this chapter is longer than the first one

i did want to write more but i had to end it sometime lmao

The first thing you did when you got back to the lab was, well. Sleep some more.

Maybe that sounds stupid, but it's not like you got much sleep back in Russia. You didn't go for very long periods of time without being prodded with something. Again, you're lucky you're so unsusceptible to damage. You could have suffered a lot, lot worse.

But then again, you guess, relatively, you didn't really get the painful end of experimentation.

When you get there, you give Brain a little nudge and tell him in the friendliest tone you can manage that look, you're home now. He doesn't respond to that either, so you take this as your cue to drag him inside with the full intent of getting him into bed.

(No, not like that. Not really the time.)

Luckily, you share a bed, so after you eventually get back to your cage you can sort of just flop over. You stay flopped for a good ten minutes until you snap yourself out of your trance just enough to sit yourself up and see if Brain's okay because he's still not talking to you.

He's sat on the corner of your bed, just sort of staring into space. You think. You're not entirely sure where he's looking, because you're looking at him from the back, but you assume he's staring into space because the TV isn't on, so you reach out and sort of tug him over to the pillow.

"Aren't you, um. Going to sleep?"

He doesn't respond, but he does move to get in to said bed, pulling the blankets up over himself with the same eerie wordlessness he was previously exhibiting.

Goodnight, then.

You say this to him, pulling the covers up over yourself too, and he still doesn't respond, so you leave it. You cuddle up to him, though, and usually, you don't do that. Or didn't? Your memories of here are kind of fuzzy, especially now, but you don't remember cuddling up to him much. It was platonic bed sharing. Duh.

Duh.

. . . . .

So you're awake now, and nursing a killer headache, but you remind yourself that you have shit to do, god damn it, so you go and drink some water and try to forget your own troubles because, like you've mentioned, Brain probably feels a billion times wo

he's not in bed oh god fucking hell

It takes a moment of frantically looking around before you spot him hidden next to a box (you try to remember what said box is for and fail miserably) sketching something. You potter over to him and cross your arms. You're not angry with him, but you're starting to feel a little uncomfortable with your arms hanging there doing nothing and this is the easiest way to rest them.

You take a moment to collect your words. "...Are you feeling any better?"

It feels like about three hours before he responds.

"I'm fine."

He speaks. Hallefuckinglujah.

"Um. I wouldn't call you fine, considering. But as long as you're feeling at least a titchy bit better? You weren't really talking much yesterday-"

You trail off and squeak a quiet "troz" under your breath as he swivels to look at you. He doesn't look particularly healthy. Or fine. But neither of you do, and you suppose it's only to be expected. He has a nasty wound of some sort behind his ear (a burn, maybe?) and you privately decide to look at it later.

"I said I'm fine. Could you go and hover somewhere else? I'm working on something."

Well, you know what something is, and the way he says it is completely devoid of the emotion he would usually put into it, he's not even irritated, he just sounds tired, so no, you don't go hover somewhere else. You move closer and give his arm a tug.

"I don't think that's a very good idea, Brain. Why don't we go and sit down?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm already sat down."

Sassy as ever.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Please, just go back to bed. You don't have to sleep." How long did he even sleep for? You don't know. Time is not a thing any more.

He doesn't reply, again, and continues scribbling whatever he's scribbling and mumbling about integers.

Okay, fuck it. Dignity aside, you're going to get him in that bed whatever it takes, so you bend down slightly and just full bodied pick him up. You're not fucking around.

He actually squeals.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, I was going to ask you the same question."

"I was being productive."

"You were being crazy!" Twelve hours ago he was chained to a fucking gyroscope. Or something that looked like a gyroscope. You want to tell him this but you can't think of a nice way to phrase it.

"I was trying to accomplish something." Wriggle wriggle. "Put me down."

You comply by very gently lowering him onto your bed. And you do mean that.

Brain shuffles around to face you and folds his arms. "Why are you insisting on this." he mumbles, and it's monotone, more monotone than usual, and he's obviously trying to call you out but he's too tired for it to work properly. Which you... suppose is a little disconcerting.

"Well, you don't look all that well. So I thought maybe you should sit down for a while. The world can wait." You attempt to smile reassuringly and decide not to mention the fact he's used this line himself before. Because of a date with a girl no less so no, he can fucking sleep.

"Can it."

"Well, whatever plan you were drawing up is bound to work just as well next week, isn't it? Rome wasn't built in a day." You pause. "But maybe that's because the Italians were napping all the time." You punctuate this thought with a quiet "Narf", considering this point with around five seconds of complete concentration.

"...I think you just argued against your own point." There's some sort of sardonic half giggle. It's more like a sharp exhale through his nose. But saltier. "Impressive."

"Oh." You're pulled out of your thoughts rather harshly. "Wait, what point would that be?"

"Never mind." He moves to pull himself off the bed, but you take hold of his shoulders and push him back down.

"Nope. You are staying there, mister."

"Or what." He doesn't have eyebrows, and he's still raising them. How. "I get a time out?"

You decide not to bring up that time his parents came over.

"Well, probably, yes." You attempt to sound as angry or vaguely parental as you possibly can. "But only because I can't think of anything else right now!"

Poit.

"Oh, right, well, excuse my behaviour. I'll just sit in this corner and consider the error of my ways." And with that, he shuffles over to the pillow end of the bed and sits on the corner, crossing his arms and sitting in the most sarcastic way possible. Apparently, sarcastic sitting is a thing. And he is damn good at it.

Which, you're not going to lie, you're starting to resent a little.

(You resent a lot of things, these days.) (Maybe it's best not to dwell on that.)

disclaimer: my family is italian i am allowed to make that joke