Chicken Soup for the Walrider

"What..."

Billy chuckled as he collapsed on the couch. "Body got a little unbalanced with the moonshine. Swarm seems to have malfunctioned a little. Grandfather doesn't really know why it happens, but it does sometimes." Miles could see that Billy's hand was trembling.

"Are you going to be alright?" Miles asked, coming closer to the couch and staring at the black sludge in the pail.

"Who knows. Probably. Could you help me with grandfather? I'm not strong enough to..." Billy cut himself off when his body convulsed and he was forced to vomit up another thick stream of black slime. He struggled to expel the substance. It seemed much stickier than normal human vomit.

Miles rushed through the kitchen into Wernicke's room. "Listen old man, I need to know what's happening to Billy out there. He's throwing up black stuff like something out of The Exorcist."

Wernicke wheezed from his life-support chair. A twitch of his finger had him turning to face Miles, his eternally blank face still slack and pale. "Billy is the host. The host's body is a home for a swarm of nanites. There's never been anyone like him before in the history of the world. No one can know everything that could possibly happen." Several red warning lights blinked on the monitor connected to Wernicke's chair.

"Well, you wanna make an educated fucking guess? It looks like he's dying," Miles said, pushing his hand through his dirty hair as he tried to form a plan.

"Many subjects exposed to the Morphogenic Engine would experience growth of lead tumors instead of producing functioning nanites," said Wernicke, his German accent growing thicker as he spoke of past events. "This made them unsuitable hosts. Billy's body never formed these cancers, but over the years I have observed times when the nanites malfunctioned. Instead of turning into deadly lesions, Billy's body seems to dispose of the faulty machines while producing new ones to heal any potential damage. That's only a hypothesis. He has not been scanned for growths since leaving the laboratory, but in all other subjects they were visible and accompanied by bronchial accumulation—neither of these symptoms have I ever observed with Billy."

"Jesus...is that what he is to you? A living science experiment? Is that why you keep him out here away from people?" Miles demanded.

"I care for him like a son. It is for his own survival and well-being," Wernicke spat, the machines picking up in volume as his vitals surged.

"Okay, calm down, don't need you blowing a fuse. You need some help in here before I help him?" Miles asked, impatiently.

"The manual is by the bed," Wernicke said, flicking his finger to turn his chair toward the nightstand. Miles retrieved it and set about dealing with the warning levels. There were bags to be hung, liquid food to be fed, and oxygen to be regulated. Miles was still fussing over the machinery when Wernicke finally dismissed him rudely. "Billy needs help now. The host suffers," the old man's wheezing voice seemed to crack with emotion. "He suffers probably more than he ever lets show."

Miles stopped in the kitchen and searched the cabinets. He found a can of chicken soup and heated it in the microwave. He did not know if whatever crazy imbalance Billy was experiencing could be helped the same way as the common cold, but Miles felt far out of his element. Miles set the steaming soup on the table and squeezed onto the couch near where Billy lay, exhausted.

"Hey kid," Miles smiled gently down at Billy. "I brought you soup. How long have you been like this?"

"Since the moonshine," Billy said. Miles felt unbelievably guilty to think he had abandoned his new friend to this type of suffering all alone, especially considering Miles' gift had caused it.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Miles said, moving his hand over Billy's sweaty brow. "I guess the soup is a pretty lame apology, but you should eat some." Miles smiled as he brought the soup bowl to his lap and moved a spoon of hot liquid to his lips to blow gently. "Hope you like chicken noodle. That's all that was in the cabinet." Miles gently put the spoon to Billy's lips and tilted. The boy noisily slurped up the broth.

"Thank you. I'm starving," Billy admitted. Miles patiently continued to feed the boy one spoonful at a time. Billy accepted the food and the care, until Miles was feeding him the last noodle in the bowl. Miles fetched a glass of water, and Billy quickly drained the contents..

Billy laid back while Miles walked to the boy's bedroom and returned with a pillow. Miles propped Billy up and with the cushions until he looked more comfortable.

"Do you suffer like this often?" Miles asked quietly as Billy lay resting but awake.

"Sometimes. It comes and goes," Billy said softly. "Part of being the host, grandfather says."

"Does it hurt?" Miles asked, pushing his fingers through Billy's hair, wavy and matted from sweat.

"Yes..." the whispered response was chilling and put a sense of cold dread inside of Miles. "It feels better now with you here."

"You're just saying that," Miles grinned, but Billy turned dark blue eyes on the reporter to convey the seriousness of his statement.

"You calm the swarm. The Walrider it...it likes you. I told you before," Billy said looking away. It was impossible to know whether he was blushing or not considering how flushed his face was already.

"I know you did and I am so sorry I had to leave. My friend was hurt and I had to go and make sure he was alright. If I had known you were going to get sick, I would have come back sooner." And possibly would have saved himself from an unforgivable sin. Miles sighed heavily. Billy looked much more comfortable; his body more relaxed.

"Was everything alright with your friend?" Billy asked. Miles just looked confused at Billy, wondering how he could bother thinking of anything but his own suffering during a time like that. "Sorry. I did not mean to pry, but you had said it was life or death."

"Yeah," Miles said finally, blowing out a long breath. "I was not much help. No. I probably ruined that friendship, to be honest. I'm...I'm not a very good person."

"You're okay, Mister Upshur," Billy said, moving a weak hand to lay on Miles' knee where he was sitting nearby on the couch. "I'm sure your friend appreciates you caring enough to try."

"Yeah well, trying doesn't really help shit," Miles said, frowning off into space.

"This is the friend that's with another man. I sense you have some unresolved feelings for this person," Billys said. There was no jealousy or accusation in his tone, only friendly concern.

"Yeah," Miles said under his breath. "I thought I only wanted to be his friend, but I was wrong. Did not figure it out until it was too late." Billy hummed but said nothing else to interrupt the silence that followed as Miles paused, lost in his own mind. "I used to see his calls and think, this is the one, this is the call when he's going to realize he's supposed to be with me. He's going to tell me that he never stopped loving me and we will be together finally."

"You don't feel that way anymore," Billy said, and it was a statement instead of a question. Miles looked at the fevered young man, wondering when he had become so easy to read.

"No. I don't. Now I see his call, and I worry every single goddamn time. I worry that it'll be the call when I learn that he's been found hurt or worse. He's in a bad situation. And I can't seem to help him escape it. I can't help him. I can't help Chris. I can't even seem to help myself."

"You're helping me," Billy said, giving a faint squeeze where his hand touched Miles. The reporter stared at that point of contact as though it was completely foreign. When was the last time anyone had comforted him? Before Waylon...he could not even remember.

"Why do you think it likes me?" Miles asked, staring down at the sick boy. "Hope it wasn't the beard since I shaved."

Billy chuckled at the joke. He moved his warm hand to feel along Miles already scruffy cheek. "I think the swarm likes you because it can sense that you would make a good host. It's not human, you know. It is always calculating. Always most concerned about its continued existence."

"A good host, huh? You're sure it couldn't be my good looks and winning personality?" Miles asked, making Billy chuckle. Miles sighed dramatically. "What makes a good host, then?" Miles asked, curious, leaning into the warm touch on his face without even realizing it.

"Broken people," whispered Billy, turning sad blue eyes on Miles.

Miles' forehead creased with confusion. Broken people? "I don't understand," Miles said, frowning.

"What happened to you, Mister Upshur? There are scars on you, not just your body," Billy moved his hand slightly up to swipe brown hair away from Miles' brow, revealing his thick scar on his forehead. "Are there more?"

"Those scars are from a long time ago," Miles protested. "I'm not...I'm not broken."

"Can you tell me what happened?" Billy asked, his eyes patient and sincere.

"It was just a car accident. My parents both died in the wreckage. I got some nasty scars, but I was only four. I don't remember it," Miles said, staring hard at the ground in Billy's living room.

"Yes, you do," Billy said, gently.

Miles stared bewildered at the young man. "Is this some kind of Walrider side-effect? You can what, read minds?"

"You could say that, though it's not really as powerful as what you're probably imagining," chuckled Billy.

"What number am I thinking of right now?" Miles demanded. Just to be difficult he thought of the Roman numeral X.

"That's not how it works," Billy shook his head, though he was grinning. "I've learned things from others' thoughts and dreams, though I can't always direct it. I wish I could read minds. That would be helpful. No, I just know that the swarm feels you are a potential host. So there's definitely something there, no matter how you try to deny it. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine too."

"No, it's not like that," Miles said, pulling Billy's hand away from his face and holding it in his hand, fingers threading together. "I just, I don't tell anyone. Keep people far enough away and they won't ever bother to ask."

Billy nodded, squeezing weakly at Miles' hand.

"The car was flipped in a ditch. It had been raining," Miles began, his voice sounding flat in his own ears. He never talked about those memories. "My father died instantly in the collision. His head was completely smashed in, and he bled out. Blood pooled on the ceiling. When I remember that pile of bloody ground meat it's hard to even connect that it used to be my father. My mother, she was unconscious for a while. Kind of hanging out of her seat belt or maybe she had broken something. Her cheek was resting against the car ceiling. I was crying and screaming, but we were in a ditch no one could easily see plus the rainy conditions. I was just a kid."

Miles paused, refusing to meet Billy's eyes. He should stop there. But he didn't. "My mother seemed to come to but she was injured, likely severe internal injuries. But she was still breathing when the mud and rain seeping in from the broken windows raised above her mouth level and I listened to her slowly choke to death. I was pinned in my car seat by a twisted piece of the car, that's what gave me this bitchin' scar on my face. I was in an upside down car with my two dead parents. No one found the wreckage for almost four full days. It felt like a lifetime."

Billy's expression was sad, but not patronizing. He listened and nodded at the story, not giving any bullshit "I'm sorry" or some other useless sentiment. He just...listened.

"That had to be hard on you," Billy said.

"No family to take me in. Ended up in foster homes. Some were pretty nice. Some were not as nice. Even the good ones, there was that distinct feeling of not belonging. Never finding a family," Miles sighed, leaning back against the couch.

"You're sick, you don't want to hear me talk about such depression shit," Miles said, feeling wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. Tears? He never cried...

"Being near you makes the swarm quiet, so I would gladly listen to anything and nothing you wanted to say," Billy admitted, taking deep breaths where he lay on the couch. Miles felt Billy's skin again with a frown. "And besides, you're a reporter now. You've grown past those old injuries, no matter how severe."

"Yeah. I guess my past kind of predisposed me for my job. I wanted to be out there in the world, on the battlefield, fighting for the forgotten and abused. I spent my twenties chasing after war crimes, genocides, and plagues. Maybe it was all that exposure that got the swarm to like me," Miles chuckled at his non-joke. Truthfully, watching his ex-boyfriend's break down had affected him much more than any of the disasters he had documented. It was one thing to watch illness and death happen to people you did not know. It was another thing to find your boyfriend in the bathroom after having cut away his nose and part of his forehead with a straight razor while in a delusional state. The memory left Miles feeling cold. Miles desperately needed to change the subject.

"So what about you," Miles asked, looking into fever-bright blue eyes. "You've been the host for over ten years. Did something bad happen to you too?

"Childhood scars, not always visible," Billy said, his tone listless. "Yeah. I legitimately do not remember, though. My father he was, uh, well, arrested I suppose. They suspected him of some crimes. There was a witness who escaped him and claimed he had lured her into a van using a child as bait. He asked the woman to help with his son and she agreed only to find herself forced into the vehicle. He threatened to kill her, and had all sorts of horrifying equipment inside. She went to the police and my dad seemed to match the description."

Billy shrugged in his seated position. "I was a kid, ya know? I didn't remember. But they I guess got this person skilled with hypnotism, able to get at subconscious memories. I still do not remember what happened, but I have seen the recordings. My father he...he used me as bait to lure women, and he killed them. His methods were...the stuff of nightmares. I witnessed it all. My descriptions and memories allowed the police to find almost a dozen graves. Some abandoned properties he used in the murders. Forensics proved the rest. Last I checked, he's still alive on death row."

"Do you want to see him again, before they carry out the sentence?" Miles asked.

"No," Billy said, shaking his head weakly. "I'd just carry out the sentence myself if I saw him." Miles paused at the violent statement from the otherwise shy and gentle man.

"What about the therapy? Do you remember when you became the host?"

"I...I don't want to talk about that," Billy said, shifting on the couch to look away from Miles.

"Is it because you hate being the host? The way you talked about it the other night, the Walrider seemed like a good deal. Cures hangovers?" Miles asked.

"Yeah, no hangover, but the occasional malfunction," muttered Billy, wiping his mouth where remnants of the bile remained, sticky like tar. "I mean, it wants to continue existing, it wants to experience things. But it's complicated."

"Everything about you is complicated," Miles teased.

"I guess," grinned Billy. "I just have given up on trying to have a normal existence. Grandfather was right to bring me out here. I'm not really cut out for human relationships or interactions. I help grandfather and the cows and just try to find peace in being this way; having this part of me that I cannot show anyone, knowing I will never have friendships or...lovers..and...once grandfather passes I will be alone..."

"He can't live forever," Miles said gently.

"Why not?" Billy asked, turning back to stare at Miles.

"Uhh...because...nothing lasts forever? People die? Was that a serious question?"

"Yeah. Because I mean, the Walrider doesn't want to be alone. The nanites heal anything that threatens grandfather's life. I don't see why he cannot live forever..."

"You're keeping that man alive, that's how he's one hundred and twenty four years old?"

"Yeah," Billy said, as though it was obvious. Billy gave an involuntary shiver and Miles felt his forehead again. He was hotter than any human Miles had ever felt. It reminded him of a motor overheating-even smelled faintly like one.

"You're burning up," Miles worried.

"Thanks, I think you're hot too," Billy whispered, shocking the reporter. "I'm feeling much stronger since you arrived, and fed me."

"Yeah, but you still have a fever," Miles muttered. "Think you could stand through a cool shower?"

Billy frowned as he considered it. "I'm nervous about standing too long or being uncomfortable in the water."

"I'll help you," Miles offered, forcing himself not to smile at the idea.

"Okay, Mister Upshur," breathed Billy.

Billy was walking much better, though his grip on Miles' arm was tight and scalding hot. Miles ran the water until it was cool but still warm enough that he could stand the temperature. Miles undressed himself, noticing that Billy had paused in his own actions. It had been a while since anyone had looked at Miles that way. Billy's blue eyes were fever bright, but they dilated with desire at the sight of Miles stepping out of his clothes. Miles had almost forgotten how it felt to be wanted. Not to be teased or denied or ashamed of himself—only wanted.

Miles helped Billy with his own clothes, reminding the boy of their true purpose. He stopped short when he laid eyes on the boy's bare torso. His body was lean and toned with much less hair than Miles had on his own chest, but a shocking myriad of scars adorned his young skin. A particularly wicked, raised scar marred his chest close to his heart and several other smaller scars were all over his upper arms and chest. Miles could not begin to imagine the purpose of the markings.

"What..." Miles started to ask.

"Old scars," Billy said, his shoulders hunching over slightly in a self-conscious pose.

"You look good," Miles assured the young man, smiling gently. "Since you're part machine it's important that you stay cool. Maybe it's not a fever, maybe you're overheating. You don't know."

Soon Miles was pulling down his own underwear. He stood as tall and confident naked as he did fully clothed. The two nude men stepped into the tiny tile shower. The water immediately caused Miles to break out in goosebumps. It took a few seconds to get his breath back, and a few minutes to grow accustomed to the tepid temperature. Billy seemed considerably more at ease in the cool water, stepping in front of Miles and blocking most of the spray with his body.

"Thank you. Grandfather has been sickly since I lived with him. I can't remember a time someone actually cared for me while I was sick like this."

"You usually have to suffer this alone?" Miles asked, getting as close to Billy as possible in the shower without touching him.

"I'm used to it." Billy shrugged in front of Miles before ducking his head into the spray, causing Miles to crouch closer to Billy's back for shelter from the cold spray. Billy laughed at Miles cringing behind him. Billy washed out his mouth and gargled. Miles presumed it was to get rid of the taste of the strange bile. Considering it had smelled like burnt rubber, Miles doubted it tasted very good.

Miles grabbed the generic shampoo available and lathered up his hands before attacking Billy's wavy black hair. It was difficult to see the gray streaks when Billy's black hair was wet. Miles scratched Billy's scalp, massaging the soap into his hair. Billy sighed happily at the attention, turning his head and encouraging Miles' kneading fingers. Once Miles withdrew his fingers, Billy obediently soaked his head in the spray one more time.

"I know I scared you the last time we were together…"Billy started.

"You scared me a little this time as well," Miles interrupted.

"Well, since you came back, does this mean, you maybe do want to be with me too?" Billy asked, his voice timid.

"Some things happened in Denver. I'm not sure I am ready to be in a relationship with anyone. But if you don't mind something casual, I'm here," Miles offered. Billy hummed at the offer but did not say anything else, standing still while the cool spray hit his his lowered head. Miles lathered his hands again. This time, Miles' hands slid around Billy's waist and up toward his shoulders, fingers mapping out the strange scars. "You should let me take care of you."

Billy froze, but never refused the touches. He leaned back slightly to push his shoulder against Miles' chest. Miles continued to wash the younger man with his soapy hands. He traced over the hard planes of Billy's chest and down his trembling stomach. "You deserve to feel good Billy." Miles guided his hand lower, feeling through Billy's pubic hair and then brushing against his stiffening length. "May I touch you?" Being proper was not really Miles' style, but neither was seducing virgins.

"Yes," Billy whispered so low it was almost made inaudible by the spray from the shower. Billy was hard before Miles ever wrapped his soapy hand around his shaft. Miles stroked slowly up and down with a firm grip, pulling out a moan from Billy. "Mister Upshur that feels so good..."

"You need to call me Miles," he grumbled, still stroking Billy. Miles pressed his body up behind Billy, dragging his teeth across young, supple skin. "You don't have to be alone forever. You're a good guy—you could find someone to trust."

"But the Walrider...you're the first human other than grandfather that the swarm wanted to touch. Usually it only wants to keep other people away," Billy said breathlessly as the cool spray cooled him down and Miles' touch heated him up.

"Then it's past time that someone touched you and made you feel good," Miles muttered before biting down on Billy's shoulder. "I'm horrible to corrupt you." Even as he muttered the self-deprecating statement, Miles stroked Billy. He hummed in pleasure when Billy thrust his hips upward into Miles' grip. "That's it. Take what's owed you."

Miles was rubbing his hand up and down Billy's shaft and the boy managed to remain hard despite the tepid water. There was considerably less heat shared between their bodies, but Billy maintained without a pause. "The other night in my motel room," Miles said, speaking close to Billy's ear and keeping his voice low, "you wanted me to do this, didn't you?"

"The Walrider did," Billy confessed, panting as Miles worked his length with his soapy hand.

"But you didn't?" Miles asked.

"I just wanted to kiss you," Billy admitted, looking down in the shower, staring at Miles hand on him. The hand Miles did not have around Billy's dick came up to force the boy's chin far enough around that Miles could kiss him awkwardly.

"Then kiss me," Miles murmured against Billy's cold lips. There was a distinct taste like rusted metal that had not been present the other times the two had locked lips. It was not necessarily off putting, though it was foreign and strange.

Miles' grip and movements quickened as he ground his own erection against Billy's bare ass. "If I really am the choice of the swarm, then your Walrider friend has terrible taste. I am the worst kind of person."

"How can you say that," Billy managed before devolving into animalistic moans in the shower.

"It's true," Miles hissed, using his hand to bring Billy to the edge. The boy was a quivering mess. He was ready to fire and Miles' finger was on the trigger. "A good person would not do this to an innocent like you." The words alone ripped the orgasm from Billy's body. The shower washed away the evidence of Billy's seed spraying the shower. It did not matter since no one else used the shower anyways. Miles turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Billy remained there for several moments, his breath coming as ragged gasps.

Once Billy did emerge, Miles tossed him a towel and both men were soon dried and covered around the waist. "Do you want to go all the way?" Billy asked, catching Miles off guard as he lounged in his towel.

"You want me to fuck you?" Miles asked. He wasn't exactly against the idea, but Billy was sick and hadn't they just satiated that desire for at least a few minutes? Maybe Miles had forgotten what the sex drive of a twenty-one year old was like.

"Well...I mean...I just meant to warn you. Grandfather always said the Walrider tended to gravitate toward one host. He theorized the Walrider would also tend toward one mate," Billy said, meeting Miles' eyes when he spoke of having one mate. "It is dangerous for someone the swarm does not approve of to be close to me. If you took the step to mate with me...there could be lasting effects you're not prepared to face."

Billy was the only person to ever get Miles so immediately turned on, then so completely turned off. First he had to bail because Billy was a virgin, then because he housed a scientific experiment gone awry, and now Billy was basically stating that he mated for life and any coupling would be some kind of marriage vow. Who called sex mating anyways—especially two men? Billy was aware they could not mate right?

Miles hooked a hand around Billy's neck and pulled him closer. "Kiss now. Worry about the rest of that later." Billy launched himself at the reporter and they shared a repeat of the previous day in the rain. Miles patiently directed Billy's over-enthusiastic lips and tongue until the young man was moaning quietly into the kiss. It continued for minutes until Miles broke the kiss and helped Billy change into clean pajamas and carefully tucked him into bed.