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“You do know, that I’m not enjoying it, do you?” he asked one evening, when it was just the two of them. The hallway was empty and it didn’t take all that much effort to pick the time, when he knew the mechanic would be alone on the upper floors. Everyone else went on their lunch break, meanwhile they were here doing this, out of all things.

Technically, Harley had no business being there, but being seen by Elliot sounded like a smaller problem, compared to what he attempted to repair here. Even after a week, Angel’s mind and thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. The last time, when they spoke, Harley was shouting and raging and acting like a man possessed, so perhaps, it wasn’t all that surprising, that while the other man didn’t avoid him, he also didn’t seem to be all that eager to run into him, either.

Giving him space, perpahs? Or just attempting to put it behind him, like usual. Regardless of what it was, Harley didn't like this.

He came to rather easily miss the other man, when he wasn't around and as much as of a shock it was at first, he too, had to put it behind him.

The silence felt overbearing, despite how Sawyer knew that he was the only one, who could fill it, considering that his companion never said a single word. 

“I do not enjoy it.” Harley repeated, inwardly cringing from how pitiful it sounded coming from his mouth, despite the dry tone, “Whatever you think, it’s not easy for me.” 

(It never was.)

Angel pulled out his notebook, writing something down without any particular expression on his face. And this alone made, Harley press his lips into a thin line. Not knowing what to expect never sat well with him.

‘Could have fooled me.’ was all that was shown to him. In that chinkin scratch of his. 

Harley remained silent for a moment or two, before a familiar pang of irritation made him open his mouth again, “I had told you, that I needed to be ALONE, when it happens. But you never listen to me.” 

It was rather a common situation. But typically, it was Dr. White, who happened to be on the receiving end of Sawyer's anger. Of that wounded up coil of emotions, that he couldn’t handle and which made him act erratic and utterly aggressive. He had those sorts of ‘episodes’, since he was a child and it never got better. 

(If anything, it got worse.) 

This was the reason why he had torn up Elliot’s letter and messed up his own room. It was the reason why after those times went by, he always stared into the mirror for a bit longer, as if he couldn’t fully recognize who he was seeing or maybe, he merely didn’t want to face what he knew was looking back at him.

There was something odd about thinking the world of your own intellect, of knowing that you were better than everyone else, — that you were about to do great things, that no one did before — and yet, periodically finding it hard to stomach the mere sight of yourself. 

“If you knew what’s good for you —” he licked his lips, eyes filtering toward the opposite wall as he spat, “You’d stay away from me, when I tell you to. Don’t blame me for your own shortsightedness, luv.” 

Angel regarded him for a long moment. Harley didn’t see it, but he could feel his eyes on him. Scrutinizing him in their own specific way, which made Sawyer feel exposed at best and worst of times. 

The pen touched the paper again, allowing him a few seconds to steel himself for whatever he’d be graced with next. He wasn’t sure after those ‘temper tantrums’ — as Leith once referred to it — what it could have been, which put him on edge exactly. The words, the waiting, the inability to read Angel like he wished he could.

(Everything always felt so raw and unbalanced after those times.)

The employee cleared his throat, attracting Harley’s attention back on him, ‘I don’t like the idea of you being miserable on your own.’ 

Harley’s pulse jumped. Abruptly and unpredictably. Out of many things, that he pictured the mechanic could tell him, - blame him for - it certainly wasn’t this. He swallowed a lump, which formed inside his throat. 

This was one of those instances, where he had nothing nice to say or state, even if the whole situation was giving him an easy leeway. 

But while he was many things, he never was skilled at lying about certain things. He never saw a reason to lie about it to begin with.

“So, you vouch for keeping me company?” he said finally, voice quieter than before, even if he kept any emotion at bay, looking at Angel without blinking, “That’s your big plan, dear friend? I can’t say, that I understand the merit here. Care to humor me here, once again?” 

The other shrugged and a familiar lopsided smile touched the corners of his mouth, ‘You know what they say about misery and company.’ 

He certainly did, and it was strange to realize how true it was. Angel deciding to stick with him even though thick and thin was one of those things, that he could never make sense of.

“Some people would have said that you must like being yelled at.” he attempted to joke. Or at least, he thought that he did.

Angel snorted, barely a sound in such vast space, shaking his head, ‘No, not really.’ 

Standing here with hands inside the pockets of his working trousers and his utility belt hanging sideways on his hips, he couldn’t appear more casual. But Harley noticed a small tension in his posture and the way he would at times grind his jaw, as if not quite sure of something. 

He had watched the other man enough times to know the signs of his latent discomfort. 

“I’m well-aware, that I’m not very pleasant during those times.” Sawyer could almost hear Stella’s old remark inside his head about how he’s never exactly pleasant to be around at all, “If you want —” 

He made a vague gesture between them, attempting to articulate, that he was willing to accept whatever ‘compensation’, which Angel might have wanted for possible anguish he invoked. He was never gentle or careful with his words, and the fact, that he could smell and see every insecurity the other man had never helped matters. 

Harley Sawyer wasn’t known to be a merciful man. 

‘They opened a new restaurant next to your apartments. Looks cozy.’ 

Harley raised a brow, slightly taken aback by sudden change of the subject. “They did?” 

He didn’t pay attention to such things. 

Angel nodded. ‘I think, you might like their menu just fine.’ 

Ah. So it was one of those instances, then. 

It wasn’t new development. They did venture out together before. Their usual little ‘dates’ were always held outside of their respective flats, after all. But offering Harley to go to some kind of cafe or pit-stop was new nonetheless.  

However -

“Is this really what you want to ask of me, after I had —” said things, he both mean and didn’t mean to, “You must cut yourself more slack, little thing.”

Angel’s gaze, still distant, landed on him again and held him hostage long enough for Harley to fight a desire to avert his own eyes from him. He hated, when the other man got like this. Still smiling lightly and still seemingly here, but — 

‘Just go out with me, Harl. It'll be fun.’ 

Sawyer had nearly desired to be able to say something better than, “Very well. Friday is...it should do. I will be able to get off work on time.”

But that was it. No other words came. They never did and they never will. And they both knew it. 

Yet, here the employee stood just accepting it.

(Not for the first time and not for the last, he imagined.)

‘Yeah, Friday sounds great.’ 

Yet, the mechanic did just that somehow. 

At first, it was accidental, and then, it slowly progressed from there. To the point, where Sawyer didn’t truly picture his life without the employee around anymore. He became something natural and guaranteed; kept and owned. It was like catching a sunray inside a glass bottle. Once you have your hands on something like this, you can’t really picture yourself ever losing your sight on it. 

But what he was going on about before didn’t quite have much to do with Angel and wants of the ‘heart’, no. What he was referring to was illness and sickness. 

Despite Harley’s bony and undernourished form, he didn’t get sick often. Some of it could have been by virtue of the fact, that he had a fairly good immune system, spending his early childhood next to the seaside, as his hometown was known to be something of a ‘fishing village’. 

And then, later on, when they moved to America, he went on the camping trips with his classmates and despite his parents having no actual interest in him as a person whatsoever, they still fed him properly and healthy. It was just that Sawyer never quite got to the point of ‘appropriate’ weight for his age, not as a lanky teen and not as an adult male. 

His mother once said, that he had inherited this aristocratic stance from his grandfather. And the pride inside her voice had made him feel like this was a good thing, even if his sharp cheekbones made him look older than he was, even during his youth. 

But yes, as it goes, Harley very rarely got sick. 

However, at times, when he did get unlucky enough to be mowed down by something like this, it was positively vicious. It was as if his body was beginning to rebel against him. 

It always started with sniffling – as if something was stuck inside his nose and made it itch — and light headaches, until he felt like he was both cold and burning up at the same time. Or rather, like he was cold, but the sweat was somehow managing to cling to his collar. And then, came other symptoms. Hot on its metaphorical heels. Starting from rolling nausea and weakness inside his limbs. And ending up with his thoughts growing sluggish and messy, like someone had stuffed a wet cotton inside his skull. 

Sawyer had never taken to this kindly. 

And neither did Pierre. 

“Yea’, you are not going anywhere near me.” Leith told him, watching Harley with a critical eye, like he was some sort of sickly stray animal, which suddenly came across his path. “Not with all of —” he gestured at him loosely, “that.” 

Harley’s eyelid twitched, as he stared at Pierre through tired, puffy eyes. His whole face felt odd, tingly and lax. He had to drink his fourth cup of coffee not so long ago and even for him, this was a bit much, but energy was literally sipping away from him. Even the simple tasks felt like a chore, and he couldn’t focus on most basic things for the life of him, but — 

“What happens to be the problem?” he asked, as if not recognizing the problem would somehow make it go away. But his sore throat made his voice come out low and scratchy, pretty much mocking his already failed efforts to play it off like a mere inconvenience and not a noticeable notion, that he could barely function at this point. And — 

Leith had none of it. “This is the problem, Sawyer. You look sick, you sound sick and I don’t want your germs anywhere near me! For all I know you could get half of the facility infected with whatever you have!” 

Those were realistic concerns, of course, but Harley couldn’t just let this go and step onto his pride, and most of all, lose even more time, that he could have spent working inside the labs. “I still can…run the tests tonight.” 

“Oh, for God’s —” Leith hissed, taking a step back from him, “Just let White do that. It’s not like we're anywhere close to the deadline yet. Your little pet project can wait a bit longer.” 

Pet Project? 

Tch. The nerve of that man, he swore. “But I insist, Leith. I —”

“Just go home, Sawyer. Or I will have to call Elliot and ask him personally to send you there.” 

“Seriously?” Harley’s eyes narrowed, “Are you seriously daring to blackmail me with something like THIS?” 

“Blackmail you? Please, I didn’t even start doing anything of the sort yet. If I did, you’d know.” Leith said, leaning onto his table with a face of a man, who knew that he had won, even if he looked rather tired himself, “But I mean it. Go home. I have some business, I need to deal with and you are in the way.” 

Sawyer wanted to say something snarky back, but at this moment, his body betrayed him and he sneezed instead. Then again and again, making Leith hastily relocate even further away from him like he was a biohazard. 

(Being a latent germophobe must have been quite a challenge in this situation.) 

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” Pierre said from a ‘safe’ distance, “Home, Sawyer!” 

Despite, the anger at what kind of tone the other used with him — it was the same one, you’d tell a dog to heel with — he had to admit, that there was a merrit in this idea. And he hated this almost more, than the lightheadedness and growing trembling inside his legs. 

“I still have two hours left of my shift.” 

“Great, then go and sit them out somewhere. But preferably, far away from me.” 

It was a real pity, that he couldn’t spit inside Leith’s mug. Getting the bastard sick too sounded like a rather pleasant idea, but as it goes, Harley had to leave Pierrer’s office in an even fouler mood, than before. 

The hallway swirled around him lazily, as he walked, fighting a desire to take a short nap on the nearest softer surface he could find. 

This day was officially ruined. 

Or perhaps, a whole week, if he won’t somehow find a fast way to cure himself from the humiliatingly common bane of humanity : flu. 

…

“What is this?” 

It took a lot of effort for Harley to crane his neck to steal a look at what Angel was holding on a tray. 

The younger man naturally couldn’t really answer him, not when both of his hands were busy, so he had to make an educated guess. Based on those small clues he had so far. 

“Is this soup?” 

A light smile and a nod. 

“I don’t want it.” Harley said instantly, having no energy to move from his warmed up spot on the couch. Embarrassingly enough, putting on his home-wear and shredding his working clothes seemed to be the limit of his current abilities. Angel had to do the rest, making sure that Sawyer was tucked into a cashmere blanket, — which the employee had somehow found inside his closet, — while he cooked and tended to things inside the kitchen. 

Overall, this might have been a cozy set up for anyone else, but he for his part, felt nothing but humiliation. The last five hours were literally spent with Angel hoovering over him like a mother hen or like he was a senile patient inside an old folks home. And that last association unsettled him more than anything else. 

He really hated recalling the times, when he had to visit his demented father there. 

But Angel acted like it was no big deal, as he seemed to even gather some enjoyment from watching Harley blow his nose inside a paper tissue, and cough his lungs out, when a fit would strike him. 

Some would say, that the employee must have enjoyed his undignified misery, but he knew better than this. It wasn’t like Angel didn’t have a mean bone inside his body, since oh no, he did. But it was more so the novelty of this, which did it for the younger man, he was certain.  

Harley let him drive him home and even let him stay with him, despite part of him demanding that he’d send the other away as soon as they crossed the threshold of his apartments. But he didn’t. Instead, he let him stay and use his kitchen, and now, he was being forced to eat what looked like chicken soup with some veggies floating in between chunks of cooked meat. 

To be fair, the soap looked fairly good. Even for someone like Sawyer, who never ate chicken, if he had a choice in the matter. 

‘My dad taught me how to cook it.’ the employee wrote to him, after setting the tray onto Harley’s laps. ‘It always helped me to get back onto my feet faster.’ 

“Hm…”Sawyer blinked, taking a spoon with wooden, weak fingers, “You got sick a lot as a kid?” 

‘When we lived in Nebraska, yeah, I’d say pretty often.’ 

Harley was aware, that Angel had been moving with his father from state to state fairly often, when he was a boy, even if he did not quite get the reason behind it. Angel said that it had something to do with his father’s work, but there seemed to be more to this. 

(There always was more.)

But if there was one thing, that the younger man seemed to be very tight lipped about, both figuratively and literally, it was some specific pieces of his past. Harley knew, that Angel was born in Oregon, however. A pretty useless information, but he had collected those things like one would dead butterflies. 

Hunger for knowledge was one of traits he was known for, after all.

And dissecting Angel in that gentle, slow way became one of those private activities, that he grew fond of. 

He couldn’t feel the taste of the soup, numb as his taste receptors were due to illness, but when a seat dipped next to him and he finally looked up at the TV, which Angel turned on, while he was cooking, he paused with a spoon still stuck between his teeth. 

“Salem’s witch trials?” he muttered, around the metal, allowing himself that slip of manners for once. 

He honestly didn’t focus on what he was supposedly ‘watching’ until this moment. His mind was elsewhere. Still back at work, locked inside the labs with his surgeon tools and dead toys. 

But this seemed to be oddly fitting somehow. The deception of blamed and weeping witches, and angry mod, who didn’t understand the craft of local ‘healers’. 

Angel stared at the screen next to him, eyes lidded, and expression softly impassive as all the torture methods were listed by the narrator like would read their grocery list. 

(Drowning. Hanging. Burning at the stake.)

“Are you from Salem?” 

He doesn’t remember Angel ever specifying a town he was from. He was pretty sure, he had only ever told him the name of the state and ah — 

A shake of the head. So, it’s a no. 

Sawyer let himself stare at the younger man’s profile for a bit longer, — not even quite examining him, merely lagging mid-thought that he could do nothing with at the moment, anyways, — before his eyes trailed back onto the screen. The changing scenes of recreated trials were reflecting inside his glasses with slight distortion. 

“They said, that witch hunts were happening largely due to lead poisoning. Some people saw things, which were never there and condemned their own neighbors to such a horrible death, all because they were hallucinating some unsustainable macabre. Or saw them heal someone’s itch with the help of a few herbs.” Harley said in a scratchy voice, devoid of any pity or sympathy as he took another spoonful of the soup, “History was never kind to those, who happened to be different from the rest.” 

‘And rejected men didn’t take too kindly to maidens turning them down, either.’ Angel pointed out, no humor to be found inside his expression either, despite how that light smile was still itching in the corner of his mouth. 

Sawyer wasn’t sure how or why his mind even went there, it was probably raising fever, since they had established that he indeed happened to have one, “Think, I would have burnt you too, luv?”

Angel shrugged one shoulder, looking at him sideways, a smile more visible now. ‘I don’t know. Would you, Harl?’ 

Sawyer let the thought sit for a moment in that void of weird possibility, that they both would have somehow been alive during those times. Picturing, that Angel happened to despite it all, not return his own yearning — silly, silly notion this is — and then thinking about a choice, that he would have been presented with after it all would have been said and done. 

The answer was right on the tip of his tongue, uncomfortably honest for some. But for him, it felt natural. 

“If you had spellbound me, then, maybe you deserved to be burnt.” Harley finally said, eyes trailing back on the screen, “But I have a feeling, like I would have ended up alongside you, but hanging from the neck. I doubt, that stupid, uneducated village folks would have taken kindly to my research. If they would have labeled you a wizard, I would have been the Devil himself.” 

Angel chuckled, ‘You think, they’d hate progressive toys?’ 

Harley had sometimes nearly forgot, that the employee had no idea what he really did for PlayTime Co. From his limited perspective this was really the biggest offence, not all the children’s death and general, unpleasant gory process it included to restuff them into new bodies. 

“They had stuffed fabric dolls with empty faces, because they were afraid that a demon from Hell would possess it otherwise, you tell me, if they would have taken kindly to my progressive ideas or not.” Sawyer said nasally, having to pull up a fresh paper tissue to blow his nose again, “But I must say, I’m glad that we are alive NOW. I don’t want to be judged by the hounds, if this can be helped.”

Angel nodded with a low hum, as if concluding something for himself, before writing his typical non-serious nonsense, ‘You know, you sound more British, when you are sick somehow.’

If Harley had any strength left inside his legs, he would have kicked the other in the shins, but as it goes, he had instead leaned back into the cushion, feeling more lethargic, than he did before. It could have been a combination of a tiresome day, fever and finally, a homemade warm meal. But he found it hard to keep his eyes open. 

Angel, as if feeling or perhaps, seeing a shift, had carefully put away the tray and half-finished plate of chicken soup from Harley’s laps, allowing the other man to get into proper laying position. Well, more or less, his head was now pretty much resting against the mechanic's broad chest. His couch was a bit too modest and small for two grown men to fit in without any ‘complications’. 

(This was the main reasoning, at least.) 

The mechanic shifted a bit to settle in properly, jolting Harley in the process, who hissed, shooting him an annoyed look, but it was short lived, since Angel took off his glasses, making the older man squint up at him. 

“You almost look like that yellow prop Elliot puts into all of the company's training videos from this angle.” 

The insult was half-baked and lazy, — and not even close to the truth per say — but Angel chuckled, anyway, as if taking pity on him. His arm wound up around Harley, who didn’t fight it nor had any presence of mind to be bothered, that he was letting the younger man touch him even more, than he usually did. 

It still came as a surprise to him, that he didn’t feel the usual disgust from tactical contact, when they were close like this. If anything, it felt strangely nice. Like a place carved up specifically for him to rest after what felt like forever and then some. 

“You must really be…a bewitcher.” he muttered, already teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Vision swimming as doubling in a strange, nearly hypnotizing way. 

Angel stared down at him, face shadowed and well, — 

Harley always had a certain thing for those eyes of his. Honeyed one moment, before turning into that golden, unnatural yellow the next. 

Maybe, a fever was a decent enough price to pay to fall asleep to this. 

Because if the witch must burn, then the heretic shall hang…