I know.

I suck.

...

I said it, okay?

...

I will even admit that the only fact I finally posted this is because I am whacked on cold medication right now and have the kind of fever that general starts by me thinking Star Trek characters have appeared out of the woodwork and are talking to me. On the other hand, I don't seem likely to return to normalcy (i.e. doing my job so I can become a successful comic artist and my scriptwriter won't garrote me with my own computer power cord) anytime soon, and so not only have another chapter nearly ready, but may even ACTUALLY WRITE Where We've Been. The prologue of which has been here for, like, a year.

Well. Let's not get hasty...

"This is not going to work," Jeremy moaned at his evil twin in the mirror. The words came out, fortunately, heavily edited by his mouth, the original draft being something much closer to: "Please god, please god, I know I've never really prayed or believed in you or anything but still, please do not fucking let this work, because I may have to kill myself."

That would have just been embarrassing. There was, admittedly, no one in the bathroom to hear him except his own reflection, but, given the circumstances, that wasn't really very reassuring.

His reflection, however, was hard at work, and did not seem to be very interested in the interruption. "Shut up, Jer," he felt, and then heard, his own mouth say, as his hands continued doing fuck knew what with various frightening bottles they had dragged out of the back of Jenna and Elena's parts of the cabinets. "I'm busy. Don't you ever wash your face?"

"When I shower, yeah, I guess," he thought, perplexed. Even if no one was present, it was probably better to appear to be holding a conversation with an invisible entity than to be conversing with yourself. And that meant he had to be the one to shut it, as Vicki wouldn't stop talking.

"Seriously, this is…kind of icky," she said, as Jeremy resigned himself to watching his reflection give its face a thorough scrubbing. "I always knew you looked like a lost puppy, but I'd have thought better of this if I knew you actually smelled like one."

"So why don't," Jeremy suggested, with patience he thought would be worthy of any number of saints, "you think better of it, now? And how can you smell anything? You're a ghost."

"Not anymore, I'm not, and that's very hurtful of you, reminding me like that. Anyway." In the mirror his face morphed into Vicki's familiar toothy grin as she cheered suddenly, and Jeremy flinched. "I have your nose now, I can smell plenty. Plenty of you, to be specific."

He tried to pretend he hadn't been startled, taking control of one hand again to wipe the creepy smile off his face. "I can't smell anything. And don't do that—ah, fuck, that hurts!"

"I know," she said happily. "Your pores are terrible. You should be grateful to me for this, by the way. When I'm done we will be much, much prettier." And Jeremy watched in horror as he blew a kiss into to mirror.

"Vicki—you had better not put makeup on me, you know—come on, this is stupid, this isn't going to happen. Even if—" he swallowed hard, and tried not to think about it, "—you're right, about….It isn't going to happen, because first of all he doesn't like me, and second….If…he does, then why are you bothering to do this? I smell like a guy. You think…that Tyler likes guys. Why are you trying to make me smell like my Aunt Jenna?"

"First of all," Vicki commented, "this is Elena's. Points to that girl by the way, I like it. Very foxy. Second, I don't think things, Jeremy Gilbert—I heard you think that and no, not obviously—I know things. And Tyler will screw anything that moves, you know that."

"Except you, apparently," Jeremy muttered.

"Oh fuck you, Jer. And yeah, not me. Because yeah, my boy likes guys." She rinsed his face of for what felt like the twentieth time and turned her attention to his hair, which was uncomfortable at the unfamiliar experience of being touched, or even looked at with any force. It tried to shrink away, and so did Jeremy.

"I—"

"Oh, what, Jeremy? The word gay giving you some trouble there, sweetie? Boys."

Jeremy curled his toes in the bathroom carpet, wishing his hands could be his again so he could tuck them safely in his pockets-wishing that he even had pockets in which they could be tucked, or anything else to offer a shred of comfort and concealment to him. But Vicky had taken all of that away, and Jeremy found himself pining desperately. He missed his hoodie. He missed his black. He missed his clothes, period, because Vicki was currently wearing him and his pajama bottoms and nothing else.

He missed his bed, and normal life, life that just like all of his sweatshirts was a very convenient way of hiding. No, he didn't want to be thinking about this, about the idea that Tyler might be…well. He didn't like thinking about Tyler period, really, but especially not this. Jeremy curled his toes again and knew that he was pouting, just a little. He didn't like thinking that there was anything more than the four or five facts he knew about Tyler. Wondering, questioning like this—really? Could he actually be…—without any way of really knowing made him uncomfortable and fidgety. He kept giving up on the unsolvable question and simply wondering about Tyler, whether the person he thought, no, he was certain—he had been—he knew matched up with what he was being asked to believe. He found himself trying to picture Tyler, wondering where he was, or what he was doing.

And that was something Jeremy had promised himself he wouldn't do. He didn't need to think too much about idiot, popular guys like Tyler, who where so far removed from his life that the miles between their houses, and the twenty feet between their lockers on the Science Hallway, might as well be the distance to the moon.

He knew that.

"So what's the plan?" he asked a bit too loudly, distracting himself.

Vicki was pleased as peaches. "Jeremy, I am so glad you're getting into the spirit of things! Took you long enough."

"Oh god," Jeremy said, wishing yet again that he was slightly better at deciding what to say. That had not been the best choice, had it. Still, he supposed he ought to know.

And there was a sort of horrible fascination to all this, he had to admit, as he watched Vicki finish up in the bathroom and head back, chattering merrily, to his bedroom to pillage his closet and make fun of all his clothes before finding ones she approved of. It really was like watching a movie, or more like watching someone else play a videogame in which you happened to be one of the highly combustible little army vehicles. Bad things were going to happen, almost certainly bad, frightening, and incredibly embarrassing things. And they would happen, without a doubt, to him. But none of it would be his fault, and, in a way, he wouldn't have to deal with any of it either.

In the last half hour or so, watching Vicki's alchemical but undeniable helpful wash-up in the bathroom and her hunt for the only pair of jeans he had that didn't bag and a long-sleeved red t-shirt he would never now, given its color, admit was very comfy, he had come to a kind of acceptance. Whatever happened from here on in, Jeremy was fairly certain, he wasn't going to get his body back. In a way, it was a relief.

Vicki was piloting now, and doing it at least more enthusiastically than he ever had. She had goals and ideas and a sheer love for life than made Jeremy sad, even as he found himself feeling nearly happy for her, because really, she should have been the one alive, and he should be dead. He almost was, now. And that seemed perfectly fitting.

He sat back and let Vicki have the reigns, and grudgingly admired her handiwork. He only absorbed bits of what she was saying, but it wasn't very important, and anyway, the gist of it was, Vicki Donovan had a plan.

It involved a party.

…

"Bye, Aunt Jenna."

"Goodbye, Jeremy. Don't be out too late."

"Don't worry, I won't be," Vicki called as they left, and then rubbed her hands together. "Oh, we won't be. We aren't going to be coming back here for a while."

"With any luck," Jeremy thought as he hurried down the porch steps, his nervousness returning at simply hearing Jenna's voice from the living room. He didn't want to run into her, not like this, though he was certain he would have to do it eventually. The longer that could be held off, well, the better.

"Oh, Jeremy," Vicki crooned, lifting their hands up towards the swath of early stars over the street. "What have I told you? We don't need luck. You've got me."

…

This is not an evil cliffhanger. (Again.) This is me sparing you the pain of reading what was going to be the next scene until such time as it is fit for human consumption, or I've had enough Dayquil that I can't tell the difference.

I'll ask Sulu to proofread it for me, how bout that?