Greatly Exaggerated

Summary: What happens if basically everyone at SigCorp reasoned about Neil like the fandom does? Heavy-duty crack ensues in which Neil gets repeatedly accosted about his impending death. Utterly irreverent.

There were few things that terrified Neil Watts, but one of them was his ma asking him to make his bed. Another, more relevant fear had rudely picked his electronic lock and was currently perched on his desk, nonchalantly nibbling on a Reese's Fast Break.

Of course, Neil did not betray a hint of fear. It was unwise to allow such eldritch beings of utter terror to know that—well, to know that you were terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought. Or just scared shitless.

"Hey, Rox," he said, kicking off so he spun about in his swivel chair. "So whatcha doing in my personal space?"

"Checking in on SigCorp's resident delinquent," Rox said, brightly.

"I prefer 'resident bad boy,' myself," Neil replied, with a smirk. "In fact, I have it on good authority that these glasses—" he tapped the wire-rimmed frame of his lenses. "—are a necessary precaution to save all of you my smoulderingly sexy gazes."

"Oooh~," Rox chirped, and patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Keep working on that bad boy image, Neil. I'm sure you'll get there one day!"

Having tucked away that Reese's Fast Break into the black hole at the centre of her very being, the eldritch creature who sometimes went by the name of Dr. Roxanne Winters picked up a small packet of M&Ms that Neil'd half-forgotten about, buried as they were underneath a mass of forms that were supposed to have been submitted yesterday. "Say, you aren't eating this, are you?"

"Go right ahead," Neil sighed, because the first rule of living with one's co-workers was to never get between Rox and a sugar-rush. "Long day?"

"Mm, yeah," Rox said, working open the M&Ms packet. She let out a barely-stifled yawn. "Very long. Just got back in with Rob, in fact."

"Mm," said Neil, in reply, because he didn't want to ask; wasn't all that interested, but Rox had ensconced herself on his desk and didn't seem likely to relocate herself anytime soon. Really, it was like acquiring a rather persistent cat, minus the baleful stares. "I take it it went well?"

"The job? Yeah. Wish fulfilled, another clean, successful report to write, the works." Rox was gesturing with the opened packet of M&Ms as she talked.

"Cool," Neil said. "So, Rox, anything else? I got reports to write, forms to fill out…" he gestured expansively at the paperwork dominating his desk.

"Are you dying?"

Neil blinked. And then blinked again. "God," he exclaimed, "Why are you even asking me something like that?"

"I hear things around the water cooler," Rox shrugged. "Thought it might be nice to hear straight from you. After all," she chuckled, "I just loooved our little heart-to-heart session, didn't you?"

His eyes went to the filing cabinet; the one behind which his new machine was hidden when he wasn't continuously working on it, making improvements, racing the inevitable tick of his body's clock.

"Yeah," Neil said, impassively. "I suppose so. Next time, we can sit around a campfire and sing Kumbaya. If that's all…"

"See, here's the thing," Rox said. She popped the last M&M in her mouth and stood up, crumpling the M&M packet into a tiny, crinkled ball. "The more I think about it, the more I can't see why you would tell me everything."

Neil folded his arms across his chest. "Your little Spanish Inquisition ring a bell?"

"Sure, I made you spill your secrets, and your plans for upgrading the equipment," Rox agreed, readily. And this was the other reason, Neil thought, why Rox could be terrifying: when she dialled down on the wackiness and dialled up on her focus, went all intense and sharp like a lightsaber blade, and then that focused sense of intensity turned on you, and you knew that Rox could stomp all over you in her quest for…well, whatever it was; in this case, answers he wasn't prepared to give. "But the thing is, someone like you Neil? You've got secrets. Lots of 'em. Sometimes, I even think you keep secrets just because you like keeping secrets." She raised an eyebrow at him. "You gonna really expect me to buy that you opened up and sang like a canary and told me everything about what you're up to?"

"The funny thing is," Neil said, still dispassionately, "You can't prove a negative. Which means you're asking me to do something that's logically impossible—proving to you I'm absolutely not holding anything back."

"I told you before," Rox said, ignoring his words. "I'm not gonna stop until I figure out what you're up to. That's something you can believe." She was balling up the Reese's Fast Break wrapper too, crumpling it with the M&M packet until she was left with a single, tight, compact ball.

A tense, fraught silence descended.

"Soooo," Rox all but carolled, with a chameleon-like change of mood. "Nice talking to you, Neil. I'm looking forward to our future chats!"

She sauntered out of his office door, offhandedly tossing the wadded candy wrappers, which hit the floor once, bounced, and just barely made it into Neil's wastepaper bin on the rebound.

Neil let out the deep breath he had been holding, in a quiet sigh. People, he thought, ruefully. Couldn't live with 'em, couldn't live without 'em. He'd had his doubts about bringing Rox in, let alone her insistence on bringing Rob in, not to mention his own surprise that Rob wanted in, in the first place, but he couldn't deny that Rob had cut his teeth on some of the weirdest cases you ever hoped to see, whereas he had a healthy respect for Rox's skills as a technician.

And being able to bounce ideas off someone…

It felt kind of nice, and Rox spotted most of the problems with his code before he'd had to find out the hard way. Of course, he'd tired himself out anyway, struggling to stay four or five steps ahead of Rox and Rob, but by the time they'd find out…

He was going to have to follow Rob's suggestion and add the physical lock back, Neil thought idly. Or something else that would give Rox a challenge breaking in.

"You're looking awfully wan, Neil," Taima McMillan said, frowning in concern. "Are you getting enough rest?"

If each of his colleagues had a certain archetypal role, Neil thought, it was pretty clear Taima McMillan was the team mother. She kept sending Eddie knitted hats and scarves every Christmas, which wasn't much of a surprise, since Eddie was young enough to look boyishly lost all the time, and though he really should've been around long enough by now for that shiny newbie badge to develop a patina, people just seemed to get that impression of him. It hadn't helped when Eddie'd gone and gotten drunk that one Christmas party and started going on and on about his hair.

Eddie Doyle: wide-eyed innocent, babe in diapers, and—thankfully—the biggest victim of Taima's mothering.

Still, Logan got knitted headbands all the time, while Neil was pretty sure he had been gifted enough mug-cozies that he could've stacked them and made a tower defense game out of it.

"Eh, it's been a hectic week," Neil shrugged, casually. "You know how it goes, patients to treat, wishes to grant, forms to fill out, reports to write…" he trailed off.

Taima clucked in disapproval and shook her head. "Oh, yes, I remember how it was before we signed that agreement with Hermann Corp…"

He could've reminded her he'd been around for those early days, even if he hadn't been in the Fieldwork department back then. But then, what was the point?

"Still," Taima added, frowning, "You need to take care of yourself, my dear boy. It won't do if you work yourself to the bone. See some green and growing things, get a good night's sleep, and eat well—that's what you young whippersnappers need. Goodness knows there's more to life than just work and the office."

"Yes, yes," Neil muttered, distractedly. What a morning: ambushed at the coffee machine by Taima McMillan, being dispensed life advice, and held hostage by his desire to feed his caffeine addiction. "Are you done with the coffee dispenser?"

"Good," Taima replied, completely ignoring his attempts to get his caffeine fix and to get out of the awkward situation. "Oh, and, did you see that email I sent you?"

"What email?" asked Neil, before realising he'd made quite the strategic error.

"I attached a photo of my cousin's niece," Taima beamed. "I think you would make a very nice couple, and you definitely need to develop a social life outside of—"

Oh, no she wasn't going to go there, Neil growled to himself. He gave up on the coffee. Eva still owed him a favour, and you know what? He was bloody well going to collect on it. She could brave the McMillan. Aloud, he said, "Oh, you know what? I just remembered I have urgent re-configuration work to do on the equipment. See you around!"

He ran.

Sure, it wasn't manly. But this was Taima McMillan, whose mothering urges would've made Lord Voldemort weep, repent, and probably end up sipping hot cocoa with Taima's niece, to the music of wedding bells. Bravely running away was the smartest thing to do.

He dashed right back into his office, probably breaking a world speed record for the fastest ever run by a SigCorp employee in the process, and locked the door.

He reached for his mobile and dialled a number. "Hello? Eva?"

"So," Logan said, as Neil was measuring out the cayenne pepper. "What's this I hear about you dying?"

Neil choked, spluttered, inhaled a fiery assault of pepper, and sneezed and inadvertently dumped a heavily-loaded spoonful into the stew. "Shit!" he cursed, helplessly. "Now you've done it. Also, that's just plain rude, asking someone to his face if he's dying. And talking about his health behind his back."

"Hey, you're the one who dumped all that pepper into the stew," Logan pointed out. "So much for telling me you cook in groups all the time, it's your favourite hobby…"

"Yes, and when that happens, people don't normally take the chance to ask me ridiculously personal questions when we're cooking," Neil growled. "I like spicy food, and even I'm not sure I want to taste this."

Logan sighed and dipped a small spoon into their stew, tasting it. He winced. "Yeah, I think you definitely overdid it with the pepper there."

"We did," Neil said. "You are not relieving yourself of responsibility in this matter. My hot stews are deliriously delicious, not an outright assault on the senses. Go get some water. I'm gonna see if I can get rid of some of the excess pepper, but I think we're gonna have to dilute this."

As if the caller had sensed a moment of weakness, his mobile chose that moment to go off. "Oh, what now?" Neil muttered darkly. The caller ID showed it was Eva, and with a sigh, he picked up.

"Are you two done?" Eva asked, immediately.

"What happened to 'Hi Neil', or 'Hey Neil, great to talk to you, what's up?' Now it's all chop chop, cracking the whip, 'Are you two done?' You really know how to make someone feel loved, Eva." Neil put Eva on speaker mode, setting the phone on a relatively clean area of the countertop so he could get on with trying to remove sodden lumps of pepper from the stew.

"Uh-huh," Eva said, dryly. "Nice talking to you, Neil. Are you two done?"

"Your bedside manner needs work, Dr. Rosalene," Neil said. "And no, we are not done, and we will continue being not done until you stop nagging us. Perfection takes time, you know. Patience, my very young Padawan."

He heard Eva sigh; possibly the murmur of voices in the background. "All right, but if you and Logan are any later, the rest are going to start without you. Consider yourself warned."

"Duly noted." He disconnected and resumed trying to salvage the stew. Fortunately, not all the pepper had dissolved, so it wasn't that difficult to remove it, though he wasn't going to get everything.

"Eva called?" Logan asked, returning with a beaker of water.

"Thanks," Neil said, ignoring Logan's question, taking the beaker from him and adding its contents to the stew, and stirring about. He tasted it and shook his head. "Now we're going to need to add the chili paste again."

"You just dumped a load of pepper in and now you want to add chili paste?"

"We just dumped a load of pepper in," Neil corrected, "And yes. The chili paste is more sweet and savoury than spicy and we definitely want the tofu stew to actually taste good." He located the torn packet of chili paste and squeezed out a thick, red lump of chili paste and added it to the stew pot. "If there's one thing you wanna learn from this fiasco, Logan, it's that cooking is like chemistry. Lots of times, you screw up but you don't wanna repeat the experiment. So you gotta improvise."

"You know, I'm reasonably certain that's not what chemistry is about," Logan retorted. "My teacher used to keep shouting at me for not being precise enough."

"Eh," Neil dismissed that with a negligent wave of his ladle, the gesture sending droplets of stew flying. "Then your teacher sucks. You're learning from a master here."

"I'm starting to doubt that proposition here," Logan muttered, mutinously. So much gratitude, Neil thought, dryly. He should've just left Logan to fend for himself at the pot-luck.

"Uh-huh, well, stick with me, and we'll be bringing them a pot of spicy tofu so finger-lickin' good they'll be dreaming about it for years to come."

"It's not fried chicken, you know."

"Yeah, and if you keep focusing on the negative, you're never going to make it in the kitchen. Breathe! Let the Force flow through you!"

The matter of Neil's health was forgotten; or at least, Logan did not bring it up again.

"Hey Neil!" Neil recognised the voice at once, but didn't slow his stride. "Wait up! I've got a question to ask you!"

He drew to a stop and turned about to see Eddie Doyle rushing down the corridor to catch up with him. Warily, Neil said, "It had better not be about whether I'm dying." It seemed like practically everyone at SigCorp had caught on to that rumour, and Rox continued to deny she had been the one to spread it, but who else could it have been, really?

He was absolutely sick and tired of having to explain to everyone that no, he was perfectly fine, just because he wasn't playing pranks on Eva all the time didn't mean he was dying, sure, he was SigCorp's resident bad boy, but there wasn't any need to get positively excited about the prospect of his death.

"Wait, you're dying?" Eddie stared at Neil, aghast. "I mean, man, that's terrible. What…"

"No," Neil growled, "I'm not dying."

Eddie frowned dubiously. "I mean, you're rather pale these days, and you've been very quiet of late, and you seem like you're tired out all the time, but I guess that's just…"

"I'm perfectly fine," Neil snapped, and turned to go, but Eddie reached out and grabbed hold of him.

"Hey, can we just forget it? I mean, shucks, that wasn't my question anyway, but you brought it up, so…"

"Yeah, okay," Neil said, tonelessly. If this meant Eddie was going to never bring up that question again, he was more than fine with dealing with whatever Eddie's other, actual question was. "Shoot."

"Well, I was hoping you could tell me more about the review process, because I'm kind of up for contract review and Lisa says it isn't a big deal but I'm pretty worried about the whole thing.

Neil raised an eyebrow. "You're on contract review?" he asked, mentally calculating with a little dismay at the swift, unnoticed passage of time before he realised—yes, it had been that long, just enough for Eddie to finish the first leg of his contract. "You're probably better off asking someone like Eva, honestly. My case was pretty unusual."

Eddie grimaced. "Yeah, well, actually, about that…" He fiddled with the looping cords of his poncho. "Lisa says you took a transfer from Maintenance, didn't you?"

Neil nodded cautiously, feeling slightly uncomfortable with how offhandedly Eddie had spoken of it; cornered, even. He supposed he just didn't like it when people talked about him. Rox had been right when she'd said he liked his secrets: he liked his past vague and sufficiently mysterious and multiple-choice. He didn't like spilling his guts to his colleagues.

At least, not without a fight.

"Cool. It'd be great if you didn't spread this around, but I'm a transfer too. Used to work in memory reconstruction with Mnemosyne." And there was that grimace again. "Ran as soon as I could, and SigCorp was hiring, so that worked out well for me! Except now my contract's up for review and like I said, I'm worried. Any little bit helps."

"Huh. You don't say," Neil whistled. Technically, what they did at SigCorp fell under the broad aegis of memory-reconstruction as well, but PR preferred the term 'life-generation.' "We don't just take memories and rebuild them," Rob had said, during one of his many lectures. "We create entire alternate lives, and we give people the power to choose again."

But Mnemosyne—he'd heard about them. They went down the deep, dark end of the memory-reconstruction pool; diving into suspects' memories and trying to draw out what information they could from those. What a mess.

"Well, then you're probably in better shape than I was during my review."

"I guess," Eddie said, smiling awkwardly. "Do they count previous work experience on your progression track?"

Neil frowned. "It helps, sure. But they care more if you run around screwing up each assignment, racking up the lawsuit counts…" He could all but hear Eva acidly reminding him that he was lucky lawsuit threats didn't count. "Take a chill pill, go play some computer games or something."

Eddie sighed, his fingers still worrying at the frog closures on his poncho. "They don't review the recordings of your previous cases, though?" It was his tone, rather than phrasing, which told Neil that Eddie had asked a question.

"If they really want 'em, HR'll get a technician to pull up the data and generate a recording and a transcript. Better hope you didn't swear too much in there, Eddie."

Eddie paled. "Aw, shit—"

"Just messing with ya!" Neil smirked as he began to walk away again. "Swearing's really the least of your worries. SigCorp's equipment adds a profanity filter to recordings by default."

He didn't mention that any technician worth their salt was capable of altering records. That way, HR and Compliance saw what they wanted; Neil and Eva kept their jobs. Odds were good that Lisa knew those same tricks. But Neil'd been just about as helpful as he had an intention to be. File that under social interactions for the week.

"All right, thanks, I guess!" Eddie called out after him.

Rob accosted him as he was heading back from the washroom. "Your office or mine?" Rob asked, brusquely.

"Why, Rob, if I didn't know better, I'd think you had impure designs on my virtue," Neil drawled. "For the record though, while I like long hair, I'm not sure I like it on yo—"

Rob dragged him into his own office, and shut the door behind them. "Stop drawing attention," the older man admonished.

Neil's eyes flicked towards the closed door. "You think dragging me into your office isn't screaming "Oh hey, check me out!", complete with flashing neon letters?"

Rob's smile was a brief upturn of the corners of his mouth, a flash of amusement that was gone in an instant, replaced by Rob's usual imperturbable calm. "It isn't attention-grabbing if I've called you in to yell at you."

Great, Neil thought. Rob's gone and developed a sense of humour. At least, he thought it was a joke. Respect points on the deadpan delivery, even. Neil couldn't object to that. "Fine," he said, curtly. "So what is this really about?"

"Are we going to be able to finish on schedule?" Rob folded his arms across his chest as he studied Neil, dark eyes unfathomable. "It has come to my attention that a number of our colleagues have expressed their concern about your current state of health."

Neil groaned. "Not this drek again," he muttered. "In the past few days, I have been repeatedly accosted by just about everyone who seems to be utterly convinced that I'm dying."

Rob nodded to his coat pocket. "You still taking the pills?"

Neil simply stared at him, impassively. Two could play at stonewalling, and he had one hell of a poker face, too. He should've known, really. He'd had to bring the bottle along on that job, had ducked out to medicate, and of course Rob had come out to yell at him and had seen them.

"Well?"

"Frankly, Rob, it's none of your business." He settled for a cutting bluntness instead.

"Perhaps," Rob replied. "Neither is your little project though, if you want to get technical."

"I'm a technician," Neil drawled. "We thrive on technicalities. If you want out, you just have to say it."

Rob shook his head, impatiently. "It's not about being out or in. I'm trying to tell you that a number of us are worried for you—as your co-workers. Especially where it concerns you, and your health." He sighed. "Do you have to make this—" A word spoken, as if pulling teeth. "—so difficult?"

"Yeah," Neil said, "That's just great, thanks. That's it, then? S'pose I'll just show myself out. Oh, and you can tell everyone asking that I'm doing just fine, and I'm not about to keel over and die anytime soon."

He sauntered out of Rob's office, shutting the door none-too-quietly behind him. Rob didn't stop him.

"You look like shit," Willis said.

Neil kind of wished that the awkward from back when he and Eva'd run into the McMillans getting frisky in the meeting room hadn't gone away by now. It sure'd have stopped Willis from telling him things like that.

"I'm pretty sure that's not what she said when she picked me up last night," he drawled. "Chicks dig this smooth but manly face, y'know."

Willis raised an eyebrow. "Not sure about that, son," he said, gravely. "I'll have you know, back when Taima and I were dating…"

"Okay, stop, no," Neil said, firmly. It was always best to be firm when Willis McMillan started getting into TMI territory. If you weren't—as Eddie often was—you'd wind up listening to Willis tell you stories of the many, many episodes in his relationship with Taima, which would segue into further reflections on existing in marital bliss and maintaining a healthy libido. Neil had figured that out after Willis told him the story of the coffee shop and now preferred to cut Willis off before he even got started. "We are not going there, did you want something, why are you in my personal space?"

Willis chuckled. "Why, Taima wanted me to check in on you. Something about your urgent re-configuration work, and whether your equipment was doing fine." He couldn't hide his amusement. "Also, that I should add in some reference to Taima's niece, and how great a match she'd be for you."

"The equipment is perfectly fine," Neil said, pointedly. "I'm a technician. This is my job. I'm good at it."

"So am I," Willis said, easily. "So am I. In any case—" he winked at Neil. "I suppose we can pretend we've had that conversation?"

"Yeah," said Neil, fervently. "We can definitely do that, thanks. I'm great at pretending!"

Some days, he hated his co-workers. Some days.

"All right," Willis agreed, peaceably. "So that's it, then. Wasn't going to say it, but damn, you really do look like shit." He turned to leave Neil's office, his cane thumping against the carpeted floor.

Neil winced. "I told you already, that's not what she said."

"There's a betting pool going on," said Lisa, matter-of-factly.

Neil raised an eyebrow, looking up from the adjustments he was making to Lisa's issued SigCorp equipment. Even now, it felt as though he was being assessed, as if Lisa would chew him out if he did anything sloppy or made any amateur mistakes. Lisa always held everyone—herself included—to high standards, which, truthfully, Neil respected her for. "First, do I really want to know this? Second, I'm insulted that I haven't been allowed in on it."

"Probably not," Lisa admitted. "But you haven't asked the most important question."

"I'm almost dreading it, now." Neil cracked the housing of the machine and whistled in surprise as tendrils of grey-black smoke issued forth. He turned away and coughed into the sleeve of his lab coat, trying to get some air. "Wow, what did you do to this?"

Lisa was frowning down at the defunct machine. "There was a power surge when we were setting up earlier."

"Yeah, but the fuses should've kicked in—which they did, since they're deader than the dinosaurs. But this is fried. Like, so fried that if this were a chicken drumstick, they'd be selling it at KFC."

"The CPU shouldn't have fried," Lisa agreed. "That's odd in and of itself."

"Uh-huh," Neil said. "Thing is, you didn't need me to tell you that, did you? You could've dealt with it yourself—you'll need new fuses, of course, and Maintenance should probably take a crack at it. So what's this really about?"

She studied him, critically. "Roxie's pretty convinced you're dying. So is Logan."

"I am going to murder them," Neil stated, icily calm. "I am going to strangle them with their own equipment. I am going to re-program their equipment to play 'Ice, Ice, Baby' non-stop while they're traversing someone's memories. I am going to make sure the coffee dispenser only gives them shitty coffee."

"That's a lot of dedication," Lisa said. That was the other thing about Lisa: nothing seemed to rattle her. With Eva, you just had to know which buttons to push. Neil had never, ever discovered what could set Lisa off.

Neil rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "You try going to the office everyday with everyone whispering and tiptoeing around you like you're made of spun glass."

Lisa had to admit it would be fairly annoying. There was justice in the world.

"Wait," Neil said, finally putting two and two together. "That betting pool…is it, by any chance, on the odds of me dying? And how?"

"Well…" said Lisa, which was an answer in itself.

"Okay, so before I freak out and go bankai on this entire building…Anyone put down money on me not dying?"

Lisa, it had to be said, wasn't fazed even then. But then, Neil'd done his practicum under her, so all things considered, he supposed she was sort of used to his problem-solving methods.

"Unfortunately, no," Lisa informed him.

"You didn't."

"I'm not saying it; you said it."

"Even Eva?" Neil demanded. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know that answer, but then again, he wasn't sure he could stand not knowing.

"Well…" Lisa began removing the melted fuses, carefully.

"What did she bet," he said, flatly.

"Neil—" and he knew this, caught the note of warning and mild worry in her voice. Still, he pressed on.

"Don't 'Neil' me. What did she bet?"

"A dollar," Lisa said, at last, giving in.

"Are you kidding me?" Neil exploded. "Sheesh, she bets on me dying and she just puts down a dollar? That is not cool. That is so not cool I don't even have words for this."

"What difference would it have made?" Lisa wanted to know.

"You can't even buy a coffee with a dollar!" Neil snapped. "It's like she doesn't trust me, except on two levels instead of one."

"Neil," said Lisa. "I think you need to calm down, and have a biscuit—"

He stormed out of Lisa's office, intent on having it out with Eva.

"Eva!" Neil exclaimed, bursting into her office.

Eva had been working on her performance review; she sighed, and looked over at him. He thought he saw a flash of concern in her eyes, mingled with surprise, but it was quickly gone.

"What is it, Neil?"

"I am extremely offend," Neil said, hands planted firmly on his hips, "That you put a dollar down in a bet on me dying. A dollar, Eva! You can't even buy a coffee with a dollar! You can't do anything with a dollar!"

"There's a dollar store down the corner," Eva said. "And they sell instant coffee."

"They sell shit that markets itself as coffee," Neil retorted. "Also, I'll thank you not to even go around betting on my death in the first place."

"Are you dying?" There was that concern again, buried deep, and a tiny part of him wondered why he so seldom saw it revealed so plainly: why the nature of their friendship was to keep these things concealed beneath biting remarks and sharp exchanges. "Neil, just tell me, damnit. I know you're still on the painkillers. I know that you're tired all the time, and that you fall sick almost every other day, and just…I just…" the words came tumbling out of her mouth. "I'm just worried about you."

He could almost, almost hear the unspoken 'you ass' at the very end of her statement.

Neil studied Eva carefully. "Why yes," he said, honestly. "Of course I am."

Eva said, "But you—I…you said you were fine, the painkillers were just because you walked into a concrete wall—"

He really wanted to ask her why she'd even placed that bet in the first place if she thought he was fine.

Neil raised an eyebrow. "Technically, we're all dying, Eva," he pointed out, dryly. "I hope I wasn't the one to break the news to you."

"You, you…" Eva growled, and by this point, she was on her feet. She lunged and smacked him lightly on the chest. "Damn you, Neil, stop making me worry!"

"You mean you were worried?" he asked, innocently. "It's a good joke. I'm a technician. We thrive on this curious little species called technicalities."

Eva took one deep breath. And then another. She wasn't even groaning at the joke, which wasn't a good sign. He chalked down another point of alarm on his mental Eva-meter. This time, Neil carefully stayed out of punching range, just in case. He knew from long, painful experience that you did not want to get between Eva's right hook and whatever it was aimed at.

Sick kara-kwon-chun moves be damned.

"You're serious. You're okay."

"As a thermal detonator. I'm okay. The rumours of my swift and impending death are greatly exaggerated."

"Then, why the…"

"Why the what? It takes a lot of energy to carry shiny boxes for a living, dumpling. I get tired a lot. Also, there's a horrid virus circulating my neighbourhood, and I have a weak immune system."

Eva bristled at his use of the term 'dumpling', but asked, unconvinced, "And the painkillers?"

Neil sighed. "Sheesh, I need them, okay? Do you really wanna start exchanging our personal medical histories, Eva? 'Cause if we get started, this is not gonna go somewhere either of us wants to be." And wasn't that a scary thought: the idea of the two of them locked together in this office, spilling out each and every dirty detail of their personal lives and medical histories?

Eva worried at her lip. "You're okay," she said, one last time, looking him right in the eye, more question than statement, full lie-detector mode. "You're not dying—faster than normal."

"Nah," said Neil, and meant it. "I'm good."

A/N: Vaguely related but not continuous with Story of Your Life. Ironically, I started writing this before SoYL, but only went back and finished it later. (You can tell from the mention of Mnemosyne and how Neil doesn't express familiarity with Mnemosyne. I was still fiddling with the backgrounds when I wrote that section.) Basically, this fic shouldn't be at all taken seriously. I wrote it as a breath of fresh air from all the doom and gloom and angst, and to make (gentle, I hope!) fun of how a few things (the painkillers, Neil's lowered health bar) has led to so many theories about Neil dying.

-Ammaren