.
.
The ride home was peaceful.
There, that's that. No drawn-out metaphors for how Andrew felt his entire body floating further and further away from Terra with each soft breath W took, drawing him closer and closer to his destination. No paragraphs teeming with comparisons and contrasts, or epithets and analogies. Andy didn't posses the kind of vocabulary required to construct such a beautiful world for himself.
Instead, he had patience.
Andy was patient when Newmaker slammed on the brakes a little too hard while parking inside the landship's cargo cove.
He was patient when he scooped up W from her seat and back-breakingly carried her heavy body and soul to the medical wing for life-saving check ups.
He was patient when Anton threw him a half-assed goodbye and carried off behind Doctor Kalt'tsit's robotically stiff march through the halls.
He was patient when the labcoats from medical took his W in and prematurely told him that he wasn't allowed into the operating hall.
He was patient when Ace and Scout were called to stop him from bringing down the mechanized doors and blasting his way inside.
He was patient, when he sat outside like a wet hound, dripping with worry and blankly gazing through the shapeless distortions of surgical panes.
He was patient when a nice lady came and asked him to let a syringe suck away a great deal of blood from his guts-caked arm.
He was patient when the red kept dripping, and when he stared through the window at W's closed eyes.
He was patient when they stabbed her with needles and syringes all over. When they took notice of his mastermind merc-medical intervention, and glanced around each other with incredulous, albeit surprised and slightly off-put looks.
He was even more patient when they had finally pumped the girl full of fresh and worthless Sarkaz blood, then let her out to fall into his arms. W held onto his shoulders for balance, then vomited all over his sweater.
Andrew thanked the good labcoats from medical for their undivided attention and also the reluctant unwillingness to let her stay the night in a properly professional, medical environment. He thanked them for kicking her ass out of the resting hall to bum around their room instead.
.
And so, they were off. Late at night, at this ungodly hour, the hallways of Rhodes Island were mostly quiet. Here and there, a softening tumult of hushed voices would come and mingle with the nightly silence, but never overstay its welcome. Ace and Scout walked them a decent way of the road home, before disappearing in some communal kitchen or behind some other locked and unavailable door. Andy wordlessly thanked them for being there, when that clown Newmaker couldn't. He hated the guy, and for a good reason.
A reason that currently found herself slung over the boy's blood-soaked shoulder.
She reeked. Spread a putrid stench of sweat and death, and vomit, but it was fine because Andy had a somewhat similar fragrance to him. Two minuses zero-d each other out, and so they couldn't even really smell the toe-curling concoction of mind-numbing odors. All that mattered to him was that W was fine and somewhat conscious, and somewhat eager to keep tumbling forward through the hall. The hall. Their endless march, by now a little less uneasy and veiled in a smidge of uncertainty, not a whole deluge. Only three days remained, Andy reminded himself. Just three, grueling days. What was a man able to do in three days? Seventy two hours, four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes, two hundred fifty nine thousand and two hundred seconds. About a good six or maybe seven more suicide-tier tasks from Newmaker and whoever else was there to guide his judgmental wisdom. Or the lack of it, rather.
Lights gleamed somewhat dim in the endless spiral of mechanical serpent-bowels. Andy found himself staring in blank mock-awe at an escaping fairy that flickered her way through a series of electrically sizzling ceiling lamps. It was all in the works and ruined, this vessel. Like it used to house some grand magnificence, but has long been stripped of all its awe-striking, mouth-gaping excellencies. He didn't know. He really didn't know, so he flicked the strange thought away.
"... W?" Andy began speaking instead, voice a little hoarse from the lack of words these past few hours. The girl responded subconsciously, marking her arrival back into the world of the living. It was her antennae that automatically shot up, either at the mention of her name, or (more likely) at the sound of his voice.
"Yeah?"
"What do you, uh… What do you think he's gonna drag us through tomorrow?"
She raised her head, eyes seeking and finding his. Half lidded, they were just as tired, even despite her repeated attempts at denying Andy's shoulder and stubbornly walking on her own.
"... Who? Moron in charge?"
"Yeah, Anton."
"Dunno." She shrugged, but barely. Andrew's arms and fluffy sweater seemed really, really enticing at that point, but she found herself hesitating due to the surging streams of consciousness seeping back into her brain and puppeteering her to go and act out W, the strong and tough merc-girl for hire. She was starting to feel a little TOO well for W, Andy's plushie. "... Hope he kicks the bucket in his sleep and fucks off to wherever they dragged him in from. But like, you know. In a casket."
"Yeah. Or a body bag." Andy agreed, wholeheartedly. "... 'Cause, you know. Like, a body bag's worse, and- and cheaper than a casket, I think."
"..." W's eyes turned curious for just a moment, then a little sly. "You think?"
"Yeah. I mean, I never had to buy either, so I dunno."
"Mm…" She showed her thinking face, and Andy knew her brain-cogs were working overtime, grinding and sparking pretty thoughts. After a moment of these prolonged attempts at intelligent creation, she returned back to normal. "... I was gonna say it speaks volumes, the fact that you've never had to skimp out on either a body bag or a casket, but then I realized that we don't really use this OR that for body-packing, and just kinda dump our corpses six feet under bare. So you know, it's- it's just kinda eh. Like, y'know, hyporetica-... hypo–... hypo– what, again? What was the word?"
"Hypocritical." Andrew happily assisted.
"Hypocritical, yeah." W silently thanked him with a nod. "I figured, why be mean when it doesn't even make sense."
"Yeah. You're a real thought-peddler after hours, y'know."
"Fuck you, I'm trying to be rational for once." She scoffed, and smiled. A few months ago, Andrew would receive some real mixed signals from her knowing grins, but at this point he's already learned that they were her way of being annoyingly affectionate. "I'm balancing out both ends. Call me a funambulist, if you will."
"A f– funambulist? A what?"
"A tightrope walker." W took to marching proudly across an invisible rope, arms out like a mighty flying steel and flesh amalgamation. "... You know, those guys with the balancing sticks. Or gals. Gals too. Actually, fuck do I care about what's in their undies? Be it an ori-slug, or a metal crab, I don't care. I just need them to walk the- the stupid rope thing."
"The tightrope?"
"Yeah, yeah. The tight-rope. It has the tight in its name 'cause it's held very tight at both ends, and–"
"Tight, and like, so it's less loose and people can actually walk–"
"Yeaah, yeah, less loose and you can actually walk it."
"Yeah, exactly." Andy nodded in complete agreement. The art of tightrope walking wasn't something he'd expect W to be so passionate about, but so be it. "... What were we talking about?"
"Anton, I think."
"Right. Right, Anton." The two of them returned to the usual state of tired grimness, a steadfast companion of their battered walks back home – even outside of Babel and Rhodes Island, they'd usually find themselves too tired to argue or brawl for fun, when done with the entire "out and about", the "running contracts" and especially the whole "ruining lives" stuff. "He's a dick."
"Oh, massive." W agreed without hesitation. "No, we need to kill that guy someday. Like, for good."
"Bullets don't work."
"Yeah, you tried." She noted.
"Explosives won't either, probably."
"We could test it out, I guess. Trial and error eventually breeds innovation, no? That's what Her Majesty told me yesterday." Her voice burst with pride at the end, and she was visibly overjoyed to consider herself an object of Her Majesty's mind-numbing affections. Andy didn't really know how to feel about it.
"Well, if Her Majesty herself said it, then it has to be true." He said, albeit a little grumbly. It didn't slip unnoticed.
"What's with that?"
"What's with what?"
"That." She poked him in the cheek. "This. There, there, there. In there, spit it out."
"What?" Andy tried moving his face away, but the feel of her touch wasn't exactly unpleasant. "Spit what? What're you on about?"
"You know exactly what." A criticizingly prosecutive finger struck his wavering defenses, and he giggled. W smiled at the sound. "Yeah, much better. You keep giggling like that, yeah? Fits you more. More than jealousy does, anyway."
"Jealous– JEALOUSY?" He almost exclaimed, utterly flabbergasted by just how quickly she managed to rip him wide open and read his churning guts like a book. "I'm not jealous. Why would I be jealous, what? Like– like, I just don't understand how you'd even reach that kinda conclusion, it's kinda baffling."
"Uh-huh." She watched his pathetic attempt at saving face with a raised eyebrow. "Y'know, you shouldn't make such a fuss about something you just can't change. I'm her top gal, and nothing's toppling that for now." She huffed a little sound akin to breathy laughter, and Andy was left wondering how she managed to misunderstand his reaction this hard. She did catch onto something, sure, but not quite onto him. "... Maybe after I'm dead and buried, sure. You can fight for the number two spot for now, though."
"... Yeah." He blinked, and nodded. There wasn't a world where he'd try to correct her pristinely perfect way of self-assured thinking. "... Yeah, that. Second place's fine actually."
"Of course it is." W scoffed, then affectionately elbowed him in the ribs and slung an arm around his shoulders for balance. Plushie-W managed to break through the dark clouds of Merc-W's looming persona, and she pressed herself flush against his side to march on with an Andy-crutch at the hip. "Of course it is. Second place's always fine with you, dumbshit."
.
And Andy was happy. He was happy as long as he managed to hold her first place.
.
.
.
.
.
.
It took them a while to drag themselves to their room. They also bumped into an uncharacteristically sleepy Hedley on a night kitchen-prowl, and mumblingly summarized the day's events. Whether he understood even a word of their vague story-weaving, neither moron could tell. He kept nodding and swaying from side to side, holding onto a rather large bucket of ice cream and occasionally licking smudges of chocolate-like residue off his stubble.. All in all, he seemed more interested in stealthily finishing his family-sized portion of chocolate-chocolate chip than hearing about how Andy managed to drag W back from the dead and kick-start her heart amidst that smoldering mess of a battlefield. Him and Ines were doing recon that day, whatever it meant. That's what he told them when they were done. Lucky bastard. Didn't even offer them a scoop. Maybe it was the fact that they were both covered in vomit. Maybe it wasn't.
What if it was?
Didn't matter.
He must've thought it was all a dream anyway. Law bless his soul, all that.
.
When Andy and W managed to finally and conclusively lock their door for the night, the gentle chill and nightly veils of calming fowl-hooing coming from outside, welcomed them lukewarmly inside their lowly abode. No malignant presences were allowed to enter. No malevolent wraiths dared cross the border between Kazdel and Rhodes, invading the two moron's soft and quiet moment.
W pushed Andy inside, and he immediately face-planted onto her bed. Good Law high above, how heavenly the cool fabrics bent and molded under his figure. Perfectly! Like a cookie-cutter pressed into raw dough, like a brush dipped into a careful blend of paint, like a fresh batch of notes flung from the strings of a noisy clown's guitar, and finally – like a chilly and cold hug from W's impatient arms…
It felt good. It felt so good that he whimpered and giggled, just from the sensation of having the godly fabric slither all around his battered body. His worn and tired body. A body splattered with curses, with disease, with seed bearing misfortune and with a deep, vast soul. A true ocean of a soul. A raging, frothing wave. The sun, hiding behind a stretching plain of dark in the sky, occasionally bleeding a glimmer or two, through.
And vomit. A body splattered with vomit.
Andy sat up and straightened. Each limb listened, even his tail. He glanced at his sweater, and then around the room. A room like any other night, it was. His buckshot eye noticed the distinct lack of W, however, the mystery quickly belied by the sound of a sloshing current of water, muffling from behind the bathroom door. Showering seemed like a decent idea just about now.
Andy sat and stared, examining the pitiful condition of his clothing. Pants, saggy. Sweater, torn. He still had the W-soaked rag he'd once call a sleeve. Digging a little deeper, Andy also found a spool of yarn and a prickling stack of needles in the bowels of his cargos. Seven, was it? Seven, the logistical wonder that brought it all to him. Law rest his soul, at least he proved somewhat useful. Strange child.
Andrew sighed, then took the sweater off. The window's shushing current ghosted over each inch of exposed skin and left a dusting of cold kisses all over - non-consensually so. A lowly tank top was all that protected his most vulnerable of parts, and it still left a lot to be desired in the insulation department. Not like he had a right to complain. A right, nor a will.
Andy lit a cigarette and started working. Lines of fabric weaved through the gradually hardening wool, and at some point it felt like he was sewing W's skin back together all over. The blood and guts and whatever else that have sunk into the fabric have made it nearly indistinguishable from a pile of moist muscles. Or meat. A meat-mountain, right in his lap.
Andrew conquered the summit and dug his tiny blade repeatedly into the sweater's flesh. One by one, his messy stitches were beginning to look like something somewhat resembling what the sweater had once been – a true marvel of Lateran tailoring, hand-picked and hand-weaved to withstand the most murderous of Kazdelian winters. Or stop a few devil-bolts. Or keep the peacekeepers at least partially warm. Or soak up Lateran angel blood, actually. When he graced his peepers with the final product, Andy couldn't deny that he felt somewhat happy with his creation. Nice and snug, it only had a few holes remaining between the messy linings and stitchings, muddling up the already patchwork-like image. When he tried to put it on, the entire thing ripped and fell. All the progress, disappearing in the blink of an eye. The loud tearing of fabric was followed by his displeased sigh, and to his surprise, W's amused snortles.
She stood before him, all noodle-haired and wet, dripping with traces of shampoo and water. Even her antennae hung pathetically with the soggy strands. Her usual, tactical killing-attire was gone, instead opting to rock the eye-closing, mind-numbing, sleep-inviting combination of some oversized tee she ripped off a dead guy, and shorts. The shorts, Andy couldn't pinpoint the genesis of. Maybe she'd second-handed them as well. Maybe not. He didn't know.
"What?" He mumbled through a plume of cigarette smoke, the motion causing the stick to ash itself right onto his sweater. It was met with another snortle from the girl, as she sauntered her way over to his side and flicked his horn. "... Ow? That's enough misery for today, don't you think?"
"Naw. Misery banks are never full. Pain monopoly never reaches any equilibriums, it's always in a decline towards shortages." She recited, almost managing to sound smart. "... You can pump a lot more depressing shiz into a day. Like, a lot more. Heaps more. Cram me a whole river's worth of tears, I'll still have an extra nook or cranny to hog some."
Andy patiently waited for her to finish.
"You done?"
"Mmm." She couldn't be bothered to babble a word more, as a long and deep yawn split her jaws wide open. It was, as always, highly contagious, and Andy found himself following in her slothy footsteps not even a second later. "... No, I'm too tired for this. This shit, I'm too tired. I can't be your gloom-ball tonight."
"Bummer." Andy let go of the remaining bits of his yawn-residue and flicked the ash off his sweater. A flowery smell of body wash enveloped them both, as W sat next to him and immediately ripped the cig from between his lips. "... Yeah, go ahead. Help yourself. Cough your lungs out. Just don't stain the fabrics."
"The fabrics are already stained plenty enough, dimwit." She pointed out, and it had largely been true. The bedsheets were pretty red, and so were his clothes. And the sweater had some vomit on it. Nothing a little lung-batter would ruin, anyway. Seeing no more protest from Andy, she took a small, tiny inhale of the cancerous, life-ruining disease spreader, and held the smoke in. First, in the safe confinements of her puffed cheeks, then, with a breath, in the fleshy and bubbly innards of her lungs. The breath-trees all shuddered their fluttering air-leaves at the invasive rasp of burning pain, but refused to harrk, or grrr, or otherwise voice any other sound of discontent. They allowed the cigarette smoke. They allowed the nicotine to permeate them whole, sending its benumbing fumes spreading all across the body, like a system of freshly sprouted little flowers. Very damaging flowers. Pretty flowers. These flowers made W feel funny – funny, like she's never, ever felt before.
These flowers made her feel certain things in a way that hasn't yet been uncovered by her puny, lizard brain. The reptilian knots and bundles of neurons huddled together like Sarkaz steelworkers watching their favorite slave-fights on the clock, and clung to the idea of a fuzz-static-ness bursting through each electron or neutron residing beneath her skin. It felt strange. It felt liberating. It felt as if she's been running a hound-fit marathon her entire life, and in this moment – after a true puff of nicotine goodness – some higher power had allowed her a break to lie down and suckle on a bone.
.
"... W?"
.
A hand invaded her vision. One, two, five fingers, all wiggly and wormy – they slipped into her sight and threw the blooming high off. W narrowed her brows and shot the intruder an incredulous look.
"Y-Yeah?"
"You alright?" Andy plastered his fingertips around her eye and dragged the skin away to examine her pupil. In width, it measured around a few millimeters more than usual. It had turned almost entirely round, which was a far cry from the usual lizard-like slittiness. They felt more lively. More amiable, even. "... W?"
"Yeah. Yeah! Yeah, yeah." She nodded rapids, eager to show just how fine she was. "Yeah. You, uh… you smoke this all the time?"
"What?" Andy glanced at the cigarette, then at the waterfalls of excitement flowing from her eyes. "... Yeah? They're usually similar tobacco. I try to look for the normal stuff, at least. Filtered, most of the time."
"Filtered, yeah… of course, yeah." She scoffed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "... Anyway, can I finish this one?"
"Uh…" Andrew felt a little conflicted. On one hand, having a smoking buddy was something he's always dreamed of ever since picking up the habit. But on the other, he's never exactly pictured W in that role. He was kind of glad for her initial distrust and disgust instilled by her first attempt at inhaling, actually.
He just didn't want her to smoke, that's all.
"Don't be like that." She dimmed. "It's Kazdel. We die, we die – womp, womp. I died today and came back to life, so it's not like you have any sort of ethical or- or experience-based high ground to be hammering your holier-than-thou lectures into my brain. If I wanna kick the bucket, at least let me be the judge and jury. And executioner, in this case." She paused to demonstrate her executive power in the form of taking another puff. This one, when inhaled, nearly brought her to tears, and contorted her face in an especially funky way, but Andy didn't feel like laughing at all. Moments later, the smoke all flew in his direction and bit his eyes. "... Right? There's a way to be picked, and it doesn't even matter which one you settle for. We're not making it past twenty five anyway."
"Right." Andy had actually thought about it before, and with how things were going in Babel, her words were making more and more sense with each day (and each Newmaker-appointed fuck-fest of a mission.) Still, even so, he didn't like that thought. He didn't, but there really was no way of convincing her, that much he knew. "... But there's another problem."
"- Yeah?" She spat, just barely holding her composure after another puff.
"Yeah." Andy took the cig away from her and plopped it back between his lips. "You gotta find someone else to bum these things from."
"You're so petty." She didn't seem the slightest bit surprised. Her tail crossed a few eights around the air, flicked a left there, slid a right after, and slithered its way around the cig, stealing it once more. "Just let me smoke! It's not like… Okay, stop! Stop, for fuck's s-... Come on!"
Filled with a newfound competitive spirit, Andy pounced on her arms to free her of a future burden malevolently titled "Lung Cancer." He wrapped his hands around hers, and effectively pinned her to the bed – for just a moment at least. W kicked both her knees up, and simply flipped him over, sending the boy flying off into the nearest wall.
Crash!
His back planted snugly into the plaster, and his head had miraculously been saved by a tiny pillow-fort left there in the morning by W's laziness. With a bit of a determined smirk, Andy gathered himself for a counter-offensive, mostly with his cigarette, hanging from her lips, in mind. W, however, had a different plan for once.
"Okay! Okay, listen." She put her hand up, a gesture eliciting attention and waking the inner barters within both. "Listen."
"I am listening, yeah." Andy sat on his knees, ready to pounce again. "... But it better be good."
"It's good. Better than anything your monkey-brain can whip up." She sighed, blowing away a graceful wave of slimy smoke. It was swept away with the boy's annoyed hand-shuffling. "... That thing."
W pointed to his sweater. The tearing arm, especially.
"This. This- this pathetic excuse of a sew."
"I was gonna get on it, thank you." Andy ripped the entire sleeve off in exasperation. "But someone had to come in and decide right now's the perfect time to pick up smoking."
"Any time's good." She shrugged. "Better late than never. Anyway, c'mere."
With those simple words, W spread her legs wide off to both sides and patted down the space between.
"...?" Reluctantly, Andy eyed her from head to toe, but did nothing more than move into the exact spot. Veiled by the soothing smell of her shampoo, sitting snugly "in" her lap, he flicked his head behind to meet the apricot of her eyes. "... And?"
"And." She reached for his sides and gave them a nice tug. "Hands up."
"Yup." Andy raised his arms up and allowed her to slip the sweater off. It landed in his lap, under the steady supervision of her dutiful army of fingers. Moved around and managed by the plethora of generals sitting comfortably inside her brain, the digit-y soldiers made quick work of feeling out where the hole had been torn and somewhat realigning it back along with the sleeve. "... So what're we doing?"
"I'm teaching you to sew, dumbshit. Obviously you've no idea about your lefts and rights in the patchworking biz, looking at the, uh…" She took a moment to once more examine and thoroughly study the remnants of his "stitches", plastered along the gaping arm-hole. "This- this "attempt", I'll call it. You just need a guiding hand to pep you up."
"Uh-huh…" Andy sat and grumbled, less than content with how things were looking. His stitching work had better effects on live tissue, sure. No need to rub it in. "... And you're willing to provide, yeah?"
"Uh-huh. For a small price."
"Cigarettes?"
"Gotcha. Smart boy." She grinned in genuine, smug glee, and reached her grabby little fingers into the nearest of his cargo-pockets. Fabric slits ruffled apart, to Andy's most stoic indifference. The deal seemed fair. Fair enough, at least.
"Thaaaaaaank you." She warbled melodically, and blew him a smudge of eye-clawing smoke. The stolen cigarettes were shoved neatly into the pockets of her shorts. "These'll be for later. Like, tomorrow. Probably. Maybe. Not sure yet."
"It's not a competition."
"What's not a competition?"
"Whoever gets lung cancer first. I've got a head start, but you don't really need to catch up, you know." Andy huffed. "... I'd go as far as to say that whoever "wins" is the actual loser."
"Yeah, no shit." W snortled. "Mr Philosopher over here. Back at it again, cooking over a cold stove. You just sit back and watch what I'm doing, yeah?"
"Yeah, yeah…"
"Yeah." With that, she pressed on his chest, drawing the boy closer. Tucked snugly against her shirt, Andy now served as a resting point for her chin, which she buried into his shoulder. "... Now lemme see what I can drill into that mess of a brain."
Her hand motions stilled. From both his sides, encircled forward and backward, Andy sat in his one little theater, or colosseum, eagerly studying the stage's she's set for no one but him. With the lack of a curtain, her erratic finger-wiggling had to do as the grand unveiling of her show.
"So." She coughed, because the entrance wasn't grand enough for her liking. "So! So, first of all, welcome, my less-than-intelligent audience. This is sewing one-oh-one for dummies, and I'm gonna be your teacher for tonight."
"Very funny." Andy made it sound like it wasn't.
"Nothing funny about sewing, Lawdog. As you'll soon learn, anyway." She huffed, then affectionately tapped her only audience member on the nose. Her hands then traveled to string up the sweater like a lifeless puppet, tugged at by her acting mastermind. "As you can see, we've got a major fuck-up, and a fixer-tool to help us get rid of it. The genesis?"
"Of what?"
"The major fuck-up."
"Oh." Andy blinked. "... I tore it off to stop your bleeding."
"..."
For a few moments, there was silence from the show's conductor. It almost sounded as if she were thinking.
W finally chuckled, with her train of thought back on track. "... Then you did a pretty shitty job at it, seeing how I got squeezed dry and died."
"..." Now, it was Andy's turn to go silent. The memories of today still brewed fresh in his mind, having undoubtedly carved a deep and wide ravine of incurable trauma to be bottled and never spoken of again. The topic lingered weird, and he didn't want to talk about it, nor did he want to even be reminded of the whole shitshow of a mission. Sensing the shift in atmosphere, W nudged him in the ribs.
"Hey? What's up? Fishing for sympathy again?" She asked, but not out of malice, but care. Andy shook his head, and allowed it to rest calmly on her collarbone.
"No, it's nothing."
"It's always nothing. Always, and never. We've been through this already."
The sweater muffled a softly drop at their laps. W weaved her fingers through both his hands, and curled them so that a most applicable amount of warmth could course freely through their conjoined palms.
It felt natural. Completely normal and usual, like a lukewarm coffee in the morning, or a session of bruise-licking in the evening. Familiar too, the feel of her unfittingly soft but calloused hands, molding and falling into place between his fingers. Andrew couldn't help but sigh. He wanted to voice much more, preferably maybe cry a little and shakily mumble all the worries and terrible woes of today into her shirt. That's what he'd allow himself in a perfect world. Terra was far from a perfect world.
"..." Andy felt the warming waves pulsating from her fingers, and held onto them a tad tighter, just to make sure she wouldn't slip away. Not like then, in that dark and empty cave. Having secured her well enough, he spoke quietly. "It's about what happened earlier. In that pub."
"..." W responded with a feather-light squeeze. "... I guessed as much."
"I guess I just got scared, and it's still dragging behind me. The– the thought of what could've been, if–... if, you know." He couldn't quite force the words "If you died" through his lips.
"If I stayed there, on the counter." She helped him a little. "If I had never woken up, and left you all alone. That's what you're trying to say."
"..." Andy swallowed. "Maybe."
"Just say it. It's not a taboo topic. Not for anyone on Terra, not for Kazdel, not for any other place or any other person, especially not for me and you. Don't be a pussy about it." Her words bit, but only a little. They bit as much as Andy allowed them to bite, and he's been learning to fend off their hungry teeth these past couple of months. "That's the reality. Something starts, something ends, nobody bats an eye."
"I do." Andy gripped her hands tight. "I promised you I would."
"Oh, you promised. Look at you, all honorable and great." W giggled softly. "And pray, tell me, promises lead you where, usually?"
"Where?"
"Nowhere."
A flick on the nose. A topic brushed off.
"I'm alive, you're alive. No need to dwell on it."
Poof.
Tap, tap.
Her hands sealed the deal in a forgetful envelope of daffodil yellow, then hurled it out the window. All was done, and all was forgotten. The misery, the dustings of worry and downright mounds of depressive emptiness – all gone, swept under a metaphorical rug with a flick of her fingers. W let go of his hands and latched onto the sweater.
"Now watch. There's a spectacle to put on, and I need your undivided attention. Yeah? Got it?"
"Yup." Andy surrendered, devoting himself entirely to her theatrical cause. W lit the stage aflame with a show of smoking mirrors and glimmer-happy limelights, all produced by the shoves, dives and flights of her dutifully labor-eager hands. She examined the sweater once more, locating a faulty arm-sleeving system in the eastern sector. Frowning, she made sure to display it for the audience to see. Andy commemorated her keen eye with an unamused roll of his own.
"Yup. Hole." He said, poking his finger through.
"Not any hole." W ruffled his hair with her chin. "A life saving hole, you sap. We'll get it all fixed up before you can fall into another one of your trances and start bawling your eyes out."
A fair indicator of time, he thought. Too tired to bite back, Andy fell into the soft fluff of her shirt and deemed her his private, own bean-bag for the night.
"You grab it like this…" Tongue out, she navigated the thread through the needle's tip. It fit right in, without any protest, thanks to the dexterity bred by the sheer familiarity of the gesture. "... And shove it through. Got that?"
"Yup." Andy murmured, though he was currently more interested in sinking deep into her chest and disappearing completely from Rhodes, Babel, Kazdel, and Terra itself. He'd crawl in between her ribs and just sit there for days if he could, wishing she was a little less cold, and a little less of a bitch. Tough luck. "... I know the basics."
"Do you?"
"Yeah." He poked her side with an elbow. "I had to tie up the entry wound. I even cauterized it for you."
"And the exit wound?"
Andy felt the soul leaving his body. He's utterly forgotten about the exit wound.
Pale, he shuddered in her arms.
"... Might've slipped me."
"Of course it did." W didn't even seem surprised. Instead, she giggled and shoved the sweater in his face. "... Hold this, medi-moron. You're gonna make sure no hole goes unpatched on this rag, at least."
Like a kicked puppy, he held his sweater at a rather affable angle, allowing the girl to play out her theatrical fantasies and limelight-bathed ambitions. She hummed a little tune and swung her tiny blade repeatedly into the unyielding beast's hide, sewing the woolen trunk more and more into place with each stroke. Her fingers worked tip-top, collectively brushing through the fields of impure fabric like the wind swept a gale across the golden wheat of Laterano. She was good at it, basically. With each move came a tiny instruction to her audience, the giant-slaying, life-mending tasks made easy and approachable.
"... And you do a double here. Look." She leaned over Andy's shoulder to make sure he was looking. "Look, dumbass. Not at me, at the sweater."
"I am looking, you prick." He chuckled back, forcefully ripping his eyes off the pure focus etched into her face. W couldn't help but secretly enjoy the strange and embarrassingly warm way his staring made her feel, though soon dimmed by the looming feeling of needing to keep up at least a sliver of an appearance. She bumped her horn against his to rattle the mushy-gushy sludge back into the form of a brain.
"Focus on this one. This is the bread and butter of Kazdel's sewing school, and you can't really make it anywhere here without this. Some prick gives you tit for tat and rips your stomach open, you gotta know how to patch your favorite under-armor piece back into shape, clear?"
"Crystal."
"Great." She murmured and pulled hard on the stringed puppet. All knots and webbings came together in a makeshift loom of wooly cobweb, thus defeating the "big bad villain" of her play once and for all. The audience cheered and clapped, waving goodbye to the ten finger-actors disappearing with a bowing grace behind W's arm curtains. The sweater held itself together, as if mended with spit and industrial grade duct tape. Somewhat professional, somewhat homey. All DIY.
"And that's that." A spit bubble popped from her mouth. "Not much more to it. Hope you got the basics at least, 'cause I'm not running through all this singing and dancing again."
"Sort of."
"Good enough." The bed welcomed her loosening body, as she let herself be taken into the wall's supporting embrace. With a quick "Up, up" W puppeteered Andy's arms to rise, and slipped his sweater back on. This time, no tearing. No pain, no misery, no torn fabric. Just a deluge of warm, wooly goodness, cascading from the sky.
They were done, but the moment failed to end. A certain amount of rose-tinted intimacy refused to vacate their room, and it kept spraying its head-numbing fluff all around. It felt almost disruptive at times. Definitely invasive. W noticed, and Andy noticed. Both of them have noticed, yet none decided to acknowledge it.
W didn't really want to shove him away from her just yet. She didn't want his puke-covered sweater, or his guts-caked hair to leave her grasp. Not now. Not that night. Not in that lifetime.
Her arms encircled his waist, and Andy fell a mile of depth, dragged further and further to the sand-laid bottom by her naval anchor of warmth. She was hugging him close, but Andy wasn't sure why. No matter how hard his mind yearned for answers, his heart wouldn't let it voice its concerns. Instead, it politely asked the motor system to please lay its fleshy claws atop hers, and Andy placed his hands over her fingers. With a soft breath, she non-verbally thanked him for the gesture. That's what he thought, at least.
"... Tired?" He asked, softly enough to match the strangely familiar mood. A ruffling of air indicated W shaking her head, and she squeezed his stomach harder.
"No, no. Not really. I mean…" Their tails grazed the empty meadows of air between, only to eventually latch onto one another. They laced and tied into their usual, more-than-familiar helix. "... I mean, yeah. I'm tired too, but it's not that."
"What is it, then?"
"You know." A sweet dripping of accusation trickled down her voice. Andy felt wrongly sentenced, with no court reporter to jot down his defense. The case seemed hopeless.
"I don't know. Sorry."
"Shut up." W scoffed in a chuckl-y manner. "Don't say sorry, dimwit. What're you even sorry for? Not reading my mind? Being unable to worm your way into a loon's mind? Catching me in one of those dumb, quiet moments? Bringing me back here? Saving my life, again?"
Andy's fingers slipped between hers, and his thumb decided to start drawing a plethora of tiny, meaningless circles around her skin.
"Don't say that. You shouldn't say that."
"Why? You, of all people, should understand what it's like to hate me. Don't play coy."
"Why would I– Why would I hate you?" Andy jerked his head back to catch her gaze. Mean and ugly, it was. Slithery and wet, muddly and dripping with puddles of venomous acid. They rained from her eyes and burned every one of her features. Self sabotaging.
"Lawdog–... Andy, look." W corrected her slip of tongue, and her eyes softened immediately. "You dragged me back here. You dragged me back from the dead. The dead."
"Yeah?"
"Andy." Without any indication, her whole demeanor shifted onto the wild and uncharted waters of seriousness. "... I died, Andy. I physically died. Not metaphorically, not allegorically, not any- any other flowery nonsense word – no. I died. My heart stopped beating, and my brain turned off."
He couldn't grasp what she was getting at. She did die, yes. Fine. She died a real, corporeal, physical death – and so what? She was there, behind him, and he was in her arms. Her warm and real, ALIVE, animated arms. Andy couldn't understand the issue.
"... Okay?" He murmured, confused. "And?"
"And?" W scoffed again. "And you dragged me back. I don't know how, but you– you literally brought me back from the dead. You got me up and running again. Like fixing an engine."
"It was a bit different than fixing an engine."
"And you're going off again." W tapped him on the head, the gesture most ambivalent. "I'm talking about death, you're talking about engines. We're not going off course, dumbshit."
"... Alright." He dimmed. "But still, what's even- what's the point you're trying to make?"
"That I didn't even thank you for it?" Her incredulous look only grew. "That I've never even bothered to stop this mindless rat-race for even a second to go "Hey Lawdog, thanks for the save"? That you've never even pointed it out for whatever reason? I don't understand, why are you such… such a pushover? Like one of your spent shells, you're just tumbling around the floor and sometimes clinking annoyingly. Are you waiting for someone to pick you up, and what? Reload? Pump you full of ori-dust and screw on a new cap? I don't get it."
"..."
Andy didn't know what to say.
He understood her concerns, and he wanted to disagree. He wanted to refute her claims and prove that he in fact, was not a spent shell casing, but a juicy twelve gauge soldier, ready to be fired at whatever next came their way.
But he couldn't.
Just couldn't bring himself to do so.
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"..."
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Instead, he whispered. A coward's mewl, not a hero's rallying battle cry.
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"... Because I just don't want you to die. I don't expect a thanks." His voice carried through the entire room, not a decibel louder than the soft and soothing waving of wind, or the buzzing ceiling light. "... I just like being. Being with."
"Being with." W sounded most unamused. "Don't say "being with you."
"But that's what I want to say." He pushed on, gaze locked on both their tails, coiling snugly in his lap. "... I like being with you, and I don't want you to die. I told you already, a few months ago."
"..." W's thoughts swam far, far away from the bubble of Babel. The reality of Rhodes, of any contracted mercenary work, the weeks and clauses, her do's and don't's, any Antons, any Kal'tsits, Doctors and Her Majesties. They breaststroked back to the simpler times. The cooler and chillier roots, with tarps hanging from the sky and green tables serving as dinner companions and gambling gurus.
Times of winter. North Kazdel. Her and Andy, rocking the makeshift kitchen. A massive brawl. Her knife in Andy's hand – then, in a soon-to-be-executioner's head. Over and over. A deluge of warm red. A massive explosion. The whole world, burning and tumbling down – cooled only by the freezing snow.
Her weary head pillowed between reality and dream, half buried in snow, half against a wall. Far in the dark beyond above, a minefield of stars twinkled her a volley of encrypted nonsense. Whatever it was, she couldn't care less.
The boy lay by her side – battered and bruised. Caked in blood and ori-soot. His eyes traversed the night sky, searching for the moons. She couldn't find them either, but it was okay. Staring at his gray irises worked well enough. They seemed moon-y enough. Lunar. Even if they were any other color but gray, they were his. And that was enough.
.
Yet, she spoke.
.
Quietly, murmured her lacking wisdom.
.
"Look at you." Her snake-ish tongue began, a hiss her brain would've loved to muffle. "... Almighty Mr Lawful, saving yet another wicked soul from the meat grinder. Sheesh, you're a lost cause."
It felt wrong. She didn't want to say it, but that's how the memory went. It couldn't be helped.
"Really, you're just… dull. You're so dull."
And she knew he wasn't. He was the furthest from "dull" anyone could ever be. The clock ran, wheelbarrowing its unbent arms at a rapid tempo, washing away the memories and mindscapes allocated to holding everything she's grown to hate. Cages. The many faces of Kazdel. The harmony of overwhelming and collective murder. Mercenaries. Life in the mud. The lack of something to hold onto.
The lack of his words.
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Andy shifted. His eyes fell from the nightly plain and landed on top of hers. A little softened, a little more disappointed. She didn't like seeing them like that. Not then, not ever.
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"... I just didn't want you to die. That's all." He muttered.
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Back then, and now. With her head full of snow, arms full of Andy, the reality returned in a manner that was both tender and gradual. She regained her feeling and conscious choice-making, along with sight and hearing, and taste, and everything else she ever had. Everything she held dear.
So she hugged him close.
Their warmth mingled in a needle's tip, the space too little to fully contain it all inside.
So it burst.
It burst, and it spilled everywhere else. It licked the walls, the floor, the ceiling and the furniture. The heavens high above, and the never-faltering twin moons.
.
"..." W pushed her cheek softly into the boy's hair. The thick mess of fluffy curls served as the world's most comforting pillow, and she quickly found herself nuzzling deeper in. Deeper into the warmth, deeper into the unpleasantly familiar musk and feel. Deeper into him.
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"... You have no idea how cold it felt."
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The gurgling of desperation, filling her lungs.
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"... How it dragged me down. Like something was pulling my ankle, constantly deeper and deeper below."
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A vine of trepidation, wrapped in a death-grip around her leg.
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"... And I just… I couldn't even move. There was this– this sludge-thing all around me, and I just couldn't paddle it away. It was everywhere. And it kept dragging me deeper into it, away from the tiny light above."
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Tumults of other different souls, blaring distorted screams through the darkening ocean. A bright star, dimming with each tug down.
.
"... It kept moving away. Further, further, further, just… just further away from me. And something– there was something in the back of my head, and it told me that the light was, um... It was life, and it was being forcibly, just– forcibly ripped away from me. And I kept sinking into death."
.
The dark abyss thickened with the concurrent loss of radiance. Her mighty clock, slowing down to a halt – forgetting how to tick.
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"... And it was cold. Colder than anything I've felt before. Colder than anything you can imagine, I think. Just… just cold. Very… very… very cold."
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Cold. Cobwebs of frost creeping up her cheeks. A glazing of white over her eyes. Death of the nervous system. Her heart's last cry for help. The frozen blood, still in her veins.
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"... And then, there was nothing."
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"..."
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"No… No, um… No light, no screams, no voices. Just nothing. Nothing but the cold. Like… Like standing naked in a blizzard, eyes closed. Without all the wailing and the wind, but… but the cold. The cold was there."
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A shiver took her core and rattled. Even now, the memory remained somewhat present.
.
"I was scared at first. I admit, I was, um… I was scared. I was afraid, and–... no, I was terrified. Scared shitless of what would happen with me, and… and what wouldn't. Of where I was going, and whether it was really just the–... the, um. The end. All of it, amounting to nothing."
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From nothing, to nothing. Sharing her fears came as a struggle.
.
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"... But it all stopped, eventually. I just stopped… stopped being scared. and… And I got to thinking, there. In that void, that cold and that darkness, I felt like… like just a mote of a person, I guess. Not even a person. Less than that, but even lesser than usual. Like I really, really didn't matter. At all. Like– like I've never really made much sense from the get go. I was there, now I'm here, that– that kind of thing. I was there, alive, and now I'm here, because I didn't even need to be alive in the first place. 'Cause it never mattered. I never mattered."
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A ruffle of fabric sent warm ripples cascading down her spine. Her arms burrowed deeper into the sweater.
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"But then I sort of realized that, um… That most of it was just tripe, actually. That… that sure, I may not really matter all that much to the world and whatnot, and I may not be the most, um… the most valuable of people, but it's not like… it's not like I'm totally worthless. It's not like Nobody would care if I just… just left. A-And I thought of you."
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His soft hair, like a silk pillow. It dusted her cheeks a lighter shade of red. Something welled, deep below the surface. She has never let a single tear fall in front of any other breathing soul, her entire life.
.
"... And I kept thinking. Of you, I mean. About you. About how I did matter, even if– if just to you. About how you'd care. Back then, at that moment, I knew you would."
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It felt difficult, keeping it all in. The warmth begged to be released from beneath her lids, yet it was refused its exit. She held it in.
.
"... And it made me feel bad. Sad, mostly. It made me feel really sad. Just– just the knowledge that you'd feel awful because of me. Or the lack of me, I guess. I felt it, too. I felt awful. I felt awful, because I knew you cared, and I never even acknowledged it. I… I never gave it back. I took, but never showed anything in response, just… j-just, not even a dumb, fucking "thank you", or anything. Just took, and t-took, and took, and–..."
.
"... And never got anything back. R-Right? 'Cause I knew you'd c-cry. Back then, and now, I know you'd cry i-if I died. You'd bawl your e-eyes out for months straight, a-and sob yourself to sleep. You'd b-beg your.. your stupid, fucking Law to bring m-me back or whatever, a-and… and… a-and that's the worst thing you could ever d-do, y-you know?. Cry after me, I mean. Dig yourself a bottomless hole 'cause of a person who never even bothered to give two shits about you. 'Cause you're like that. I know you are. I k-know you so much better than you think."
.
"I k-know what you are. I know what you are, a-and every single day I ask myself just how lucky exactly, I must've gotten to cross paths with your pathetic ass. H-How lucky I was, f-for following you that day. A-And how stupid I am, f-for never thanking you for it all."
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Her eyes were teeming with tiny, teeny traces of moisture. A foreign landscape for the tears to explore, her eyelids parted gently to allow them an easier passage. Andy felt the silent moment's tinge darkening, much like a sky bleeding with ink upon the circling of black storm clouds, the forecast of a catastrophe. To prevent the utter obliteration and decadent butchering of everything he's worked so hard for, he shimmied his way around in her arms, to meet her face to face.
.
And he could see it clearly.
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The red hues, painted over her cheeks by shame and fear.
A truly vulnerable dressing, being squeezed from her eyes.
Her quivering bottom lip, wriggling in a faltering attempt at keeping composure.
The antennae, lying flat in her hair. Lifeless.
.
She was frail and tiny.
.
Vulnerable and open.
.
Completely not like herself.
.
Completely not like W.
.
But Andy still knew that it was in fact her. That it was W, and no one else. That her skin was hers, and her muscles were hers, and the flesh, the organs, the bones, the fat and bile, the blood and everything else that lay beneath – her brain, her eyes, herself and her soul – it was still W.
.
And Andy took it all in.
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Without a word, he took her softly into his arms.
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And she responded in kind, hugging back.
.
Molding naturally against his body, she felt more like an extension of himself rather than an alien organism. The way her face immediately gravitated and burrowed deep into his neck, cheek, or jaw – anywhere, as long as it was there, near him, close to his warm skin. Two parasites, leeching life off of one another, living day by day with nothing but the shared nutrients they provided and exchanged. A systematically disorganized web of neurological connections, all bonding and bundling together into a messily uncategorized storm of feelings and emotions – neither of which had ever fully understood.
But they didn't need to.
They didn't need to understand anything, as long as they were there, together. Locked in each other's arms, hugging as if tomorrow's sun wouldn't ever rise again.
And sniffling.
Leaking.
Losing saltwater.
Andy felt her tears on his skin, and tightened the gentle hold he bundled in her hair. His fingers huddled together within the softened, warming strands, and it all felt so fulfillingly familiar.
He wanted to say something. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, to blare a siren across Kazdel's entirety and broadcast a clear and concise message, spelling the words "IT'S OKAY" with a star-sparkling cursive over the night sky. He wanted to be so loud, and so heard – but could only whisper.
"... You don't need to thank me. You know that you don't. I… I don't care if you thank me or not, okay…?" He mumbled softly against the side of her wiggling ear. "... You're here. You're here, you're– you're alive, and that's enough. That's more than enough. It's always been so, so much more than enough. I don't… I don't care about being thanked."
"..." W took the words in, chewed them through, and sighed. They seem to have somewhat dammed the leaking waterworks, letting the well run as dry as usual. "... You don't. You don't care, but I do. Now I do, at least."
She paused, taking a shaky breath. Andrew felt her entire body quivering in his embrace, the arms looped around his waist trembling softly.
"... A-And I want to say it. I once told you not to expect a "thank you" for anything you do for me, and I… I mean, I meant it at the time, but-... but I don't, anymore."
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Another breath. This time, firm. Conclusive. Knowing. It knew exactly what to say next.
.
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"... Thank you. Thank you, for everything. F-For everything, Andy. For today, and every single other day."
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"... For being."
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"... Thank you, for being."
.
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She whispered the words softly, a feathery light string of hushed truths. Making her peace, that's what it was. Maybe something else, maybe something more. Andy couldn't dwell on it.
The warmth of her unwanted tears turned into something a little different. Still warm and wet, still on his cheek, still sourced from W's tender features. Her hot breath ghosted over his skin for a tiny moment, before she gently puckered her quivering lips and kissed him softly on the cheek.
Just for a second, not a tick longer. With a barely noticeable sound of the loving press lingering between them, she leaned her face away to gaze softly into the thickest gray of his eyes. Just like the moons, they were there.
They were always there.
And they were hers.
.
"..." Andy smiled weakly at the sight of her vulnerability. There was just one and only thing left for him to utter.
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"... You're welcome."
.
And he hugged her tight.
.
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.
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.
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"... Anytime, you're more than welcome."
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Deep, deep in the wallowing fogs of dusk, Rhodes Island stood unmoving. The freezing night sky sucked the life out of Kazdel and wore its dead crust as a pair of sunday slippers. The kind of shoe to be discarded into the corner when void of its dumb purpose anymore, more so than a prestigious outing boot or sports-loving sneaker. These, like the gem of Lungmen or the laurel wreath veiling Laterano, would carefully be placed atop a marble pedestal when unneeded. But Kazdel? Kazdel would be kicked off and splattered against the nearest wall. The night sky hated Kazdel. Terra in itself also did. Everything and everyone hated the "country", 'cept of a chosen few. Those few, either dumb enough or loyal, couldn't decide in which basket they should fall – because both were the same. A synonym, dumb and loyal, some would argue.
Some, but not these two. These two morons, locked in one of the modern hovels sculpted into the landship's third floor.
Instead of resting like the whole entire ecosystem of personalities that made up the ranks of Babel, these two opted to instead stay up and hog the bathroom, door swung wide open for whatever reason. Muffled strings of conversation were pouring along with the cascading sink water, and two morons stood shoulder to shoulder, looming over a thoroughly sogged sweater. The herculean task of the night – or each night, in general, was responsibly doing the laundry without the usual and watchful eye of Ines supervising their shared efforts. Neither were used to these strange Rhodes contraptions, such as sinks and showers, but they had to do what they had to do. Wash their clothes, that was. Where ice-cold creeks and towering waterfalls failed, technology and the modern sprawl prevailed.
Andy found himself squeezing out handfuls of blood by the bucket, from his trusty and woolen companion. W's sewing skills proved superior, and the ragged disaster refused to pull apart, even when the boy got really handsy and rough. Each centimeter of fabric had to be thoroughly soaked with bubbly soap, and that's what he'd do – at any cost.
"... Gods, stop pulling it like that." W mumbled, half awake, yet paddling away at her own jacket. The sink was large enough for both, it seemed. "You tear it apart again, I'm not fixing it. It was a one-time thing, that lesson."
"Yup. Learned plenty enough, thank you." Andy proudly displayed his graying sweater, with liters of foamy water trickling down to the bloody pool beneath. "... How is it? Good enough?"
"Mmmm…" W glanced over, first from her most comfortable angle, then a different one. Tilting her head to the left and right, she eventually found her way over to his shoulder and plastered her cheek flush to his skin. "... There's some, uh… some vomit left, I guess. Might be the light, though."
A flickering lightbulb buzzed them a sonata of disapproval. Rhodes Island held itself together well enough, thank you. No need to whine.
"Law…" Andy dunked the sweater in more foam, weary annoyance evident in his sigh. "... Weird light, weird bathroom, weird people, weird missions, weird higher ups, weird everything. It's just all weird."
"What?" W perked up, eyebrow raised.
"This. All this. Babel, and all."
"Oh. Yeah, I guess." A shrug, as she returned to sieving through her skirt's flowy fabrics. She smirked at him, though. "Better start getting used to it. Faster you give in, the faster you adapt."
"Yeah, no. No, I'm not giving in anywhere, I'm just taking my fourth of the check and leaving all this behind, thank you." Andy scoffed, amused. W didn't seem so smug all of a sudden.
"What do you mean "leave?"
"Leave? Like, leave? After we're done?"
They tore their eyes away from the frothing blood and soapy bubbles, meeting halfway over the sink.
"You said you wanted to stay, though." W pointed. "And you were pretty dead set on it, I think."
"I mean… No- I mean, it was just like… like a temporary thing. Heat of the moment, with all the– the nice interiors and that Theresa lady…"
"Her Majesty." She corrected, softly.
"Her Majesty, right." Andy couldn't quite get used to saying those words in casual talks. Much less with W, of all people, who uncharacteristically clung onto the royal image. "... So I think it was just a fluke, and I wanna say goodbye to Her Majesty and her little band of misfits here. Especially Newmaker."
"Well…" W bit her lip in thinking. "... Well, yeah. Yeah, Newmaker can go and eat a bag, but it's… you know. It's not that bad. It's not bad at all, actually."
Not that bad. "Not that bad", said the person who died and came back to life today, Andy thought. Feeling too tired to argue or throw hands again, he simply turned back to washing the vomit off his sweater.
"... I guess. But I'm still leaving. Change of plans."
"Change of plans, for sure." W repeated, then giggled. "... 'Cause I'm staying."
"No, you're not." He chuckled back, instinctively. Her way of bantering over everything, even this late at night, while this tired and battered – it was admirable, in a way. "Staying, my ass. No, you're not."
"Oh, I am." She nudged him in the ribs, and splashed some blood-water over his cheeks. "And you're staying too. We're staying here, and that's settled."
"..." Slowly, he turned to read the smirk on her face. Her eyes, locked on the clothes piling in front, were mostly just displaying a sense of unbothered amusement – that kind of glee which accompanied her only in their quiet together-moments. She didn't seem to be joking.
"... W, I'm not staying here." His voice turned as stern as the night's soothing fatigue would allow. "We're not staying here, it's– it's like a madhouse."
"Then you should feel right at home, you little schizophrenic."
A chuckle, she threw his way. Completely unbothered, washing her clothes. An idyllic image.
"I'm… Look, I don't wanna… It's way too late." Andy fished the sweater from its bubbly blood-bath and examined. Clean enough, it landed with a splat over the nearest heater. "... I don't wanna argue."
"We're not arguing. I'm just telling you the plan for the nearest future, dumbfuck." She pulled her own clothes from beneath the frothy surface as well, and laid them out neatly around his. "... But if you wanna discuss the even nearer future, then sure. We're hitting the hay. I need to sleep the death off."
"Right…" Andy leaned on the sink, watching its deepening vortex of dirty sludge disappearing in waves down the drain. W caught his eyes, drawn to her presence by the tail circling eights over his peripheral vision. "... W?"
"Hm?" She turned in the doorway, hand hooked over the edge.
"So just, like… like that?"
"Like what?"
"... Like that." Andy crossed his arms, and nearly fell over with the lack of hand-support. "... That's that? No arguing?"
"You said it yourself, dimwit. You're tired, I'm tired." Her eyes fell, half lidded. "But if you really feel the need to be lullabye-d by my screeches, then sure. Let's argue."
"No, I didn't… I mean, no. No, you can spare me."
"Right." Her gaze lingered, arms crossed to match his pathetic attempt at one-upping her posture. "... That all?"
"Yeah, that's all…" Andy sighed, dragging his weary hide off the sink and giving it one last look to make sure all the guts and blood had thoroughly disappeared in the pipes that made up Rhodes' steel bowels. A little thought slipped his mind at the sight of the drain's stretching void. "... Actually, one more thing."
"Shoot."
"... Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"
The question flew from his mouth even before he could fully materialize it inside of his half-asleep brain. It just sort of escaped his tongue, blurted itself out without supervision. W raised an eyebrow.
"Like, with me, or just switch beds?"
"With, uh… with you, I meant."
Andy blinked. As weird as it seemed, he didn't feel nearly as embarrassed as he should.
"Yeah. Just don't stain the pillow with drool." She shrugged, mostly unmoved by it all. "... And wash yourself first. You reek of sweat and death. And lead. Dunno which one's worse."
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"..."
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Andy nodded, just barely.
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"Right. Sweat, death and lead. Got it."
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Seeing the blanking look of befuddlement on his face, W rolled her eyes and shut the door. Andy was left alone with his soaked-through sweater.
His only companion.
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Tap-tap.
The leaky showerhead spat its last few words. Something about cleanliness and a mumble of bubbles. Andy didn't even bother to dry his hair afterwards. He just jumped into a pair of black and blue Babel appointed night-garments, then slid into bed.
.
It felt soapy. It smelled like soap, and the scent was sweet. Sweet and unfamiliar.
But W was also there, and she felt like home. Her arms felt like home, and she hugged him close. At that point, it didn't matter what "home" could be defined at. It didn't matter whether "home" was the emptiness of Kazdel's overarching desolation, or the unfamiliarity of Babel's corridors. It mattered that she was there, and she was alive.
.
Andy hugged back.
.
He liked the moment.
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He liked the moment a lot.
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It was a happy moment.
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A very, very happy moment.
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–
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"Night-night, dimwit."