Unreasonable Addiction III
Chapter 9 - May
By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth
Clair woke up reluctantly the next morning, pulling the quilt over her head to escape the sunlight coming in through the window. Their activity yesterday morning must have disturbed it, because it, like all other curtains in the apartment, was generally kept tightly shut. She burrowed deeper into the blankets, determined not to be awake yet. Otto made a vague snurfing noise at that, stirred and settled back in. Two seconds later, he opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again. A low growl became an irritated groan. "Your feet are frigid."
She smiled, not opening her eyes again. "Good thing you generate enough heat for two, then." She had disappeared completely under the blankets, so her voice was muffled.
He coughed a few times, and dug the side of his head further into the pillow, his arms tightening around her so that he was almost draped over her. He tried to ignore the little cold spots that her feet made. She wiggled her toes against his shins and decided very reluctantly that she was awake. She also decided that she wasn't going to do a thing about it. Not just yet.
"Mmmm," Otto rumbled softly. "Are you that cold?" he shifted until he had her feet between his calves, and curled around her, burying her further into the blanket.
"'M always cold," she mumbled, snuggling against him. She could feel the amused heh sound that he made at that. He stayed curled around her and didn't say anything else. She savoured his warmth for a long time before pushing the blankets off her head and looking up at his face, her hair in a wild halo around her own. "Do you feel any better this morning?"
He opened his eyes, slits of deep black circles, and looked down at her. "Somewhat, yes," he mumbled. "Breathing is easier."
"Do you want another painkiller?" she offered. "I have more."
He closed his eyes again, and they burned a little less. "That might be good," he mumbled. He hated waking up--his eyes burned and his voice was weak and raspy, and he felt so heavy.
She untangled herself from him and the blankets, pulling one off the bed to wrap around herself as she went out and fetched the pills and a glass of water, bringing them both back with her. She sat on his edge of the bed and waited for him to sit up. One eye cracked open and he looked at her, seeing her watching him. After a moment, he sat up and rubbed his face, reaching out a hand for the pills and the glass, managing to grasp them and swallow the little things. The cool water felt good.
She felt his forehead with the back of her fingers, finding it still too hot for her liking. She handed him the other two pills in her hand. "You're still sick. Any way I can persuade you to stay in bed today?"
He swollowed the other pills--far, far too many of them in his opinion, and downed the rest of the water. "Mmmm, maybe," he said.
She took his glass and set it on the floor by the bed, holding the blanket loosely around her shoulders with one hand. "You'll get better fastest if you let yourself relax," she said, running her fingers through his hair. He'd slept on it oddly, and one side was crumpled and fluffy.
"And waste time lolling about?" he replied, reaching out to curl his arms around her and pull her toward him. "Unconscionable."
"Lolling about is good for you," she said, smiling and not resisting. "Enjoyable, even, from time to time."
"Is it, now?" he asked, curling around her and nuzzling her neck. "Do tell."
"Well, there are all sorts of things you can do while lolling about," she said, amused as she tipped her head back. "You can-" She paused to take in a breath as he hit the sensitive spot under her ear. "Well, you can do that." His lips left her neck and captured hers, but the next breath he took caught and he turned his head to one side, coughing hard.
She opened her eyes, looking up at him worriedly. "Are you okay?" she asked when the coughing didn't stop right away. "Damn," he grated through the coughing as it eased a little. "Ugh... damn..."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and wrapped the blanket around her again. "I'll get you a glass of water." He pulled in a breath and coughed some more, pulling the blanket around himself and lying down, his face turned to the side and pressed against the pillow in search of a cool spot. He scowled and waited for her to return. She brought back the refilled glass quickly, sitting down once more on his side of the bed. She didn't say anything, just held it out to him. He sat up, still coughing in that quiet, rapid manner that spoke of an involuntary reaction, and took the water, drinking it until he spluttered.
"Careful," she cautioned softly. "Take it easy." She took the glass back when he was done, setting it aside and laying alongside him again, her hand on his chest. "It'll pass. And it's not likely to take a month, either," she added, referring to her bout with pneumonia more than a year ago.
He lay back, closing his eyes and catching his breath still coughing occasionally. "Mmmh, let's hope not."
She pressed a light kiss to his shoulder. "Spend today in bed and I'm sure you'll be on your feet again tomorrow." She muttered something that may have been "worst patient ever," though it could also have been "first waist in Denver," and rolled away from him and off the edge of the bed with a thump, standing up nonchalantly. "I meant to do that." She pulled some cleanish clothes out of the pile and got dressed.
"Mmmfh," came the reply as he cracked open an eye to look at her before closing it again. With a sigh, he pulled the blankets up over himself. She looked down at him, pausing before putting on her shirt. She looked towards the living room, and her actuators walked in like half a spider. She pulled the harness on and fastened it, making a pained gnk sound as the needles sank home, then threading her shirt on over them. Octavius remained motionless, merely a large lump of blankets with black hair sticking out of the top. She headed out into the main room, calling up the map that he'd checked on the computer the day before. The house he'd indicated wasn't far off, north of where they were now. She memorized the directions and set about packing her stuff back into the bag she'd brought it in, taking considerably more care this time. She eventually, and reluctantly, decided that she would have to make two trips if she wanted to make any sort of speed at all. It took three free actuators to race across the roof tops, which only left one and her own arms to carry loads. So she picked up the scanner and the bag of supplies and then leaned her head into the bedroom again. "I'm going now. I'll be back soon," she said to the lump under the blankets.
He barely registered what she said, and rolled over with a sleepy "Mmmhm," before sinking further into the pillows, his mind drifting. He wondered vaguely if the painkiller was doing this to him, but he was really too tired to care.
She shut the bedroom door and crossed the room, opening the window and crawling out. The rain had stopped, though the air was still heavy and wet enough that she was glad he'd stopped insisting on coming with her. She crossed the rooftop, and the next, going as quietly as she could, since it was late morning. She should have done this at night, perhaps, but she didn't know if the new place had electricity, and she would need the light to set up her new laboratory.
She reached the house and looked down at the back of it from the branches of a tree across the alley. It looked ordinary, slightly run-down, but unremarkable. Perfect. She crept down her tree, careful not to snag her load on the branches, and sprinted across the alley, checking that no one saw. The neighborhood was quiet, with nearly no traffic out front. Very much like the last house they had had. She found a broken window in the side of the garage and was about to climb inside when she heard a sound from the front.
The sound turned out to be footsteps, and the slight form of a white-haired old lady came into view. She was very thin and small, her hair cut short and surrounding her head in a soft, chin-length bob, and she wore a thick parka of an indistinguishable shade of blue, a scarf around her neck. Under the parka hung a length of warm grey skirt that hung almost to her ankles, and insulated boots covered her feet. One gloved hand went up to her mouth, and she gasped, "Oh my..."
Clair went very still, drawing herself up straight, staring down at the woman from the full height of the actuators. She looked... vaguely familiar, as if she resembled someone that Clair knew. "Don't scream," she said, trying to think of what to do next. It had been one thing to silence Hanover and carry him off, but this was a little old lady, someone's grandmother. She wasn't that hardened. She would just have to find somewhere else. She sighed, and turned to leave.
"Do ... do you know Otto?" the old lady asked hesitantly, standing in the snow and looking strangely small.
Clair turned back, surprised, and looked down at her again. "Do you?"
"Yes... well, I did. It was a long time ago," she replied, looking at the house.
Clair looked between the house and the lady. "Are you... May?" she asked, lowering herself back to the ground. "May Parker?"
"Yes," she replied, taking an involuntary step backward. She appeared to think on something, and then continued. "Are you that Doctor Holmes that everyone is saying Otto kidnapped?"
She swept the actuators back behind her, as much out of sight as possible, and nodded. "But I wouldn't call it a kidnapping. More my idea than his."
A smile crossed May's features, her eyes twinkling. "He has that effect on people, doesn't he?" she asked.
Clair smiled despite herself. "He really does." She looked down at the snow, then up at May again. Tiny, but still taller than Clair. "I'll understand if you say no, but... come in? I haven't had a real conversation with any one other than Otto in months, and you're probably the first person I've met who isn't terrified by these." She shrugged and the actuators rippled.
There was a pause, and then she nodded, that same smile still on her face. "Why not?" he said. She reached into her purse, a formidable, tan granny-bag of holding, and retrieved a set of keys. "I still have the keys after all these years," she said, her smile turning somewhat impish. She opened the door and walked in, tutting at the dust on the floor and furnishings.
Clair followed her in, setting down the scanner and supplies on the Formica-topped kitchen table. "My name is Clair, by the way," she said impulsively, looking around, watching the woman. There was an innocence there, and a self-possession there to balance it. She could see why Otto might have been fond of her. She wondered if she knew what her nephew did.
"Clair... that's a pretty name," she said, reaching under the sink and retrieving a cloth, turning the faucet. It groaned and spluttered but finally brought forth water, and she held the cloth under it. "I don't know how he keeps the bills paid on this place," she mused. "He really does think of everything. Excuse me, dear." She walked to the table and proceeded to wipe the dust from it.
Clair watched her a moment longer, amused, and then got a second rag from under the sink and worked alongside her, cleaning the kitchen one surface at a time. She kept the actuators low and quiet, out of sight and out of mind. "He told me that he nearly married you once," she said, wiping the counter clean.
She paused, and then laughed quietly. "Yes, yes he did," she replied, her voice sounding strangely fond, her smile that of one caught in a memory. "I still have the ring he gave me... I found it in a box not too long ago. A friend of mine told me I could get a lot of money selling it on the internet, but I decided to keep it."
Clair nodded, remembering that Spider-Man, Peter had told them that. She felt a little awkward talking to this woman, when she'd been ready to trepan her nephew so recently. "Why did you come here today?" she asked, curious. "That was years ago, wasn't it?"
"Yes," she said, busying herself with more dusting and cleaning. "A very long time ago. But I come here once a year, just to check up on the place. I think Otto probably would have liked that."
Clair marvelled at the coincidence that had brought them both here at the same time. "I'm sure he'll like to hear it. He told me that he was fond of you."
She made a small, amused sound. "Did he, now? Oh, he was a charmer, that Otto. Still is, I'd guess," she looked up at Clair, smiling.
Clair smiled, ducking her head. "Very much so," she said. She grinned. "He really did sweep me off my feet when we first met. In the literal sense, of course, rather than the romantic, but still."
This elicited another laugh. "Oh my goodness," she said.
Clair laughed as well, rinsing her cloth and wringing it out again. "I don't think I've ever been so scared as that first time I saw him. But at the end of the day, I didn't turn him in to the police, so I guess I felt ... something for him already. That time, it was kidnapping," she explained. "Years ago, when I was a student at the University."
"Oh, dear," May said, shaking her head. "He must have really needed something for him to have to do that."
"He was sick," Clair agreed. "And I was working on something that could help him. He helped me finish it, and I cured him. For the time being." She opened the basement door that led off the kitchen, peering down into the darkness. The light switch didn't work.
"Oh, dear," May said sympathetically. "I do hope he's all right." She joined Clair at the top of the stairs, looking down.
"He did have a relapse," she said, resigning to bring a flashlight when she made her second trip and turning away from the door. "That's why he found me again, in Seattle. But I put that right too." She sighed. "He's a difficult patient when he's sick, you know. I had to half-sedate him with painkillers to keep him in bed today, despite the fact that he's burning up with fever and coughing like a smoker."
May sighed and shook her head. "I worried about him sometimes, you know," she said. "Peter would sometimes tell me of whatever confrontation he'd had with him at the time, and it seemed to me that he just wasn't the same any more." She grossed to the stove again, looking in the dark wooden cupboards around it. ""And now he's sick," she tutted. Finding a can of soup, she frowned. "It'll have to do, I suppose."
Clair snerked. "That can must be at least ten years old, Ms. Parker. I cook for him just fine. He eats everything in sight, mostly."
"Well, it may be old, but this soup keeps forever," she replied. "Besides, I wouldn't feel right if I didn't send something along with you."
"If you insist," she laughed. "He's going to be just fine, though. It takes more than a simple infection to keep him down."
A little more searching revealed a few bottles of seasonings, among other things. "Oh, I'm sure of that. Still, no-one can say no to a little tender care, not even Otto." She smiled back at Clair.
"He certainly tries," Clair said ruefully. "Convinced he's immortal, I think. And he's very nearly right, fortunately. I don't suppose you saw the news, oh, two weeks ago?"
Dropping the contents of the soup can into a saucepan, May thought for a moment. "Two weeks ago... oh yes. There wasn't much, you know," she said, stirring water into it contemplatively. "They said he'd been shot and that he then ... escaped from the hospital. With your help?" she looked up at Clair again.
"A little, but mostly it was him. I wouldn't have had him taken to a hospital at all, but..." She spread her hands, sitting back on her actuators and watching the woman cook. "I'm a neurosurgeon, not a thoracic surgeon. I'm a little too specialized to be much help."
"You did what you could, dear," May replied though whether she was merely oblivious to the difference or simply taking it in stride wasn't clear. She turned a knob on the gas stove and it clicked repeatedly before finally lighting with a soft foomp. She set the saucepan on the stove and picked up a bottle of seasoning, shaking it. "You're taking care of him, now, right?" Her tone told Clair she was calmly and assuredly expecting the answer yes.
"Of course," Clair assured her. "He's going to be just fine, as long as I can get him to take it easy." She sighed fondly. "That's the hard part."
"It always is," May replied. "But it's not something you can simply insist upon. Someone like Otto takes convincing and a gentle touch."
"Exactly," said Clair, relieved to be able to talk to someone who understood. "And I'm not very good at that. I have a lousy bedside manner. I'm a very good surgeon, but a very bad doctor, if you know what I mean."
May shook her head, smiling, and stirred some of the seasoning into the soup. "I think you might be better at it than you think you are, dear. It comes from what you feel, not what you know."
Clair shook her head. "It's always about control. I'm used to being in control, and he's used to being in control, and neither of us relinquish it very well."
"You're over-thinking it, Clair, dear," she said gently, stirring in another few shakes of a different seasoning. "Caring for someone isn't about control... not directly, anyway." She smiled again. Her gaze went to the table. "That isn't all you were going to bring here, is it?" she finished with a strangely knowing look.
Clair looked at her blankly for a moment, than back at her things. "No, it's not. How did you...?" She looked back at May. "I have to make one more trip. Will you still be here when I get back? It's nice to have someone to talk to."
She nodded. "Oh, yes, I'll still be here. You run along and get the rest of your things, and this should be ready by the time you come back."
Clair smiled and went to leave, then turned back, stuck by a sudden thought that made her nervous. "You won't tell Peter, will you? That I'm here, I mean."
"No, probably not," she said after a moment. "He has enough to worry about, I think." She smiled that knowing smile again.
Clair grinned, tipped her wool hat, and left with an "I'll be right back." In a remarkably good mood, she made good time getting back to the apartment, and she rubbed her hands together to warm them again while looking in on Otto. He was still asleep, curled up under the quilts and snoring softly, not much visible beyond his face and some of his hair.
"Just where I left you," she murmured. She pocketed the little bottle of painkillers as she left again, hefting the microscope and her heavy box of notes and closing the window once more behind her.
Back at the house, brief thoughts of a trap slid through her mind, but she slipped in quietly, setting her things down in the entry. She could smell soup as she came in, and it smelled quite good. In the kitchen, May looked trough the drawers and cupboards for a bowl. She looked up as Clair walked in. "Oh, hello, dear. Did you bring everything you needed?"
Clair took a deep, appreciative breath. "Oh, yes. That smells delicious, Ms. Parker."
"Thank you, dear. I think maybe Otto will like it."
"I'm sure he will. He was asleep when I looked in on him, though. I'm hoping-" She held up crossed fingers. "That he sleeps all day. It'll do him a lot of good, but it means that I'll have to reheat that. Unless the scent wakes him up the moment I bring it into the house." She smiled, pulling the flashlight she had picked up at the apartment out of her pocket. "He generally does wake up for food."
"This is true," May replied softly, still smiling. It seemed that she smiled at almost everything.
Clair smiled back and descended into the basement, looking around by the beam of the flashlight. It was empty, with a fine layer of dust covering long, bare shelves and the single bare bulb over-head. She sighed. It would work, but her old lab was better by far. She went back up the steps and brought her supplies down, taking them out of the bag and arranging them on the shelves. The scanner and microscope went on a counter by an old washer and dryer, and the heavy box of notes would stay on the floor by the door until she could sort them. Satisfied for the moment - she wasn't going to get to work while May was here, after all, no matter how unfazable the woman seemed - she climbed back into the kitchen.
"Would you like me to get you some new light bulbs, dear?" May asked having poured the soup into a bowl and covered it. She reached out and flipped a switch, turning on the light over the kitchen table. "The electricity seems to work fine, here." She shook her head again, smiling. "That Otto..."
Clair looked up at the light. Such a simple thing, yet it meant a great deal of forethought and planning. Someone paid to have the power kept on here. And he must have set it up beforehand, because she had never seen him deal with something as mundane as bills in all the time she'd lived with him. "Um, no," she said, slightly distracted. "I have some at the flat. Thank you. And thank you for the soup."
"You're quite welcome, dear," May replied, placing the bowl of soup on the counter.
Clair took a seat at the table, turning the chair to face the woman and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. The actuators wove around the table legs. "How do you do it?" she asked, intently curious. "You know what your nephew does. You know that Otto and he are... at odds. How do you keep that from dividing you, when you care about them both?"
She leaned against the counter and appeared to think on this for a long moment. "I love Peter," she said. "More than he'll probably ever know. And I know what he does is... necessary. I don't like what he does, but I know that he has to do it. And I'm proud of him for taking the responsibility to do it. I know it's probably very easy to hate the enemies he's made along the way, I know some of them seem like truly dreadful people. But I've come to know some of them, like Harry Osborn, and Otto. I suppose all I can really do is hope, when Peter has to fight Otto for whatever reason, that they both come out of it alive, and I suppose I hope, every time he encounters Peter, that maybe that time Otto will decide it isn't what he wants to do any more. He has before, after all from what I've heard."
"I don't know about that," said Clair, studying the floor. "I don't think it's in him to retire, shall we say. He honestly seems to enjoy the way we live, and to tell the truth, so do I."
"Well, I won't lecture you, dear, you're a grown woman after all. All I can do is hope that neither of you will do something you'll regret, later," May replied, sounding almost wistful. "Otto always did seem to enjoy danger, didn't he?" she mused softly, after a moment.
"As long as I'm not in it," Clair said ironically.
"Oh?" she asked, blinking at Clair.
"At times, he can be almost stiflingly over-protective," she said, sighing. "And I suppose he has his reasons. This isn't a safe life to lead. But he wants to protect me from everything, and that's just not possible. I didn't leave one bubble to live in another." She was probably saying more than she should to this woman whom she had only just met, but there was something about her that made her feel like a confidante. Or maybe it was just that May was the first woman Clair had spoken to in over a year who wasn't a law enforcement officer.
May started to hunt through the cupboards again, coming up with a box of what looked like teabags. She sniffed at it experimentally, then located a kettle and filled it with water. "I don't know for sure," she said, sounding as though she were really thinking on this. "But I think Otto is fiercely protective of the things and people that are important to him because he doesn't want to lose them." The kettle went on the stove, which was started up again, and she found two mugs, busying herself with placing teabags in them.
"That's what he says," Clair answered. "When he's tired enough to admit to things like that. I know he's lost before, and so I don't know how to convince him that he won't lose me. I don't know how to convince me of that, for that matter. I've been scared a few times, for my life and his, because they're more or less the same now, I feel."
"Maybe he feels the same way. It seemed to me that Otto feels things very strongly." The kettle blurbled behind her and she looked at the mugs.
Clair reached out an actuator and took the kettle, pouring the water over the teabags. "Absolutely," she agreed, handing one mug to May. "Everything's extreme with him. On or off, with no intermediate state. It's one of the things I love about him."
"Do you love him?" she asked, nothing but curiosity in her voice. She swished the teabag in the water.
Clair stopped. "Now that's the question, isn't it?" she said softly, staring into her tea. "I exist for him, I belong to him, and I want him to be simply happy, no matter what it takes. Is that love?"
May sipped her tea and looked at Clair. There was a pause before she answered. "I would think so. What do you think, though? Do you think it's love?"
Clair took a deep breath and a sip of tea. "Yes," she said simply.
"Then it is," May said with a nod.
Clair looked up at May, letting out that breath. "I wish... I wish I had an aunt like you," she said genuinely, smiling. "Peter's lucky."
"And I'm lucky to have Peter," she replied, gazing contemplatively into her teacup.
Clair grew quiet. She couldn't promise this woman that she would leave Peter alone, despite everything. The bug would still insist on interfering in their lives, and she still owed him for a number of broken bones, not to mention some of the injuries that Otto was still recovering from. She studied the patterns the steam made on the surface of her tea, and then pushed back from the table and stood up. "I really should get going," she said, smiling again. "It was wonderful to meet you, Ms. Parker, and thank you so much for the soup and... I'll make sure Otto knows it's from you."
"Thank you, dear," May said, reaching out to take the cup from her hands. "Take care of Otto. I know he'll take care of you." She set about washing the cups.
Clair picked up the covered bowl. "I will," she promised, and let herself out, feeling such a mixed variety of relief that she felt a little light-headed. She headed back to the flat, letting herself in quietly, and checked on Otto again, more for the joy of seeing him than any real concern right now.
He stirred slightly at the sound of her entrance and his eyes opened. He blinked up at her.
She grinned at him, and held up the bowl of soup. It was still warm. "You'll never guess who I ran into," she said, an actuator fetching a spoon from the kitchen before she went into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Ran into?" he mumbled. "Ran into where?"
"At the house. May Parker was there."
He sighed, closing his eyes. "You went anyway--" They opened again. "What? May Parker? What in the world was she doing there?"
"She told me that she still checks on the place for you, once a year," she said. "And she still had the keys, so I didn't have to climb in through a broken window."
He smiled almost in spite of himself and shook his head. "Hmmm..."
She uncovered the soup and pulled out a thick, heavy book to use as a table. "She made you soup," she said, smiling amusedly.
He looked down at it, blinking at the noodles and chicken and broth. "When did she find time to do that?" he asked, looking back up at her. He suddenly appeared a lot younger, strangely.
"I was gone a lot longer than I meant to be," she said apologetically. "We got to talking."
He made a short, amused sound. "That sounds amusingly absurd, given the circumstances," he murmured, plucking the spoon from her actuator and slurping some of the soup.
"It was fun," she said. "I haven't gotten to have a conversation with anyone other than you in quite some time. Hanover doesn't count," she added. "Snarking is not conversation."
"Mmm," he said in assent. There was a pause as he slerped. "How is she?" he asked.
"She's good," she said. "She seems... content."
"I'm glad," he said, still slerping. "It's a rare thing, contentment."
"Not really." She sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed and watching him.
He looked down at her and smiled slightly. "You don't think so?"
She shook her head. "I'm rather content right now."
"Are you, now?" he asked, looking amused. He slerped more of the soup, breathing the scent of it.
"Mmhmm." She was aware that she was smiling somewhat foolishly, but she wasn't sure why or how to stop. He simply smiled that slight smile of his again, and continued eating.
"You're laughing at me," she said, amused herself.
"Nonsense," he replied, finishing up the soup and utting the bowl on the table next to the bed. "I don't laugh at people."
"Feh," she said to that, sliding her hand under the blankets to tickle the back of his knee. "I don't believe you. You've laughed at me plenty of times."
"When have I ever done that?" he asked, smirking and sounding as though he didn't beleive a word she said. he twitched his knee away from her fingers.
"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "Too many times to count. Whenever I'm being naive, generally."
"I find naivete amusing," Octavius replied.
She rolled her eyes. "I'm glad I amuse you, then."
"As well you should be," he replied loftily, making room for her on the bed.
She got up and lay next to him, on her side to accommodate the actuators. "Would you ever retire?" she asked solemnly, looking at him. "Decide that this isn't what you want to do anymore?" He blinked at her, then his brow furrowed and his lower lip poked out, the face he always wore when he thought about something very hard. She had to stifle a chuckle at that face, which was... not cute, but certainly endearing. "It came up, you know, in conversation, and I was wondering."
He blinked, giving this serious thought. He'd thought of retirement before, thought of hanging up the actuators and living quietly somewhere, with no Spider-man, without the constant danger of messy death, without having to fight for or steal every last thing he needed. True, this life had gotten tiresome at times, and depressing at others. He looked up at Clair again. He had no idea. "I ... don't know," he said after a moment.
She nodded. "Neither do I. I was thinking about it all the way home. I really can't imagine you with a day job, though."
He chuckled at that. "Calling people for a telemarketing interest."
"Selling encyclopedias door to door," she suggested, trying to keep a straight face. "Or..." She snerked. "Selling used cars."
"I don't think I could see myself doing that." He shook his head, smirking. His expression grew serious. "But I had thought of retirement. A long time ago."
"What kept you from doing it?" she asked softly.
"The bug's interference, mostly," he replied. "And a realization that it would never really work."
"I think it could, if you wanted it," she said, considering. "Find someplace they'd never think to look, like France, or Australia. Live quietly. But I don't think it would be much of a life. Not after everything you've done."
"Hmmm," he rumbled, settling back into the pillows. "The thought had crossed my mind. He blinked at her. "How did this come up?"
"Just talking to Ms. Parker," she said, leaning up on one elbow, her hand under her chin. "She knows what Peter does, you know."
"I'd be surprised if she didn't."
"And yet, she's the most... un-conflicted person I've ever met. She just hopes that neither of you kills the other, and that maybe, something will change your mind."
"She's a sweet, patient woman," he mused, his gaze far away.
"She reminds me of my high school English teacher. Hopelessly innocent, yet... I don't know."
He smiled at that, but said nothing.
She sat up. "Are you feeling any better now? Chest any clearer?"
He pulled in a breath and sighed. "More or less," he replied, one hand rubbing his chest absently. He still looked woozy, though, and he rubbed his face with the other hand.
She eyed him critically, and then changed tactics. "I'm more or less set up again. The house has power, so I just have to do some cleaning down in the basement and find some new equipment and I'll be ready to go again."
"Mmm," he said, pushing a hand through his hair and blinking. "What sort of new equipment?"
"Autoclave, centrifuge, incubator. Just stuff I had before. Easily replaceable."
He nodded. "Shouldn't be difficult," he replied. He looked at the window. "The biggest problem might be our prisoner."
"I thought he might be easiest to transport unconscious," she said.
Octavius shifted, making himself comfortable. "I suppose you would know these things best," he observed.
She looked at him sideways, trying to see if he was being sarcastic, but actually, he looked rather serious. "I know I'm still new at this, but I am learning. I've got a good teacher."
He raised his eyebrows. "Flattery, is it, now?" He asked, smiling slightly.
"Well, yes," she said, grinning. "But it's honest flattery, at least."
"So I'm to believe it, is that it?" he asked, his smirk widening a little.
"Of course. Have you ever known me to lie to you?"
A beat. "No, not that I know of, but by its very nature, you could be lying to me and I would never know."
"I have never lied to you," she said seriously. "Not once, from the very beginning."
He gazed at her for a moment, again not saying anything. "I believe you," he murmured.
She held his gaze for a long moment, then looked down, busying her hands in unbuttoning her sweater and getting her actuators off. Once they'd fallen away, she leaned against his side, sighing, deeply content. She knew there were things she should be doing: she should be in that basement, checking and re-checking her notes and supplies, but right now, she just wanted to be with him.
He blinked at her, then slipped his arms around her. "Strange," he murmured.
"What?" she asked softly. "What's strange?"
"Simply the coincidence that you would run into May Parker the day you decided to sneak out to the house," he murmured. "If you believe in coincidence."
"Hmm. Coincidence or not, I'm glad I did. It gave me a chance to think somethings over."
One hand came up and rested on the back of her neck, fingers curling in her hair. "Oh?" he asked softly. "Such as?"
"Just things," she said lightly, kissing him on the angle of the jaw.
"Mmmm," he rumbled, lightly scratching the back of her neck. "You'll tell me sooner or later."
"Mmm," she said noncommittally. "That feels good."
His eyes slipped shut and he continued scratching. Her slight warmth against him somehow made him feel sleepy again. He blinked, rubbing his eyes.
She rolled her shoulders, easing them. "I didn't sneak out, you know," she said. "I told you I was leaving."
"Did you? I didn't hear a thing," he replied.
She made a considering sound. "You could have been asleep by then."
"Especially after those painkillers you gave me. I don't know whether to be angry at this or proud."
She didn't try to deny anything. "Underhanded, I know, but you really did need the sleep."
"It's left me groggy," he groused. "I'll probably end up falling asleep again if I'm not careful. But that's what you were after all along, isn't it?" his tone sounded mildly amused.
"More or less," she admitted, relieved that he had chosen to be amused. "I know you think sleep is a waste of time, but it's important, especially when you're sick."
Another sigh. "Someone once said, 'only a fool argues with his doctor,'" he mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.
She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. "Sounds like wise advice."
"Doctors have a tendency to make the things they want happen regardless of what anyone else wants." He chuckled sleepily and curled his fingers in her hair again.
"Says Doctor Octopus," she quipped.
"Mmmm. I never said I was any different."
She reached up and pulled his hand out of her hair so she could hold it, lacing her fingers into his. "No, you didn't."
"Quite," he mumbled, his hand squeezing hers briefly.
She was quiet, hoping that he would fall back to sleep. He sounded much better, but he still had a fever. Rest really was the best medicine.
It felt inordinately good to have her curled against him, but he noticed even the blankets and the pillow and the mattress and the fact that his eyes were closed also felt inordinately good. He didn't want to move. A tiny, somewhat annoyed part of his mind didn't like the idea of wasting more time asleep, but it was easily muffled by the sleepiness. He sighed and let his mind drift, thoughts wandering.
Clair lay there, just listening to his heartbeat and thinking on what May had said. She did love him. And she'd known that the whole time, whether she'd realized before today or not.
She studied the way her hand fit into his as she felt him relax into sleep, examining idly the way his seemed just to absorb hers. Their life felt a little like that, at times. His was such a big thing, grand plots and schemes, wild adventures and the like, while hers was the small concerns; behind the scenes and invisible. She would never be as visible as he was. And she liked it that way, she had discovered at some point. When she'd met him, she'd told him that recognition was one of the most important parts of discovery. He'd understood that then, but now she understood more about what that meant to her. It didn't matter if the world never knew that Ockette had once been Clair Ann Watson, inventor of the Neuroregenesis Serum. All that mattered was that the right people knew who she was and what she was capable of. And the most important of those people was sleeping next to her, breathing evenly and deeply, with only the slightest trace of cough left. He knew that she was more than the child she looked like, more than the Stockholm-sufferer that the Bugle painted her as, and that was what mattered. She would prove herself to the rest of the world, but even if she never did, his recognition would be enough.