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Better late than never, right?

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"Na, are you awake?" Amelia cracked open her eyes and rolled them in the direction of her visitor. The blue sky was gone, as were the cliff, harbor, and town. She did not miss the cemetery. And now she was no longer alone, something that she did not know whether to appreciate or not; she was leaning towards the latter.

Schrödinger sat on a stool, his back curving at a sharp angle and his heels hooked on the seat's highest rungs: the perfect image of a gargoyle. His expression was less than enthusiastic.

It took a moment for Amelia to remember what had transpired the last time they were alone together. I shoved him… I don't think I hurt him? Is he still upset? The recollection made her look away, her expression not nearly as remorseful as it was weary. She felt emotionally and physically drained, as if what had happened on the cliff was not just a dream, and, rather than having taken place in the span of a few minutes, was drawn out over several hours.

For a moment she stared into space, her eyes glued to the ceiling.

Then, abruptly, she sat up, pushing the covers down and turning her head left and right, searching for something missing. She lifted her pillow off the mattress. I think it was in my hand…

"You looked weird." Apparently her prolonged silence was an invitation to talk. "Your face was scrunched up and you were breathing heavy. It looked like you were having a bad dream—or dying." He shrugged with a bit of indifference, and Amelia could almost imagine a pair of stony wings sprouting from his shoulders. She placed the pillow back against the small headboard, unsatisfied. "I thought that if you—"

"Schrödinger?" He actually quieted at the sound of his name. "Have you seen a piece of paper?" Methodically, she rolled her blankets to the end of the bed, paused, and then leaned over until her head thumped softly against the wall, peering down the crack between the mattress and the wall.

"You mean the paper on the clipboard?"

A sigh. "No. It would have been crumpled into a ball." Turning around on the mattress, glanced at the bedside where the clipboard sat, the top page covered in childish scribbles that had not been there earlier. She frowned at the images and then picked up her pillow again, double-checking that there was nothing beneath it.

"The one that fell under the bed?" He looked bored by their conversation.

Amelia blinked at him and slid off the bed, lowering herself onto her knees.

"The 'I wish you were here' paper?" She froze, one hand on the floor and the other holding the edge of the mattress.

"What?" It wasn't that she had not heard him; rather, she didn't believe that she had heard him properly.

"The paper with the sentence: 'I wish you were here.' You're talking about that paper? I threw it away."

Remaining on her knees, she stared up at him. Her voice was soft and monotonous despite her disbelief. "Why did you read it?"

"Why shouldn't I have read it? It was on the floor. I thought it was trash."

As she picked herself up, she let out a breath that suggested the effort was taxing on her body. "It wasn't addressed to you."

Schrödinger adjusted himself on his stool and straightened his back. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You didn't say that—"

"Because I was asleep." She didn't raise her voice, but now she could hear the edge in it, the bitterness, and assumed he could too.

The cat-boy got off his perch, his dark ears flattening over his blonde head. He might have been expecting her to shove him again.

Amelia retreated first, dropping onto the bed with her head in her hands, rubbing her eyelids in a soothing manner. "You shouldn't read someone else's letter if it's not meant for you. That's rude and insensitive," she murmured into her lap with the patience of a parent teaching her child a lesson.

"You were writing a letter?" He suddenly sounded interested. "Who was it for?" A brief pause was followed by a dramatic gasp, enticing Amelia to open her eyes.

"You have a boyfriend?!" Behind the shock loomed a cheshire grin. Schrödinger raised a hand to his mouth, neither covering the glimmer in his eyes nor the pink dusting his cheeks.

"No." Amelia blushed but did not smile. Do you really think I would write to a boyfriend? That my romantic life is my foremost concern, here?

"No," she repeated, a little more forcefully. "Don't laugh. I was not… Why would you think that? From reading one sentence?" Schrödinger flinched back as she returned to her feet, bumping into the stool behind him.

"Where did you put it? Is it in a bin in the lab?" His snickering continued but he gave no answer.

At a loss, she stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder, the stool toppling sideways as the teenager attempted to duck away. "Schrödinger, stop it." He gave a shriek at the contact, expecting pain in the middle of a giggling fit.

The seat cracked loudly on the tile, and seconds later the cat-boy landed on the floor with an, "Oomph," a victim of his own clumsy maneuver. Not wanting to be pulled down with him, Amelia had let go at the last moment, watching him tumble backwards over the stool leg.

"That's what you get," she sighed as she bent her legs into a squat. "Are you—?"

"Noooooooo—!" Schrödinger howled high and waved at her to keep back, as if she had threatened to tickle him. His expression said he was not injured; if anything, this was all play.

Beneath her fracturing mask of composure, she felt her temper rising. "Schrödinger!"

He was still howling when the curtain flew aside with a rattle.

Following her startled gaze, Schrödinger craned his neck to see who had entered. "—Ooooh, Captain…!" The laughter in his voice died at the end, and his cheeky grin lost its mirth.

The Captain was in between the two of them before Amelia could comprehend what was happening. Caught off guard by his swiftness, she tipped back and landed on her bottom, her palms breaking her fall. For a second her arms held her up, and then, in the blink of an eye, her muscles gave way, her shoulders blades and head slamming into the floor under the force that connected with her chest. The impact sent a rush of air from her lungs and elicited a moan of pain. Lying still and blinking away the spots in her vision, she tried to make sense of her surroundings.

"What…?" She choked, squinting at the distorted image of the man crouching over her. As her vision began to clear, her eyes traveled from his face, down his arm, and to the hand lifting off her chest. He turned towards Schrödinger, who was rolling onto his stomach and speaking rapidly.

"I am fine. We are fine. She is fine. We were talking about her letter to—"

In less than five seconds a gloved hand clamped down on the junction between the cat-boy's neck and shoulder.

"Ah!" The Captain tugged—potentially lifted—him off the ground as he straightened to his full height.

Amelia brought a hand against her aching chest as she struggled to sit up. "Wait," she rasped. But the Captain ignored her and took Schrödinger out the door, the young man stumbling in his grip like a marionette.

The idea of following them lost all appeal when she heard the commotion in the lab.

"What is going on?" Though the speaker was far away, she recognized the doctor's accent, strained and heavy as if he had run a marathon. "What did you do?" Pounding steps came to halt.

"It's nothing." Amelia spoke to the empty room, responding to the doctor's questions even though no one would hear. Slowly, carefully, she pushed herself off the floor. Gingerly touching the back of her head, she winced out of instinct, only to realize that the pain was gone. "It's nothing. Nothing bad happened," she whispered as she crept to the door.

Close it. She was reaching for the curtain when the Captain stepped back into view, Schrödinger no longer at his side.

"It's nothing," her voice wavered as she took a step backwards. "He didn't do anything. I didn't do anything." The mental image of the Captain's hand around Schrödinger's collar had suddenly morphed into an image of his fingers clutching her throat, and her defense of the boy swiftly turned to self-defense. "I didn't, I swear—"

Voices rose in the lab, and the Captain swung the door closed without a glance, lowering the noise level. His attention flickered to the stool lying on its side.

"Oh, that's…"

A distraction.

Two steps towards it, she slowed, shutting her mouth as she realized her movement mirrored his.

That's also nothing.

He stopped, and she warily resumed under his watch, averting her gaze and handling the seat as though it might shatter in her hands. She didn't know what else to do. Her lips twitched with unspoken words, but she did not make a sound until she raised her head and saw that he had moved closer.

"It was nothing." It seemed like she couldn't stop repeating herself. "He—Schrödinger—tripped. On the stool. I don't think he's hurt. Just…surprised. You didn't need to come. No one needed to." She was beginning to ramble, not at the cat-boy's speed, but with the intent to fill the tense silence with something. Was it safer to stand with the stool as her shield, or should she give herself more space? "We were just talking before that and—and—and…" She trailed off as she watched him point at his head.

He's not wearing his cap. It wasn't what he was trying to say, but it was the first thought that came to mind. And it wasn't the only change in his appearance. It had escaped her notice up until now that one of the buttons at his neck was not in the corresponding hole; more than that: upwards from the mismatch, his coat was unfastened and his collar was crooked, revealing a thin chain draped around his neck.

He pointed at her and she stared, hard. Another one of his steps forward made her lean back. His body language struck her as impatient, even agitated.

"M-my head," she mumbled as she watched his gesture, finally catching on to the meaning. "It's okay?" Unconsciously, she lifted her hand.

The moment her focus strayed to her head, her eyes darting to the side, he took one final step to the stool between them, his palms coming to rest over her ears. The contact made her jump, and the hand that she had been raising to gently comb through her hair stopped short to grab the Captain's wrist. Although her pulse was racing and her anxiety growing, she did not pull her head away; it was too easy to get injured.

The memory of him holding her, forcing a bloody cocktail down her throat returned in force, and she purposefully brought her other hand up to wrap around his opposite wrist.

He did not try to pry her hands from him, but guided her head down until she was looking at the stool seat. His hands left the sides of her head, only to meet elsewhere, brushing aside the uneven layers of hair meticulously.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," she said after a few seconds, trying to avoid sounding confrontational but wishing he would stop. "I'm not bleeding." Whether she had interpreted his actions correctly or not, he kept on.

Amelia loosened her grip a fraction on the wrinkled fabric covering his wrists. If the man paused a moment, he would probably notice her shaking. Or maybe he had noticed her hands trembling around him, and simply disregarded it.

He dropped his left arm, and as she let his coat begin to slide from her fingers, a light, sweeping touch ran from the crown of her head to the base of her neck. The sensation made her stiffen, her body torn between recoiling and holding still.

What are you doing? Without speaking or facing him, it did little good to ask with her expression. His right hand left her neck and came to rest on her shoulder.

"I left something in the lab." Having forgotten to breathe before speaking, the words came out strangled.

An excuse. She had an excuse to leave the room!

Silently thanking the cat-boy for erring, she lifted her chin and looked past the Captain, zeroing in on the door. "I'll just get it."

The Captain would excuse her, and she would be free to dig through the bin—bins?—in the lab where Schrödinger had dumped her unfinished letter. Although the content was vague, she didn't want it out where anyone might stumble upon it and make assumptions as he had. Her mind was set on tearing the note into pieces and flushing it down the toilet the instant it was back in her hand. It was better to forget what she had written, what she had wanted to say but did not.

It wasn't instantaneous, but the gloved hand did leave her shoulder.

Amelia left the room as quickly as she was able without giving the impression that she was in a rush, breathing a little easier once she stepped into the lab and realized that she was alone. If the doctor was the least bit sane, she supposed, he would have a waste basket by his work space. Heading for his desk, her heart leaped triumphantly in her chest when she saw the plastic container sitting beside it.

Settling onto her knees, she pulled out a few crumpled papers on top of the pile, scowling when she saw the messy penmanship and equations in red ink. She set the formulas aside and dug deeper, picking apart the trash in search of more paper. The closer she got to the bottom of the bin, the deeper her heart sank.

"Shit," she hissed lowly, staring at the dissected bin and the mess of broken objects, useless notes, food wrappers, and other nonessential items she had pulled.

Did he lie? All of a sudden, she wasn't sure if he had told her where he threw the paper. Maybe he still has it? Is there another bin in here? A sweep of the lab revealed a medical waste basket in the corner by the chemical shed…and the Captain watching her from her door.

The moment their eyes met, she spun around and started grabbing trash and dropping it back into the bin. The gratitude she did not openly express to Schrödinger was replaced with curses. She didn't know how to explain herself, so she didn't try. The chances of finding the letter in the other waste bin were slim, but it wouldn't hurt to look.

She took two steps and felt a hand close around her arm. Reluctantly, she turned towards the Captain, keeping her mouth shut. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence and no gestures on his part, she lifted her gaze from the buttons on his coat, swallowing heavily at the red eyes burning behind tousled locks of pale hair. It dawned on her that he might have been sleeping before the commotion.

In here? Without his coat on? It could explain why his uniform was haphazardly put together. But something more was missing, making her reassess the events of the past ten minutes.

Where's his cap? Despite her list of questions, she did not remove her eyes from his face, afraid that he might pick up her train of thought if she allowed her gaze to wander. It wasn't by the desk, and I don't know of any places where he could lie down and sleep... Actually, I don't think the doctor would allow him—or anyone else—to sleep in here.

She hadn't blinked once since making eye contact. How did he know what was going on in my room?

The man tugged on her arm: not to forcibly move her, but to solicit. He must have realized that his intentional silence did not compel her to speak. She shook her head, attempting to sort out her thoughts while responding to him.

Again, she felt him tug on her arm, the movement drawn out a little longer, pulling. In all likelihood, he wanted her to return to her room. She let him bring her to his side, but moved no further.

"That one." Breaking her silence, she pointed at the chemical waste bin. "Can I look? Please?" she added when he did not force her towards the parted curtain. The stare he was giving her did not reveal his emotions, but she could imagine what must be going through his head.

I'm digging through trash bins. I look insane. Had their roles been reversed, she would have though the same; but this did not make her any more inclined to share her motivations.

The Captain's refusal was nearly imperceptible, a slight shake of his head that could have just as easily been mistaken for one of the head-tilts that represented his each and every mood.

"Please," she tried again, and the grip on her arm tightened. He wasn't going to budge. For an instant she thought about asking if she could speak with Schrödinger, but his removal and subsequent disappearance implied that they would not be alone together—or perhaps even allowed in the same room—for quite some time.

"He told me he threw away something of mine… Schrödinger did." A flush worked its way over her cheeks at the confession; so much trouble over a barely used sheet of paper. "I want to see if it's in the bin, that's all… It only means something to me." The last bit was a string of embarrassed mumbling, reducing the impact the small voice crack on the final syllable had on the sound.

It only meant something to me. Once the words left her mouth, she realized that she had made a mistake. Now it sounded like whatever it was was important.

"Nevermind," she whispered nervously. "I'm being selfish." She stepped towards her room, feeling the hand fall from her arm and resettle between her shoulder blades, where it stayed until she crossed the threshold.

"Good night," she spoke aloud, devoid of sincerity. She didn't know what time it was. A flick of the switch on the wall and her sleeping space darkened. She passed the stool in the middle of the room without a glance, making her way to the bed but pausing beside the nightstand.

"Cap—" The call died on her lips. He hadn't moved from the doorway, his shadow stretched out on the floor from the cold light of the lab.

Wishing she had not turned the light off yet, she picked up the chipped clipboard from its resting place and walked back to the doorway, hoping to reach the Captain before he decided to enter the room. She stopped in front of him, swallowed by his shadow, and briefly dropped her gaze to what she held in her hands before lifting it once again to his face, her arms out in offering.

"I know you gave this to me, b-but… I would like you to take it back. It's not mine, and, I think, you will use it more than I." She could barely see his expression in the dark, and wondered if he could see hers.

What if…?

The Captain shook his head, his fingertips meeting the edge of the board and pushing it back to her chest.

You will use it more than I.

What if Schrödinger still had the letter? What if that wasn't an accident?

He—they—could read whatever I write. They can take whatever I write. This wasn't a blood test, or a fitness exam, or a trial of physical endurance.

This was psychological.

Manipulative.

Indirect.

Scheming.

Wrapped in the guise of a tool—aid.

Deceitful.

Without a word, she turned her back on the Captain, wishing she had the courage to shut the door in his face. She walked back to her bed and set the clipboard on the nightstand. I can't use this again.

Climbing onto the mattress, she turned towards the wall beside her and pulled the blankets up and over her head, hiding from the figure in the doorway.

You will use it more than I. Maybe that was exactly what they were doing.

Squeezing the cotton material so tightly that her knuckles whitened, she shut her eyes and prayed for her dreams to take her.