A/N: Have fun on vacation, MISSZ-SPARR0W!

Chapter VII: Each Other's Savior

"With all my heart, I'm sure, we're closer than we ever were. I don't have to hear or see, I've got all the proof I need...Oh, the people who don't see the most see that I believe in ghosts. If that makes me crazy, then I am." – Diamond Rio

Shuddering as she watched Mort disappear into her room, Layla leaned back against the handrail, anxiously digging her fingernails into the wood. Her thoughts were jumbled as all hell.

(Omigodwhathaveidoneinevershouldhavelethimgointhereallalonenowaytodefendhimselfwhatifitsapsychowho'llkillusall)

But in no more than five seconds, he was in and out of there, empty-handed and unscathed. Layla stared at him in shock, while Mort wouldn't even look at her as he trudged back upstairs, brushing past her. When her vocal cords were able to function again, she called up to him, "W-Wait!"

Mort stopped in his tracks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robe. He did not turn around to face her. "Yesss?"

She let go of the handrail, unclenching her fingers. "Well…" Not exactly sure what she was planning to say, she winged it, hoping what came out of her mouth didn't come across as too odd. "You didn't see anyo—anything in my room?"

At this, Mort turned around on his stair, expression solemn, within an inch of being provoked. "Why yes, love, I admit I did." When she gasped suddenly, her face contorting into a look of horror, he explained himself. "There was a bed, I believe…paintings all over the walls…a suitcase…plenty of things. Why?"

Layla slowly exhaled, not realizing she had been holding her breath. She momentarily felt sick to her stomach, getting all worked up like that. "I meant, if you saw…" Thinking fast, she cooked up a lie as impeccably as she cooked up meals. "Well, there was a bug in there…earlier. A wasp or something."

Now Mort was the one to look panicked. "A wasp? Are you sure?"

She gave a shrug, nervously clasping her hands, intertwining and re-intertwining her fingers. "Don't worry, I'll get rid of it." Giving him one last look, she headed into the kitchen, pretending to look for something to kill the imaginary bug with.

His mind at ease about the 'bug', Mort stood on his stair a moment, contemplating, before heading back to his study. Now that he thought about it, his appetite wasn't completely vanquished. The thought of a bag of Doritos was very appealing indeed, but he'd rather not be around Layla at the moment. Of course, he had expected her reaction to be moderately explosive when she found out he was reading her dream book without her permission. However, he hadn't been planning on her even reacting to it, because he had never planned on her knowing. He was embarrassed at getting caught, more than anything. Lord only knew what she thought of him now. Being around each other would be awkward, and it would be best if he helped in keeping that to a minimum.

(Hey, at least she didn't smack you one.)

He plopped down at his monitor, sulking. "Who says it wasn't about to be the other way around?" he muttered, not really meaning it, but sick of hearing that damned I-told-you-so speech.

(DON'T YOU DAYRE EVEN JOKE ABOUT THAYT)

Mort let out a bellow of pain, his hands instinctively shooting up to cover his ears. Even when his inner voice raised his, well, his voice, he was never that loud. Not to mention the fact that his inner voice lacked a honky-tonk accent. The agony Mort's head was now enduring was more excruciating than any migraine he'd ever had.

(YEW LAY A HAND AWN HER, AND YUR A DAYD MAN)

He cried out again, much louder this time, at the forcefulness of this voice within the confines of his troubled mind. It was as though all the horrible, murderous thoughts that had gathered over these six miserable months had merged into one, resulting in this foreign tongue that could be nothing but evil. Groaning and trembling, he felt himself about to be sick, but his legs were so weak, he couldn't even raise himself out of the chair. So Mort did what he had to; he swiveled his head and body to the side, away from his desk, and threw up, his eyes tearing at the horrid taste of it, his throat burning as the harsh acids glided up over the soft tissues. Most likely, it was mainly acids, considering he ate like a bird these days. When he decided he was finished, he quickly turned his head again, unable to look at the vomit that now covered the floor, as well as his ornate rug; otherwise, he'd just sick up again. Pulling his glasses off, he rubbed at his eyes frenziedly. His skin was the only thing that kept him from going off in a thousand directions at once.

"Mort?" a voice called out, having heard his cries.

"Layla…" he answered back feebly, never so glad to hear his cousin's voice. She was coming closer, up the stairs to help him. He wiped at his lips, which had turned as pale as Layla's skin; his hands were still clammy and shaking like leaves, but, he told himself, there was no reason to be scared. He wasn't alone in this.

However, as he soon learned, the figure climbing up the stairs to be by his side was not Layla. Whatever it was, it had cruelly mimicked her voice, giving him the false hope that help was on the way. As he looked up to the blurry figure, squinting in attempt to discern who it was, the urge to vomit again took hold of him.

It was the man from the book, direct from the pages; A dark specter, wispy like smoke, with a wide-brimmed black hat perched on his head. And his eyes, once empty hollow sockets, glowed with a stark white light. The horrible voice Mort had heard inside his head was now all around him.

ANY MORE MISHAPS LAHK TH' BOOK INCIDENT, AN' AH'LL TAKE WHAT A WAWNT, WHAT'S RAGHTFULLY MAHN, AN' LAGHT ON OUTTA HERE, LEAVIN' YEW HIGH AN' DRY.

As the man spoke, his mouth never moved. He advanced on Mort, painfully slow but predatory.

YEW MAY HAVE MADE ME, BUT THAT DOAN MAKE YEW NO BOSS OVER ME. WE'VE GAWT OURSELVES A DEAL, WHETHER YEW LAHK IT ER NOT.

Mort found himself no longer able to comprehend any of his surroundings, the terror becoming too great to handle. The last time he felt like this, he had been barely a teenager, pulled out to sea during an unfortunate family outing at the beach. Everything around him was in murky shades of blue. Blue…the last color he thought he would see. And now, the blue of the man's button-up shirt screamed out at him. Mort saw himself drowning in that blue.

I'LL TAKE CARE O' WHAT IT IS YEW WANT ME TO DO, BUT I AIN'T GOWNA DO SOMETHIN' FER NOTHIN'.

But how had that scare at the beach ended? Certainly not with his death. No, Mort had lived to tell the tale. All thanks to his cousin…There had been no lifeguard on duty. Layla was the only one brave enough to swim out to him, risking getting pulled out to sea herself. Hers was the first face he saw when he awoke, safe on the sand, choking on salty, metallic-tasting water and spitting it up, after she had worked to force air back into his lungs. She had saved him from the violent azure.

AH'M JUS' GIVIN' YEW A FRIENDLY WARNIN' AHEAD O' TAHM: YEW'LL HAND HER OVER WITHOUT A FUSS.

On that last note, the blue faded and was replaced by a heavenly blackness, which Mort allowed to close in on him. It swallowed him whole, rescuing him from the all-too-real nightmare. His body fell forward, dangling in air, before collapsing into a heap, taking the chair down with him. The back of his head hit the ground first, making a sound like an eggshell cracking, but Mort was submerged too far into unconsciousness to feel a thing.

…

The man was still in her room. He had to be.

Listening as Mort returned to his desk, ire began to rise in Layla at the thought of a stranger invading their home. It was vaguely comparable to the same anger she felt when she discovered her cousin to be in possession of the only other friend she'd had these past few months. He wasn't snooping around in a pervert type of way, she knew Mort too well to think that. It just hurt her that he was reading into her personal business, wanting to turn her into somewhat of a cash cow.

Grabbing her bottle of Jack, Layla decided that she would live in fear until she knew for sure whether she had just imagined the man, or if he really was there, a looming threat to she and Mort's lives, or at least their belongings. She hadn't spent a single moment away from this cabin ever since she arrived; she considered it her safe haven, and she didn't know what she would do, or if she could handle it, if her home was no longer a place of refuge. She would make it real fast, wouldn't waste any time in discovering the truth. She would rampage through her room like a cyclone, so quickly that if somebody was hiding out in there, they wouldn't be able to react to her in time.

She counted nice and slow to herself, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, feeling like she was being punched in the chest every time her heart beat, her stance unsteady, her grip on the bottle a bit loose due to the sweat building up on her palms. But dammit, she had to know.

Then she raced forth, scampering like a madwoman out of the kitchen, past the staircase, and into her room, flinging the door open. She realized the light was still on, which it rarely was, as she tore open the door to her tiny closet, the bottle still raised in her right hand in attack mode. Her hands clawed through all her clothes hanging on the rack, knocking a few assorted blouses and dresses off their hangers as she rifled through to the back of her closet. Then she turned and jumped onto her bed, standing tall so she could see over to the other side, where someone could plausibly be hiding out. Lastly, in one swift movement, she jumped off her bed, landing hard on her knees, and pushed up the bedskirt, wildly looking around for the presence of a warm body.

Nothing.

Nada.

"Fuck…"

She resisted the urge to hurl the bottle across the room as she stood up. Instead, she flopped down onto her bed, the bursts of energy borne of fear quickly leaving her. So she had just imagined it. Layla wasn't sure whether to be relieved or, strangely enough, disappointed, and for the upteenth time today, she felt ready to cry. How had the night gotten so fucked up in little more than ten minutes? The day hadn't been too unbearable, had it? Not for her, at least. The dream and all—

"But that's all it was…" a suddenly more reasonable Layla found herself whispering, to no one in particular. "Just a dream, and I can't forget that. Serves me right for relying on a fantasy world to make me happy. If I just got my head out of the clouds—"

While deep in thought, she could've sworn she heard someone saying her name. They sounded far away, but the despair in their voice was apparent. She looked up at the ceiling, wondering if it was Mort who was calling her, but he didn't call out to her again. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold, and turned over on her side, curling up into a fetal position. The whiskey sloshed around in the bottle that was damn near welded to her right hand, trying to tempt her into having a sip, but she was no longer thirsty. Last thing she needed was more alcohol to muddle her up worse. It already had her…

Wait a minute…hadn't Mort complained about that to her? Something about seeing things that weren't there?

Then the precarious thud sounded from the floor above her, too loud to ignore. She was already cold, but the resonance of that noise turned her blood to ice. She disliked Mort at the moment, that was true, but the thought of him getting hurt, even now, was more than she could bear. One of those odi et amo things. In no time at all, she had leapt up from her bed, another burst of newfound energy coursing through her. Her fear that Mort was hurt in some way exceeded even the fear of the unknown as she hurried to the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time, dropping her Jack Daniels somewhere along the way.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary, unless you counted the fact that Mort lie unconscious on the floor, folded over on himself. The large puddle of vomit next to his desk had begun to attract Chico's attention; he was gingerly lowering himself from his chair, as though he were a grocery store patron heading over to the free sample stand.

"Chico, no!" Layla shouted. The old blind dog stopped in his tracks, staring up in the direction of her voice. "Go downstairs, git!"

Layla had lived in the same house as Chico long enough to know two things about him: he never obeyed commands, and he had never been a ferocious sort of dog. Chico stayed within bounds of his personality with the first never, staying put where he was, but when Layla rushed to Mort's side, Chico broke character. He begun growling at her in a low tone, baring his tiny teeth, as his ears flattened against his head.

She took a cautious step back, a bit startled by the way Chico was acting. He was probably just trying to be protective of his owner. Still, he had never showed any signs of aggression towards Layla, not once. "Chico, bad dog. I said git!" she reiterated.

The growls turned to barks as Chico stared her down with his sightless eyes, seemingly about to lunge towards her. With all this noise, Mort began to awaken from his stupor. "Ugh…Chico…stop…" he groaned, brushing his hair out of his face.

"Oh God, Mort…you're alright," Layla gasped. She decided to take her chances with the agitated Chico, pushing past the dog to get to Mort. She knelt down beside him as Mort placed a hand to the back of his head, trying to lift himself off the ground. "Are you bleeding?" she asked anxiously. Chico snapped at her, and in retort, Layla grabbed him by his collar, pushing him away as he continued yapping at her.

"No…no, I'm not," Mort muttered. He half-squinted, half-glared at Chico, who persisted on treating Layla like she was something to be destroyed. "Chico, get OUT!" he yelled sternly, as Layla helped him into a sitting position. Daunted, not by the command, but by his owner scolding him, Chico ceased his barking and whimpered, high-tailing it downstairs.

Layla looked him over, lightly running her fingers over the bump at the back of his head. "I think you might have a concussion…" she murmured, gazing into his pupils to see if they were dilated. "What happened? One minute you were fine, and the next…"

Mort held onto her shoulders, squinting as he tried to focus on her face, trying to remember the events that occurred before he found himself on the floor. Just as before, Layla had come to his rescue. "I…" he began, but he wasn't sure how to finish the sentence.

She watched him with some amount of concern. This didn't sound good. "Do you remember anything that happened before you fell?"

"It…I-I don't know…it's difficult to make out…" Mort let his eyes close, fumbling through the files of his mind. A few moments of this, and he had to give up, heaving a sigh of distress. It hurt his head too much to think. "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "Nothing."

She decided to test him. "Well what about my book?"

"Your dream book?"

"Yes."

He raised an eyebrow, rubbing his head again. How could she know of his plans to read her book for story ideas? "What about your dream book?"

Layla frowned, studying his eyes for any look of real recognition upon bringing up the subject of her book. He seemed to be telling the truth about not knowing, but how could he not remember that little scuffle? "You could have a really serious injury, Mort. I think we should call a doctor."

(She'll do no such thing. Tell her that.)

"You'll do no such thing," Mort repeated the words of his inner voice, reaching his arm up to his desk, reaching blindly for his glasses.

With a sigh, Layla grabbed his glasses for him, miles out of his reach, and slipped them on him. "Don't be childish, Mort. What if—"

"Forget about it," Mort interjected rudely, surprised that he was getting so exasperated with her; she was only trying to help after all, but he couldn't help how he felt. "I'm going to lay down." He pulled out of her grasp and stood up, grimacing at the awful acidic taste in his mouth.

"If you have a concussion, you shouldn't sleep," Layla prattled, also getting to her feet.

Mort shook his head, wanting to ignore her, but it only caused his head to ache worse. "Maybe I'll remember something when I wake up."

"At least let me put some ice on your head!" She kept a close watch on him as he began ambling rather tremulously towards the stairs. "Oh no, you don't…you're going to your own bed for once." Layla commandeered him, taking him by the shoulders and steering him into his bedroom, where he hadn't slept in quite some time. It was always the couch, the couch, the couch. "The couch doesn't give you enough support. The bed will be much more comfortable."

"Can't you just leave me alone now? I'm fine." Mort muttered, trying to wrench himself out of her grasp, but she kept a tight hold on him, having to shove him towards the bed.

Now it was Layla's turn to get annoyed. "No! I will NOT leave you alone! Head injuries are serious, Mort. People die from these sorts of things."

Grumbling to himself, Mort surrendered to her wishes and sat down on the edge of his bed. The only way to stop her nagging would be to do as she said. But what was wrong with dying? Didn't sound like such a bad idea to him.

"Doesn't it scare you that you can't remember anything?" Layla pressed. "Like what made you sick, and what made you fall out of your chair in the first place?"

Mort didn't have an answer for that. He struggled to find an excuse, to get her off his back.

(Blame it on your starving yourself. Of course you're weak and sickly. You've hardly eaten at all today.)

"For God's sake, Layla, just calm down," he said, more confident now, "It's probably because I haven't been eating very much lately." Mort lay back onto his pillows, wincing as his injured head touched the fabric, soft as it was. He was forced to lay on his side.

Layla seemed to be swayed by this. "Well yes, that would certainly do it. And here you were today, begging me to eat something."

"We're each others savior, I guess," Mort remarked as she tucked him in, pulling the covers up to his shoulders.

A smirk graced her lips, the comment giving her a faint warm-and-fuzzy feeling inside, though she knew he had probably intended it sarcastically. "Some savior you are, Mister Lumpy," she said, reciprocating his sarcasm.

"Go on now," he said, gazing up at the ceiling. "Go be someone else's mother for awhile."

"As you wish," Layla replied, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek before he could stop her. "I'm just…glad you're okay."

She walked out the door, a bit reluctantly, and looked back at him when she reached the doorway. She wasn't too worried about him now. It was typical of those who suffer concussions to be irritable. And it seemed quite plausible that his scant eating had caused him to get so sick. But a small part of her, in the very back of her mind, made her wonder if that wasn't the reason at all. Maybe—

"So tell me," Mort wondered aloud, when Layla had left, shutting the door halfway. "What really did cause me to black out just then?"

(You mean you don't know?)

"Obviously not. I can't remember a damn thing, so would you mind enlightening me?"

(I'd tell you if it was important. You know that...)

"And?"

(And it is important. But I can't tell you.)

Mort pulled the covers up to his chin, allowing his eyes to close. "Why not?"

(He's grown too powerful to stand up to. And if he destroys me, you'll have nothing left.)

"Who? Who are we talking about?" he mumbled sleepily, too tired for the words to truly sink in.

(The Kool-Aid Man, that's who. That glass bitch. Sweet dreams, Morty...)

...

The first thing Layla did was head downstairs for some ice for Mort's head, whether he liked it or not, as well as to get some cleaning materials for the mess he made. Layla disregarded Chico's growling at her from his bed, both when she came down the stairs, and when she walked back up. Stupid dog.

When she entered Mort's room again, he was already out like a light. She watched him awhile, just to make sure he was still breathing, before she grabbed his other pillow and lay it against his back, so he wouldn't roll over. Then she carefully applied the bag of ice, wrapped in a paper towel, to the back of Mort's head. The chill of the icepack made him stir a little, but he remained asleep, lying still. Hopefully he would stay just like that for the duration of the night. She would check on him every now and then, she decided, just to make sure. Relieved that she had done something to help along his healing, she shut the door halfway behind her and walked into the study.

Now for the vomit.

She approached it slowly, like one might approach a dangerous animal. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cleaned up puke, especially someone else's. It didn't get any worse than this. After a few minutes of psyching herself up, she went for it.

It would be better not to go into the gory details. But Layla was pretty proud of herself afterwards, having only felt the urge to throw up herself a few times. As she finished rinsing the stain with water, scrubbing at it on her hands and knees with a sponge, a now familiar feeling came over her. A feeling she couldn't shake: the feeling that she wasn't alone in the study. This time she couldn't see anyone out of the corner of her eye: they would have had to be directly behind her, out of her line of vision. She knew that if she turned around, she would see him standing there, the man in black, expressionlessly gaping at her as she did the most menial of tasks, just as he had watched her cooking the dinner that now sat in the kitchen, cold and unedible. That's what she envisioned anyway. But this time, she wasn't going to be afraid of him. Without a thought in her mind, she boldly turned around to face…

Nothing.

Nada.