It's all there in the math, he's sure of it, the way to bring back the world. He writes and writes and writes until the pen runs dry, until the paper runs out. Then he keeps writing, anywhere. Equations on the desk and the walls and the windows. Equations on his skin, running down his arms.
It takes the world ending to end her grudge.
It takes watching the guilt eat away at Topher from the inside out until her hate turns itself around to become something like pity. It takes that certain kind of co-dependency that forms from being doctor-and-patient for too long in too depressing and hopeless a place.
One day or night in the depths of the Dollhouse he kisses her, desperate and confused and lonely, scared and begging her not to sedate him again.
And she doesn't resist. She's been going crazy for a while, too.
Sometimes it comes on too fast, too much. It overwhelms him and overflows and comes babbling out of his mouth, because he can't make it make sense, and he can't keep it all in his head.
Claire crawls over him, straddles his hips and covers his mouth with her hand. She holds him still and quiet until the madness creeps away again. Then she lies beside him and pulls his head to rest against her, runs her fingers through his hair as she stares across the room.
He listens to her heartbeat until he stops shaking and shivering, until the steady rhythm lulls him into a calm where he can think properly. "Listen, listen," he mumbles into her skin. "But what if you didn't? Ignore the phone; let it go to voicemail. Get the signal but put it away. A block." He lifts his head now, slowly pulling away from her.
Claire lets him go, watching carefully. She knows where this leads, and he's still in an unsteady state.
Suddenly, Topher leans across her, reaching over the side of the cot and groping along the floor. He comes back up with a pen in hand, looking around wildly for something to use it on. He's on the verge of panic again. "I can work it out. I need - !"
Claire gently wraps her fingers around his hand and lowers it to her chest, until the felt tip of the pen touches her skin. He gives a small, relieved smile and begins writing immediately, using the slope of her collar bone as a guiding line to begin with. Claire tilts her head back and tries to keep her breathing shallow to avoid jarring his hand.
The equations and notes come pouring out at a rapid rate. Cool, wet ink travels across the curve of her breasts, and the heel of his hand presses against her ribs. He's leaning forward, staring intently, his breath warm at the hollow of her throat.
His free hand brushes up and down her leg of its own accord, slides between her thighs, an action completely separate from the flow of consciousness driving his mad scribbling. Those fingers rub against her about the same the time the pen curls, ticklish, around her navel, and she inhales sharply.
The numbers have become a large, messy scrawl, and Topher stops suddenly when the last strokes of his pen cover the breadth of her hips and he's out of room. His eyes flicker anxiously across her body. "Turn over," he whispers urgently.
Claire shifts her weight, rolling to expose her back to him. He leans over her and runs his right hand along her spine, lets it curl around her waist to her stomach and then shift downwards. He braces himself on his knees and resumes writing with his other hand.
Every letter, number, and symbol brings him closer to her, makes him breathe more heavily against her skin. His fingers trace along the inside of her thigh and slide inside of her, and it's all Claire can do to keep from writhing. Topher is writing faster and smaller now, covering the span of her shoulder. He's pressed against her and practically panting.
Then the pen slips from his grip and drops, hits her shoulder on the way down and rolls off the mattress. Topher grabs her upper arm, digging his fingernails in, and buries his face in the crook of her neck. His other hand trails wet fingers across her leg and sinks into the mattress beside her. With a muffled groan he shifts his hips and pushes into her, and Claire cries out, arching her back.
Some of the writing will smear, sweat and ink blurred across her back and his stomach, but most of it will still be there in the morning. Perfectly legible nonsense that might just save them all.