The entirety of this fic was inspired by discussions had on the Most Excellent Psychonauts Server. Special thanks goes out to my pals Headsplit, Elsh, and Ash. Many details, such as Clem working as a janitor and having an interest in writing, and the Quentin/Clem ship itself have its origin on that server.

"What're you writing there, Clemster?"

Clem pulled the thin spiral notebook he'd been writing in up towards his chest, hiding its contents from Quentin's inquiring gaze. "Clemster?" he said, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "I don't think that one's going to stick."

"Give it time, my man, give it time," Quentin replied as he sat down on the bench next to him. "So?" he said, pointing at the notebook expectantly.

They were in the lobby at HQ, about an hour after most agents had left the building. This was the period of time that Clem had designated as his break from his janitorial duties, as anybody who could have told him to get back to work was either at home or passed out drunk in their office. Quentin being here at this time was unusual and a good indication that he was having some sort of problem. Clem guessed that this problem's name began with a 'K' and ended with an 'aty'.

Clem didn't question him about it- one couldn't broach a serious subject with Quentin right off the bat, after all. "I'm keeping a log of all of your comings and goings," he answered casually, as though that were a totally normal thing to do. He pretended to write something down, comically exaggerating the motions of his pencil. "I've been doing it for months."

"Sweet, bro," Quentin laughed, putting his arms behind his head and slouching in his seat. "Phoebe's been getting real sick of reminding me about stuff I forgot."

"Good thing I'm here to pick up her slack, then."

"Seriously bro, what is it?" Quentin asked, genuinely interested. "I know it's not a log, because you got a super memory and don't need to write that kind of stuff down."

Clem paused, instinctively hesitant to open up about his writing to anyone, even a close friend. It was more out of habit than anything else; he knew that Quentin wouldn't mock him for it and that he had no ulterior motives in asking. He wasn't even being that pushy about it- despite his obvious curiosity, Quentin had made no attempts to peek at the notebook's contents.

That, more than anything, was why Clem gave him an honest answer instead of another joke. "One of the True Psychic Tales writers is retiring and they're planning on hiring someone to replace her." He shrugged, laying the notebook flat on his lap, exposing the words written on it. "I don't know. I thought I might as well give it a shot." He idly traced his pencil's eraser on the paper, chuckling dismissively at himself. "I don't have any experience, so it's probably not even going to get past the first editor."

"No way, bro!" Quentin exclaimed, his eyes wide and excited. He cast a quick glance down at the notebook and then looked back up at Clem, smiling brightly. "I had no idea you could write! That's so cool, wow!"

"Ah, yeah, I don't really tell that many people about it," Clem admitted. Up until now only Crystal had known about his interest in being a writer. "And I'm not a writer yet." He noticed an error on the page before him and began erasing it. "Sometimes I can barely remember my ABC's, haha."

"Man, don't talk like that!" Quentin said, punching him gently on the arm. "You're super funny and smart, so anything you write is gonna be rad as hell." He slid over on the bench and put an arm around Clem's shoulder. "I bet the editor's gonna read your story and be like woah!"

Clem stiffened at the touch- another habit- and then relaxed. "C'mon dude," he said, trying to ignore the odd fluttery feeling in his stomach. "You know my broke-brain can't process compliments at all."

"I'm serious, Clem!" Quentin insisted. "I bet next year it's gonna be your name on the cover of those comics. I can see it now." He made a broad, sweeping gesture with his hand as he spoke. "True Psychic Tales Issue Number Whatever: By Clem Foote."

Clem laughed, not really willing to believe such a thing could happen, but glad that Quentin could. "It wouldn't have my name on it," he said, "the authors always use pen names."

"Oh. Well, you focus on writing your awesome story, and I'll think of the ultimate pen name for you!" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then suggested "How 'bout Gem Armme? With an extra 'm' and a silent 'e' at the end.

"That's almost as clever as Clemster," Clem said dryly. "You're on a roll tonight."

"Thanks, bro. Clemster's totally going to catch on, by the way," Quentin replied jokingly (it was already starting to grow on Clem, just a little). He sobered, his smile becoming more serious. "But really, Clem, thanks for telling me," he said, looking Clem directly in the eyes. "I know the whole 'being open' thing isn't easy for you, so it's like, really cool that you told me about this." He brought a hand to his mouth and mimed zipping his lips closed. "Stays between us, homeslice."

Clem looked away, unable to take anybody's genuine affection for very long. "It's not like it's a secret or anything," he said, suddenly finding his mop very interesting. "But thanks."