignments.”

Medicine Pocket scoffs, rolling their eyes. “Ha! As if I’d willingly put myself through this circus again…”

But before they can say any more, the door to the kitchen swings open with a loud creak, and a familiar voice breaks through the laughter.

“Oi oi! How are you all doing?” It’s Regulus, accent bright and full of energy as she strides in, followed by Mr. APPLe, hovering behind her like an eccentric floating chaperone. But she isn’t alone—trailing behind her is a figure Medicine Pocket recognizes immediately: Oliver Fog.

A flash of ash-gray in a white lab coat dashes at the corner of their eye, and then X is beaming brightly. “Regulus! And Oliver!”

Oliver Fog gives a calm, easy smile as he steps forward, looking every bit the composed gentleman in his trench coat and top hat. But Medicine Pocket notices the quick flick of his eyes, assessing, as they land on them. The look lasts only a second, but it’s clear as day—Oliver Fog knows exactly who they are. And judging by the slight twitch of his mouth, he seems to find the sight of Medicine Pocket… intriguing.

Well, that’s just. Great. Just what they needed—Fog Boy, up close and personal.

Oblivious to the silent stare-off, as expected, X quickly jumps in, stepping between them. “Oliver, I’d like you to meet Medicine Pocket! Medpoc, this is Oliver Fog,” he chirps, looking at both of them with pure enthusiasm, adding, “Two of the best people I know!”

Two… of the best? Medicine Pocket raises an eyebrow, barely disguising their irritation. “I’ve… heard of him.”

“Likewise,” Oliver says, inclining his head with a polite nod. His gaze hovers over Medicine Pocket, deviant. “Medicine Pocket, Laplace’s… infamous scientist, I believe?”

And just like that, their day is ruined. “And you’re the Foundation’s prized fog-cleaner, aren’t you?” they retort, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ever the peacemaker type, X simply laughs. “Medpoc, Oliver’s more than that—he’s practically a legend with the work he’s done. And Oliver, Medpoc’s been working on all sorts of groundbreaking things in Laplace. The picrasma candies, for one!”

Oliver hums, an amused glint in his eye as he studies Medicine Pocket. “Oh, I’m aware,” he says smoothly. “Very aware, in fact.”

“Are you now?” Medicine Pocket folds their arms, brooding. Who does this Fog Boy think he is, trying to size me up?

Just then, Regulus plops down in an empty chair between them and X, impervious to the battle of glares. She grins, prattling on cheerfully, nudging Medicine Pocket. “Well, this is one weird crowd, I’ll say that much. Good to see you in a group for once, mate.”

Medicine Pocket huffs, shrugging her off. “Don’t get used to it. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”

Regulus laughs, tossing them a wider grin. “Sure, sure. Just admitting you like the company would be too much to handle, eh?”

They grumble under their breath, but can’t help sneaking a glance at X, who’s still chatting animatedly with that boy.

Oliver, who catches Medicine Pocket’s gaze, giving them a faintly amused smile as if he’s caught onto something. He leans back in his chair, clearly comfortable with X’s attention and unbothered by Medicine Pocket’s death stare. It only grates on them further.

Meanwhile, Mesmer Jr., perched across from them, clears her throat. “Jealous, Medicine Pocket?”

And that—that very term. Medicine Pocket snaps their gaze to her, nearly toppling over. “Huh? Of that thing? Pardon me. He’s barely worth noticing.”

“Is that so, Researcher Medicine Pocket?” Vertin suddenly pipes up, just loud enough for them to pick up. The Timekeeper scrutinizes them with a pair of quizzing eyes.

Medicine Pocket clenches their jaw, scooting away. “Yes, that’s so,” they mutter. But the words feel hollow even to themself as they glimpse back at X, who’s laughing at something Oliver just said. X’s eyes are shining, the smile on his face brighter than ever, and Medicine Pocket feels an unconventional, tight spasm in their chest.

Regulus, blissfully unaware, leans over to X with a smirk. “Quite the crowd tonight, isn’t it? And here I thought you only had foggy friends, X.”

X chuckles, looking warmly at everyone, including Medicine Pocket, who he hasn’t quite noticed (most definitely) is stewing in their seat. “It’s just nice to have everyone together, you know?”

Medicine Pocket snorts. “Nice.” Right. How ‘nice’ to be stuck here, forced to watch Oliver Fog bask in X’s attention. Their friend.

As the dinner continues, the laughter and chatter grow, but Medicine Pocket sits there, arms folded, eyes narrowed on the newcomer, feeling that freakish denseness augment. Every time X laughs, it sends a prickle of irritation through them, and they can’t help but imagine all the ways they could interrupt this little reunion. But all they can do is sit and sulk, trying to shake the creeping realization that, maybe… they’re feeling more than just annoyance.

The post-dinner gathering in the living area is as snug as a bug, the air buzzing with a pleasant, unabating residue from the meal. Sonetto sits with her hands folded primly in her lap, graciously accepting compliments for her cooking.

“Sonetto, that roast was divine,” Vertin says with a satisfied sigh, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“It was nothing,” Sonetto replies modestly, brushing a stray strand of ginger hair from her face, cheeks all pink. “Just simple recipes, really.”

“Simple but effective,” X chimes in, resplendently. “I haven’t eaten that well in a while.”

“Oh, sure,” Mesmer interjects, leaning lazily against the arm of the couch. “But let’s not forget the soup was my doing.”

Perched stiffly on the edge of another seat, Medicine Pocket cocks an eyebrow. “Your soup? Yeah, the soup was… passable.” They tap their fingers against their knee. “If we’re talking about edible slop.”

Mesmer shoots them a tired glare. “Thanks, Medicine Pocket. Your feedback is always appreciated.”

“Anytime,” Medicine Pocket replies with a self-satisfied smile. “I like to keep things honest. Especially when the truth is funny.”

The others chuckle, and X stifles a giggle beside Mesmer, clearly enjoying the exchange. Medicine Pocket flicks a glance his way, their chest doing that stupid squinching thing again when he smiles. Ugh.

On the one hand, Oliver Fog sits calmly on a nearby armchair, twirling his pocket watch absently. “Well, it was a fine meal,” he puts in smoothly, nodding at Sonetto. “I’d say you have the makings of a true chef, Sonetto.”

“Oh, stop,” Sonetto replies with her hands waving dismissively.

Medicine Pocket’s gaze leaves Oliver for X, who’s now chatting animatedly with him, their voices overlapping. Medicine Pocket tries not to focus on it, but their ears twitch at how X snickers at something Oliver says. It’s not like it’s a big deal—or that this should be news to them. They’re friends. Of course, they are. X is someone who easily befriends people, and that’s why Medicine Pocket has taken a liking to him, right? And when they say a liking, they mean… a friendly liking. Just friends, they remind themself, frowning. They have no reason to get indignant at this kind of circumstance. None at all.

And yet, something beyond interpretation tears at their insides, unnamed.

As the conversations continue, Medicine Pocket fidgets, feeling the heaviness of the room press down on them. They don’t even realize that X has been inching closer—chatting casually, only quite noticing it little by little once he’s slowly closed the gap between them. When X sits down beside them, driving them to snap out of their spiral and jolt slightly when the boy’s shoulder almost brushes theirs.

Their body goes rigid, their mind serpentining into mayhem. Proximity—too close—why is he sitting here?

X doesn’t notice their inner panic, smiling at them like nothing’s wrong. “Hey, Medpoc,” he says softly. “Enjoying yourself?”

Medicine Pocket doesn’t answer right away. Their chest strains, the unfamiliar sensation of their personal space being gently invaded completely throwing them off. But, why?

“I—uh…” They look from left to right, at a loss for words.

As if their body has a mind of its own, it promptly stands, nearly knocking over the little table beside it. Everyone in the room looks up, startled.

“I think… it’s time for me to head back to Laplace,” they blurt, brushing their coat down as if smoothing imaginary wrinkles. “Yep. I just remembered I’ve got… uh, loads of unfinished reports to submit to Bucket Head by tomorrow.”

“Bucket Head?” Mesmer echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Madam Lucy,” Medicine Pocket clarifies quickly.

The room erupts in muffled laughter, Mesmer chortling openly while Sonetto covers her mouth. Even Vertin cracks a small smile. Everyone seems to find the nickname hilarious.

Everyone except one.

As Medicine Pocket grabs their things, they catch X’s expression—soft and quiet, his gaze following them like a gentle weight. His smile has faded, replaced by a glint of something harder to place. Sadness? Disappointment? Medicine Pocket doesn’t know, and they don’t want to figure it out.

They mutter something incoherent even to them, ignoring X’s stare as they head toward the door. Their body screams at them to flee, and for once, they listen, leaving behind the joyous convulsions, the warmth, and the persistent, heavy gaze of a boy they can’t afford to think about.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

Medicine Pocket storms through the main hall of Laplace, their boots clicking sharply against the polished floors. The chaos of the place is a comforting din—the buzz of enginery, the whirl of automated carts zipping by with trays of lab samples, the murmur of hurried conversations between staff clutching clipboards. Holographic screens blink overhead, displaying intricate equations and arcane projections, while mechanical arms work tirelessly in glass enclosures, assembling something far too advanced for most to understand. Laplace buzzes with life and science, a cathedral to human ingenuity and arcanum combined. This is home, not that infernal suitcase.

Taking a deep breath, Medicine Pocket feels their pulse slow slightly. “Finally,” they hiss under their breath, running a hand through their messy hair. “Back where I belong.”

They head toward the elevators, feeling the familiar flow of the place seep back into their skin. As the doors slide open, they step inside and punch the button for their lab. It’s only when they exit on their floor and approach the door that they see it—the battered wooden sign hanging on the handle: KEEP OUT.

The sight stops them in their tracks. The sign swings slightly, revealing deep bite marks and scratches across the surface. Medicine Pocket frowns, folding their arms. Of course, it’s still here. It’s been here forever. But their ogling remains longer than they’d like. Why does that kid—X—get to ignore it?

They scowl this time, shaking their head. “Because I let him,” they tell themself, tenor dripping with disdain. Because I’m an idiot who invites him in. What am I, some compassionate mutt now? Since when?

Their thoughts are interrupted by a voice. “Oh, Researcher Medicine Pocket, you’re back.”

Medicine Pocket turns to see Trina, one of their colleagues, peeking out from the lab door. Trina’s long white coat is uncharacteristically spotless, her hair pinned into a perfect bun like she stepped out of some textbook scientist advertisement. The contiguity makes Medicine Pocket bristle.

“Yeah, you see me standing here, don’t you?” they bite, rolling their eyes and pushing past her into the lab.

“Nice to see you too,” Trina mutters under her breath, closing the door behind them.

Medicine Pocket heads straight for their workstation, a deranged mess of papers, test tubes, and half-disassembled gadgets. They slump into their chair, dragging a hand down their face. Ugh, mismatched eyes and warm smiles, they think bitterly. “What’s wrong with me?” they groan, glaring at the ceiling as if it has answers.

Deciding the best way to purge their thoughts is to drown them in science, Medicine Pocket grabs their notes and starts flipping through them. They settle on a stack of papers marked with Lucy’s precise, perfunctory handwriting, all bearing the same topic: The “Storm” Phenomenon.

Medicine Pocket sighs. “Bucket Head and her obsession with the unknown,” they spit, but their curiosity wins out. Fine. Storm research. Let’s go.

They grab a pen and start scribbling, their mind stropping as they sink into the work. The Storm—a catastrophic event that rewrites the flow of time. To most, it’s an impenetrable enigma. To Medicine Pocket, it’s a puzzle worth poking at until something breaks.

They jot down questions, theories, and potential experiments:

What triggers the Storm’s arrival?

Why is the Timekeeper the only one immune while others are completely erased?

What’s the significance of its color changes?

Does it respond to temporal disturbances, or is it entirely random?

Pulling out one of Lucy’s data logs, they skim through her notes on temporal flux patterns. “Patterns,” they mutter, voice heavy with sarcasm. “As if this thing’s going to follow a neat little timeline like her bloody algorithms. It’s chaos—like everything else in this stupid world.”

Still, something nags at the back of their mind. The Storm didn’t just rewrite time—it dissolved it, rearranged it like clay. Medicine Pocket winces, scribbling furiously. What if it’s not random? What if it’s targeting something specific—someone specific?

“Storm as predator,” they whisper, jotting down the phrase. “Searching for… what?” They chew on the end of their pen, glaring at the disarray of data in front of them.

The more they think about it, the more tangled their thoughts become. Their scrawls grow messier, veering off into unrelated questions…

Why does X’s smile feel so distracting?

Can a Goldberg machine predict people’s emotional responses?

Medicine Pocket groans, tossing the pen onto the desk and slumping forward. “Great. Now even work can’t save me from this nonsense.”

They sit there for a moment, glaring at their notes as if they’ve betrayed them, before grabbing a nearby stress ball and hurling it at the far wall. It bounces back with a satisfying thwack, landing on the floor with a pathetic wobble.

“Stupid… emotions. Stupid… Researcher X.”

But even as they mope, they glance at the ‘Keep Out’ sign swinging gingerly on the door. A misgiving of something uncomfortably balmy shoots through their chest, and they press their lips into a thin line.

“Back to work,” they scorn, dragging the papers closer. “I’ve got real mysteries to solve—not… whatever this is.”

Medicine Pocket’s pen scratches furiously across a sheet of paper as they lean into their work. The labyrinthine tangles of data and theories spread out before them are beginning to click into place, and the rush of progress hits like a lightning bolt. Pure, unfiltered ecstasy. A prominent grin makes it to their lips, shark-like and triumphant, as they scribble formulas and notes with feverish energy.

“Trina!” they bark when a perception springs into their mind, spinning on the stool. “Whiteboard. Now. Grab the blue marker—the red one makes me itch—and start recording these equations.”

Trina sighs, clearly used to them by now, and obediently picks up the marker. “Fine, fine. What am I writing down this time?”

“Temporal stress thresholds in localized phenomena!” Medicine Pocket exclaims, slapping a hand against the whiteboard. “And don’t skimp on the variables. If you leave out the third column, I’ll chew your head off, I swear.”

“Charming as ever,” Trina drawls, but she writes down the numbers Medicine Pocket rattles off at lightning speed.

“Column D! You’re skipping it!” Medicine Pocket snarls, pointing at the board with the vehemence of someone guiding a nuclear missile.

“I’m not skipping it, you’re talking too fast,” Trina fires back, but keeps writing, her hand moving with mechanical efficiency.

Satisfied that Trina is keeping up—barely—Medicine Pocket dives back into their papers, muttering under their breath. Theories are flying through their head like a storm of their own creation. They begin mapping out possible ways to stabilize temporal flux points, their mind spinning faster than their pen can move. They grab the blue marker from Trina’s hand mid-sentence to scrawl something barely legible on the board, even to them.

“Got it?” Medicine Pocket demands, spinning back to the desk without waiting for an answer. “Good. Keep going.”

For a hot minute, they’re in their element—lost in the sheer upheaval of scientific discovery, surrounded by notes and numbers and the thrill of their brilliance. Everything feels perfectly aligned.

And then they hear it.

Laughter. Muffled voices. Familiar tones carrying through the hall outside the lab.

Medicine Pocket freezes, marker hovering mid-air. They recognize that laugh—bright, supple, unmistakable. X.

A chorus of other voices joins his, and their almost-smile drops like a stone. Regulus. Mr. APPLe. Mesmer. And…

Their nose flare. Oliver Fog.

And their eye twitches, hand clenching around the marker. For a second, they feel their focus wobble, like a glass teetering on the edge of a table. But no. They shake their head violently, clearing the thought. Never mind them. Who cares? Fog Boy can go haunt someone else.

They slam the marker back onto the whiteboard rail and hop off the stool, storming back to their desk. But their chest feels too tight, and their blood feels too loud in their ears. That exasperating, erratic pulse—that’s the problem. It’s always been the problem.

They yank open the desk drawer and pull out the familiar syringe filled with effervescent green fluid. Without a second thought, they stab it into their arm, watching as the liquid vanishes into their veins. The effect is instant—a rush of clarity and energy floods their senses, sharpening the edges of the world.

“Better,” they declare, rolling their shoulder as they toss the syringe aside.

They swivel back toward the whiteboard, eyes gleaming with manic spirit. “Trina!” they bark again, startling her as she adjusts her grip on the marker. “Forget the thresholds for now. Let’s blow this up. Literally. What happens if we destabilize the temporal node instead of stabilizing it?”

“Uh… it collapses into a black hole?” Trina offers hesitantly.

“Exactly!” Medicine Pocket yells, grinning wildly. “And what’s on the other side of that black hole? That’s what we’re going to find out!”

“Wait, are we actually—”

“Take notes!”

Fueled by the injection, their theorizing becomes even more chaotic. They pace the room, gesturing wildly at the whiteboard, muttering equations faster than Trina can write them down. Their thoughts spiral into impossibly intricate tangents, one train of thought bleeding into another.

The voices in the hallway grow faint as they become immersed in the work again, the outside world dissolving under the consummate mass of their focus. Numbers and possibilities dance across their vision, and for a little while, they feel invincible.

“Let’s crack open the Storm and see what makes it bust!” Medicine Pocket asserts, slamming a fist onto the desk with exhilaration.

They scribble something else onto a loose sheet of paper, their grin widening. In the meantime, this is all they need—numbers, theories, and the thrill of invention. And absolutely nothing else.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

They jerk awake, blinking blearily at the dingy glow of their workstation lamp. Papers are scattered everywhere, some stuck to the side of their face, and a woozy line of drool marks the corner of their mouth. They groan, wiping it away as they peer at the clock on the wall. 1:19 a.m.

“Damn it,” they curse, sitting upright and stretching with a start. Their back protests from being hunched over the desk for so long. A quick scan of the lab shows it’s empty—no Trina, no one else. She must’ve left for the sleeping quarters.

Medicine Pocket grumbles as they stand, brushing stray papers off their coat. “Great. Passed out like an idiot. Again.” They catch a glimpse of their disheveled reflection on the polished brink of the workbench and pout. A public heap, they deem. “Right. Shower first. Food second.”

The public showers for Laplace staff are as sterile and functional as the rest of the facility. By the time Medicine Pocket finishes and redresses in their usual attire, they feel somewhat human again. Their hair is damp, tied back with the ever-present scissors, and the antiseptic-scented soap clings to their skin. But as they towel off, their stomach thunders, demanding attention.

“Fine, fine,” they click their tongue, grabbing their ID badge and heading toward the elevators, where they stand in front of, tapping their fingers impatiently against their crossed arms. Their stomach growls again, louder this time, and they glare at the offending sound as if it’s personally insulted them. “Sandwiches,” they mutter to themself. “If it’s another night of sandwiches, I swear I’ll—”

The sound of footsteps interrupts their grumbling. They glance sideways, only to immediately wish they hadn’t.

Oliver Fog approaches with the same polished air he always transudes, his top hat angled just so, his umbrella wand in hand like it’s glued there. He nods when their eyes meet, his smirk so faint it could almost be mistaken for pleasantness.

“Medicine Pocket,” he greets casually, stepping up beside them.

They grunt, lowly. “You again. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re cleaning fog inside the building now.”

Oliver chuckles lightly, as if amused by their sarcasm. “Not tonight. Just making my rounds.” He adjusts the brim of his hat, his voice glassy but clearly deliberate. “I was actually just leaving X’s lab.”

Medicine Pocket freezes, their arms uncrossing as the words hit them like a badly aimed dart. “X’s lab?” They blink at him. “And why would you need to be there this late?”

Oliver shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “Oh, it’s been happening for some time. Old friends, you know. He seemed happy to accommodate me every time.”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Medicine Pocket walks inside, tension radiating from every movement, and Oliver follows, his expression blithe.

“Didn’t realize you were on the schedule for a catch-up session even at midnight,” Medicine Pocket says flatly as the doors close.

Oliver’s smile widens just slightly, his voice light but pointed. “No schedule needed. I tend to drop by when it feels right.”

Medicine Pocket lets out a sharp laugh, the sound more bark than humor. “How nice for you. Dropping by unannounced, poking into places no one asked you to.”

Oliver tilts his head, the faintest flicker of amusement in his otherwise serene expression. “You sound annoyed, Medicine Pocket. Something bothering you?”

“Annoyed?” Medicine Pocket snorts, their fingers tightening around the railing. “Why would I be annoyed? You’re just so charming, after all.” Their voice is dripping with sarcasm, each word razor-sharp.

Oliver chuckles again, his calm exterior unwavering. “Well, X didn’t seem to mind.”

That does it. Medicine Pocket turns to face him fully, eyes blazing as they lean closer, practically bristling. “Listen, Fog Boy,” they say, voice low and cutting. “You can loiter outside his lab all you want, but let me make one thing clear.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow, his calm facade slipping just a fraction. “Oh? Do enlighten me.”

Medicine Pocket steps back, their grin self-assured. “I don’t need to hover. I don’t need to linger around his door or find excuses to bump into him. You know why?” They cross their arms, their confidence radiating. “Because X? He comes to me. Every time. Without fail. Naturally.”

For the first time, Oliver’s smile falters, his grip tightening ever so slightly on his umbrella wand.

The elevator dings, and the doors open to Medicine Pocket’s floor. They step out like clockwork, throwing a smirk over their shoulder. “So, keep hanging around, Fog Boy. Let me know how that works out for you.”

And with that, the doors slide shut, leaving Oliver alone in the elevator, whose composed expression remains for only a few heartbeats, before a crack of uncertainty flashes across his face. And then there’s Medicine Pocket, already mentally kicking themself for what they said, because what on earth was that just now?

#xpocket #syzygy 5 #xpocket fic #reverse 1999 #reverse 1999 fic #my fic #medicine pocket #x

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