Follow-up to Reset. Once again I betray my fascination for other people's belongings, as Edgar tries to make sense of the impact of Scriabin's hijacking of his life. I giggled a lot when writing this, because I am mean.

As usual, Edgar is the sadly neglected brainchild of Jhonen Vasquez, who is also responsible for Johnny. Scriabin is Zarla's.


BACK
by rueyeet

Edgar ascended the stairs to his small apartment in a slight haze of unreality. When Johnny had told him that it had been months since he had gone into the hospital, it had sounded far-fetched, impossible. He hadn't had any sense of time, hidden away inside his mind, but surely it couldn't have been that long.

As he had walked to his car after he and Johnny had awkwardly bid each other good night, though, he'd felt the unmistakable chill in the air that meant winter was coming. When he had last come up the cracked walk that crossed that patchy lawn, the humidity of summer had lingered in the blueness of the evening. He shivered and clutched his coat more tightly around him before he realized that he was wearing it.

Johnny watched him from the doorway until he pulled away from the curb, instead of shutting the door immediately as he usually did. Edgar drove home, something he couldn't place nagging at the edge of his consciousness. The lot adjacent to his building was full, and he had to park on the street, more than a block away. Swearing slightly under his breath, he shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged back along the street through a quiet broken only by the woosh of cars passing, or a dog barking in the distance. Suddenly he placed the odd feeling of something missing: there were no insect sounds. It was too late in the year even for the last few crickets.

Somehow he had expected his apartment to have an air of neglect, to feel deserted, but as he walked in and flipped on the lights, he was greeted by warmth and the smell of recent cooking. Of course. Scriabin had been living here, hadn't he?

Edgar stopped dead in the middle of his living room as that sunk in. Scriabin had been living in his apartment, wearing his clothes, driving his car, working at his job.

In effect, Scriabin had taken over his life.

Suddenly feeling unreasonably like an intruder in his own home, Edgar slowly removed his coat and looked around.

Edgar had always prided himself in taking some thought and care for his surroundings. Not an unseemly amount--no one would ever mistake him for an interior designer--but he wasn't one of those men who were waiting for a woman to put curtains on their windows and pick up after them. He'd made sure that things matched, that everything was tidy. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

Now, however, vibrant color intruded on the soothing neutrals: plump velvety pillows in the deep red of fine wine blurred the clean contemporary lines of his couch. The painting on the most prominent wall had been replaced with a large piece of modern art, lines of rusty red, forest green, sky blue, and black wriggling hyperactively against a mustard-gold background. On the bookshelf, a tiny but expensive-looking stereo was accompanied by a stack of CDs, an eclectic pile of jazz piano and rock and classical. Several of the small decorative items had been replaced with peculiar, idiosyncratic pieces. Edgar sat down in an oddly-shaped chair, its cinnamon red echoing the painting and the pillows. It was more comfortable than it looked.

If his home before had resembled the pages of a catalog, carefully color-coordinated, it now looked like the crew of one of those budget home-makeover shows had been through it, giddily tossing around bright hues and offbeat decor. Edgar had to admit that the overall effect wasn't exactly disagreeable, but it just didn't feel right to him. On top of that, there were things strewn all across the coffee table--magazines he'd never subscribed to, assorted mail, a CD case, and a book or two.

Struck by a sudden thought, he got up and went to look in the kitchen. The smell of cooking was stronger here. There was something in it that Edgar didn't immediately recognize, and he looked around. Had he always had curry in his spice rack? Or chili powder? He couldn't remember buying such things. He was almost disappointed to lose his private bet when he saw that the sink was not, after all, full of dirty dishes.

Don't worry, I'm no slob. Scriabin sounded highly amused. We're not complete opposites, you know.

"You certainly made yourself at home, didn't you?" Edgar didn't even try to keep the resentment out of his voice.

What? Does it bother you that it looks like someone actually lives here, now? Or are you just pissed off because that someone isn't you?

Edgar had no answer to that.

Realizing that he still wore his coat, he headed back to the bedroom to hang it up. Everything there seemed much the same until he opened the closet. More color assailed his eyes, rich reds and olive greens and French blues sprinkled with the occasional darker piece. A quick look through the drawers yielded much the same results. It didn't look like Scriabin had actually thrown anything away, though.

Edgar held up a black shirt. "You realize I'm not going to wear this stuff."

Why not? A bit of black gives things kick. Like a little pepper in a dish.

Realizing that he hadn't physically heard Scriabin's voice as he usually could when he was near enough, he looked on the desk by his bed, next to the clock. The action figure was gone.

"Where--?"

You don't think I had any use for that thing, do you? came the scornful reply.

"Where did you put it, Scriabin? Where are you?"

Right in your head, where I've always been. There was a slight edge to the words. Poor Edgar, can't sleep without his widdle toy by his bedside. Have you considered maybe a teddy bear?

"Keep your friends close, your enemies closer," Edgar threw back. "I bet you couldn't throw it out, could you? Where did you--where did you put you, Scriabin?" It sounded odd even as he said it, but he couldn't think of any other way to put it.

There was a sigh before Scriabin replied. I wouldn't get rid of anything you really thought was important. That's why there was so much I could change. It's here somewhere, I don't remember where.

Edgar began to look, pulling open various drawers with no success. As he straightened up to search elsewhere, he glanced up, into the mirror over the dresser--and gave a small startled yelp. For a horrible second, he couldn't tell if it was Scriabin he was looking at, or himself. Only the look in the eyes of his reflection, surprise and fright, reassured him that he was the one in the mirror. His hair hung down around his face, almost as long as Scriabin's had been when he'd first seen him inside the whitespace of his mind. Now he knew why Johnny had told him to get a haircut. Edgar ran his hands through the mess of wayward strands, pulling it back as if he could make it disappear that way, and caught the flash of silver at his ear.

He stared a moment in shock, then yelled, "What have you DONE?"

I've been living in your body all this time, and you're worried about an earring? Scriabin said sardonically. Priorities, Edgar. Keep your voice down, the neighbors will think you've lost it.

He took hold of the small silvery beaded ring, intending to take it out, but it was solid, and he couldn't figure out how it came off.

You're not supposed to take it out until it's healed, anyway--it could get infected. Better get to bed. You have to work tomorrow.

Edgar stood, clenching his fists impotently. How dare Scriabin make permanent changes to his--Edgar's--own body? Furniture, decorations, clothes could all be easily discarded, set to rights. But this--even if he could figure out how to get the damn thing out, it would probably leave a scar, however small.

How dare he? And what else had Scriabin done?

Uneasily, Edgar set about getting ready for bed. The routine soothed him, as long as he didn't look in the mirror for too long. As he pulled back the covers, he felt better. If he could just get back into the routine of things, surely he could purge his life of Scriabin's little changes, and then everything would be normal again. Ignoring the amusement he could faintly sense inside his head, he resolutely shut his eyes. It occurred to him that he still hadn't found Scriabin, but he told himself there'd be time to look for him later.

After several hours of tossing and turning, Edgar turned on the light, put on his glasses, and resumed his search. Eventually he found the small plastic toy standing in front of the boxes piled on the top shelf of the hall closet. He returned to his bedroom, clutching the action figure, and restored Scriabin to his rightful place on the desk.

Sometimes, Edgar, you are just the living end. Scriabin's voice carried more hostility than sarcasm, but Edgar was too tired to wonder why. Pulling the covers around him again, he fell asleep almost immediately.

Feeling much better for a good night's rest, Edgar put aside the strangeness he saw in the mirror by adding a lunch-hour haircut to his mental to-do list. If he picked up lunch on the way, he could deal with the state of his kitchen later. Edgar threw on a jacket instead of the familiar trenchcoat, and closed the door behind him, humming absently.

His improved mood lasted until he walked into the maze of cubicles in which he and his co-workers spent their days.

"Hey, Edgar!"

Edgar looked up, startled, as one of his co-workers emerged to slap his arm in greeting. "Um...hello," he managed awkwardly. He searched his memories of office parties and all-hands meetings, but couldn't remember the man's name. Scriabin? he asked hopefully.

Oh, no. You're on your own here. It's not my fault you've worked with these people--how many years, now?--and you haven't even bothered to learn half their names.

"So, how'd it go?" his colleague was saying eagerly.

"Oh, you know, fine," mumbled Edgar, just wanting to get away, back to his own little enclosure, his own familiar desk.

"Well? Did you get her phone number?"

"What?" Edgar looked at him blankly for a second before he could come up with a reply. "Oh...her. Uh, no."

The other man gave him a closer look, concerned. "You okay, man?"

"Sure. Yeah. I'm fine. Gotta get going." Edgar tried to sound casual and started to move away.

"Yeah, well, talk to you later." After a last perplexed look, his co-worker disappeared behind the grey partition.

Edgar walked down the hall, keeping his gaze right in front of him. Whatever equilibrium he had managed to regain was rapidly vanishing. He made it safely to his own small grey-walled space, and tried to fall back into his familiar routine, but his inbox was full of requests and projects he didn't remember. Fortunately, Scriabin was inclined to help him catch up.

Oh, so now you decide to be helpful?

It's no good to either of us if you lose your job, boring as it may be.

With Scriabin's assistance, Edgar sorted through the mess, trying his best to keep from speaking his side of the conversation out loud. Getting back into the swing of things wasn't as difficult as he thought. He'd been expecting to be further behind, but Scriabin had indeed kept up with Edgar's work quite adequately.

Their progress was interrupted by one of the women from another department, who came and stood behind his chair without being invited. She looked upset. Edgar didn't remember her name, either.

"Edgar, we have to talk."

That was never a good thing to hear from anyone. Edgar fumbled for words, mentally cursing Scriabin's sudden silence. "Talk...um, yeah. Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"As if you didn't know!" she said angrily, keeping her voice pitched low enough not to reach beyond his cubicle. "How you say such a thing? I--"

She fell abruptly silent, eyes flicking towards the hallway, and assumed a carefully neutral expression as Edgar's manager poked his head around the partition. "I'll get back to you about that, okay, Edgar?" She laid her hand on his back for a second, with more than casual pressure, then left. Edgar hid his dismay and confusion, and turned towards his manager, who was watching him with a wariness he'd never seen from him before.

"Yes?" Edgar kept his face as blank as he could.

"Staff meeting at three. Just a reminder."

Edgar nodded. His manager watched him a moment longer through narrowed eyes, as if unsure what to make of his response, then moved off. Expelling a breath he had been unaware of holding, Edgar dropped his head into his hands. He had never mingled much at work, not wanting to become involved in the small dramas and interpersonal politics that arose in any office. All along, he had tried to just stay under the radar, blend in, and get along. He ought to have known that Scriabin wouldn't have left well enough alone. Now Edgar didn't know what to expect from anyone. What had Scriabin gotten him into?

Scriabin? What did you do to that poor woman?

Nothing, Scriabin replied airily. I made no promises whatsoever.

Thoroughly unsettled, Edgar returned to clearing out his inbox. In his perturbed state of mind, he forgot about his haircut, and worked straight through lunch. Eventually, his computer chimed a soft reminder of the weekly staff meeting, and he picked up notepad and pen and headed for the conference room. Avoiding everyone's eyes, he sat down at the far end of the table and listened with half his mind as his manager droned through project status and administrative details and policy announcements, doodling distractedly on his notepad. The few times Edgar raised his eyes, someone always seemed to be looking at him. Their glances varied between curiosity, speculation, and even hostility. Edgar began to feel more and more like everything was slipping away, changed beyond his recognition. How could he find his way back to anything familiar, to territory that he knew?

"...So if you'll all have your surveys in by the end of this week, that would be great. Anyone have anything else?" The manager gave a cursory look around the table, expecting the usual quiet demurrals of people eager to get on with their day.

Surprising everyone, including himself, Edgar stood up. "Yes...actually, I do." All eyes went to him, and he searched briefly for the right words. "I have...sort of a personal announcement to make. Some of you may know that a while ago, I was in the hospital for a few weeks. Well, the truth is, I almost died. It was a miracle that I didn't, really. Over the last few months, I know my behavior has been...a little strange. I want everyone to know that I've been trying to work through this whole brush-with-death thing, and I just haven't been myself lately. If I have said or done anything that anyone was uncomfortable with, anything that wasn't part of a proper work environment, I completely apologize. I've got things much more under control now, and it shouldn't be a problem anymore."

He took a deep breath in the sudden silence as everyone stared at him in astonishment.

Well, I'll be. Even Scriabin sounded amazed.

Edgar's manager blinked twice, then found his tongue. "Yes, well, thank you for that, Edgar. Nice to know you're feeling, um, more like yourself." He picked up his stack of papers. "Well, if that's it, then..."

As everyone got up to leave, Edgar turned and walked back to his desk, not wanting to talk about it further to anyone. Before too long, though, his friend from that morning stuck his head around the partition. "Hey, Edgar, got a minute?"

"Sure," Edgar said wearily, and the man came in and leaned against the file cabinet behind Edgar's chair.

"When you said you weren't yourself back there, you, uh...you didn't mean that literally, did you?" He covered his unease with a nervous chuckle.

Careful, I think he's onto you, laughed Scriabin.

Edgar tried to not to show his sudden panic, and asked as casually as he could, "Why would you say that?"

"Well...this is going to sound crazy, but..." The other man studied Edgar, genuinely concerned, and shook his head. "It's just that...it's like I'm talking to a completely different person than I was yesterday." Seeing the look on Edgar's face, he quickly amended, "Yeah, I know, sounds completely nuts. I just wanted to say, y'know, if you're having a rough time, and you need help, or somebody to talk to..." He trailed off awkwardly.

Edgar was quiet a moment, surprised and touched. "Thanks. But I'll be okay, really."

"Okay, well, you know where to find me." He got up, putting a momentary hand on Edgar's shoulder, and left.

Edgar had barely a moment to wonder if maybe he hadn't kept himself a little too apart from his co-workers before the woman from earlier that day swept back into his cubicle.

"I heard about your little announcement. Very convenient." She put her hands on her hips, eyes flashing dangerously.

Feeling a headache coming on, Edgar closed his eyes for a second. "Look. I said that I'm completely sorry for whatever it is that I've done, okay? Can't we just--"

"Whatever you've done? How can you just act like nothing happened?" She stopped and stared at him, incredulous comprehension dawning. "You don't remember. You actually don't remember...do you?"

Edgar looked back at her with weary helplessness. He didn't know what else to say. "No. I'm sorry. I really don't."

She looked at him for a minute longer before she stated flatly, "You need help." Her mouth curled in disgust, and she turned to leave.

Help? Did she mean professional help? Edgar suddenly saw himself from an outsider's perspective, and realized what he would tell someone whose personality shifted so radically; knew the advice he would give to someone who confessed to hearing voices. "Wait...what did you want to talk about? Maybe I can--"

She looked back at him, letting out a short sound that wasn't really laughter. "Save it. I just thought you might like to know that I'm not pregnant." And with that, she marched off.

Pregnant.

The word resonated in Edgar's skull for a full minute before he could bear to grasp the implications. It took another minute for him to find words.

You slept with her. It wasn't a question.

I did, replied Scriabin evenly. Why not?

Why not? echoed Edgar. Because you shouldn't have, that's why!

Oh, come on, Edgar. Did you think I'd settle for being chaste and pure like you? His voice took on its accustomed mocking scorn. Or were you thinking I'd be faithful to you, that you'd be all I could ever want or need?

Edgar swore out loud before he could stop himself. Damn it, Scriabin, that's MY body you were so--so--cavalier with! How DARE you?

Oh, for heaven's sake, Edgar! Scriabin snapped. I was careful, or haven't you looked in your medicine cabinet lately? Or your wallet, for that matter? And as to whose body it is--you gave it to me! You gave up, you gave me your life! How dare you pass judgment on how I chose to live it!

As Scriabin spoke, Edgar reached for his wallet and opened it, rifled through. Tucked into the billfold was not one condom, but two. Edgar was not the sort of man who carried condoms in his wallet, and had never thought much of the sort of man who did. Almost too furious to think, he managed to coherently form two words.

How many?

Scriabin matched his anger. What the fuck does it matter?

Edgar was adamant. How many, Scriabin?

Silence.

You fucking BASTARD-- Edgar felt his blood pressure rising along with his mental voice.

I'm counting! Christ, Edgar! Scriabin paused again while Edgar seethed. About ten, I guess. Give or take.

Ten. Edgar's voice became level as white-hot fury exploded into a strangely frozen calm. You used me to have sex with ten women. Tell me, were they all my co-workers? Can I expect more of these little scenes?

No, they weren't all your co-workers. I learned that lesson pretty fast, thank you. Give me some credit. Scriabin's spiteful tone turned to smug, hateful satisfaction. Oh, and by the way--they weren't all women, either.

Edgar sat there, staring at his computer screen, until the urge to scream had subsided enough to let him turn the computer off, put on his jacket, and leave the office with a reasonable semblance of normality. By the time he had driven home and walked back from another parking space out on the street, he had managed to return his heartbeat and breathing to their usual rates. Ignoring the additions to his apartment, he threw his jacket on the couch and went straight to his file drawer, rooting through it until he found the provider directory for his company's mental health plan. Sitting on his bed, he went through it and wrote down the information for several of the most conveniently located psychologists.

"What do you think you're doing?" Scriabin's amusement still carried an undercurrent of anger.

"What do you think?" Edgar replied, glaring at the action figure. "I'm going to get rid of you, you stinking bastard, and since I can't seem to do it myself, I'm finally going to do what I should have done all along--I'm calling in a professional."

There was a long pause before Scriabin answered him. "We're way past the point where that would have worked, Edgar. It's not that simple anymore."

"We'll see," Edgar ground out through gritted teeth. He picked up the action figure, took it back to the closet, and tossed it into a box of old junk. Then he went back to his bedroom, picked up the phone, and called the first number on his list.

Yes, Edgar. The voice spoke softly in his head as the first couple rings came back over the phone line. We'll see.


This story can also be found at Zarla's site--www(dot)ashido(dot)com(slash)igtky--under Fanfics.