Life in Limbo

This whole interdimensional travel thing is tiring. Some days, Wes feels a hundred years old – well, some nights, really. Sunlight helps combat depression or some bullshit like that, right? Nighttime is always harder.

So he comes to Levi. As snarky and petty as they both so love being; when he shows up at Levi’s door in the small hours of the night with his knees stained with mud and dark sacks hanging under his vacant eyes, Levi cuts him some slack. He lets him take a warm shower and prepares some fresh clothes for him and makes him a cup of tea (never coffee, the coffee Levi drinks is atrocious) and tells him of his research of the Prophecy or his recent travels or, if he really wants to be nice to Wes – gives him a good, hearty blowjob. If Wes were in a better mood, he’d probably make some or another joke about his dick being a plug to Levi’s incisive rambling – but he isn’t more often than not, so he just runs his fingers through the other man’s hair and groans quietly and tells him how handsome he looks with Wes’ dick in his mouth.

Levi isn’t at his dorm and Wes doesn’t feel like waiting for him to return. There’s only one other place that nerd would be at in this time of night (or ever) if he isn’t off gallivanting in some or another ancient holy site – his office at Willamette. Worst case scenario, if he isn’t in town, Wes will spend the night at his, alone – then continue to the next universe.

The greeting he receives when he gets there isn’t the one he was looking forward to.

“I’m really not in the fucking mood for this, Lev.” He grumbles, arms crossing over his chest as he leans his shoulder against the doorframe. He untangles them minutely to reach up under his glasses and rub at his sore eyes – then crosses them again and finally lets his gaze rest on Levi.

Fine – sure, whatever. He’ll humor him. Suppose he isn’t getting his dick sucked tonight either way.

“Probably means I’m a fucking idiot. Jokes on me, right?” Then, without awaiting an answer, “What the fuck did you tell me to get me to say that?”

   Levi has to lean back on his desk to fully process this. This being, that they’re still doing the whole delusional interdimensional traveler thing, and that the asshat who was in his apartment is not the same asshat that is standing in the doorway of his office now.

    “HE ISN’T, YOU KNOW. IT’S NOT THE SAME ONE, PUPPET.” Charlie pipes in, unhelpfully. He floats in the shadows of the dingy room, almost melting into the darkness, bleached skull stark against the black. Takes a deep, grating inhale and sighs like he’s just smelled something delicious.

(     Well that just confirms everything doesn’t it? My hallucination says he’s not the same Wesley, so he’s obviously not the same Wesley.    )

   Allows himself a dismal snort at the thought, then with no little bemusement, because goddam, was it ever satisfying at the time, “Here’s a refresher: you slammed me against a wall, so I spit in your annoying face.”

    Then it’s back to irritation, which just seems to be his permanent state when it comes to this man. “So, what is it now, Wesley? You come traipsing through some magical portal just to reiterate that my current research is pointless? Or maybe you’ve got another piece of sentimental jewelry that you want to show me. Or possibly, is home invasion too tame for you now, that you’ve got to show up at my place of work? Please. Have a fucking seat. Make yourself comfortable in my life.”

    It’s been two weeks, three days, and twelve hours since he’d spit in Wesley’s face, and had that spit back in his own. It’s not even a statement he can argue. He’d wanted to say that he could have the company of others if not for Charlie – like he was doing some great thing, sacrificing his social needs for the safety of humanity… But he’d be a fucking liar.

    Truth is, people just didn’t like him. And he honestly didn’t really like people either. But for all his abrasive attitude, he wishes that there was someone to listen to his tangents. That there was someone else that saw the world’s complexities as a challenge to be solved, and found no greater joy than just accumulating knowledge for knowledge’s sake. It could be argued that Charlie is his constant companion, but there’s a difference between just a physical presence and an engaging, intelligent one.

    Which is why when his old-ass work laptop chirps with a Skype call, he only rolls his eyes a little bit. There’s only two people that he Skypes with. Or one, considering he cut ties with Clementine when Charlie decided her soul looked like candy.

    “Spencer Tarek, what the fuck do you want?”

    “Nice to see you too, Lee. Just following up on that inscription I sent you.”

     “Your documentation and photography skills are still deplorable. I could barely make anything out. Plus, I’ve been busy with my own thing.”

     “Work thing or--? Actually do you even have any other things other than work things?” Spencer leans in close to the webcam, large brown eyes distorting slightly with the choppy connection. He means it affectionately, but to Levi it strikes a nerve.

     “I hope you trip and fall in an excavation hole, get trapped under rubble and have to cut your leg off.” Levi retorts viciously. He stews for a moment to Spencer’s raised eyebrow, and then he cracks. He supposes they are friends, to a degree. “…I had a rather unusual visitor.”

     When nothing else is forthcoming, Spencer lifts his open palms to encourage him. Levi sighs, takes his glasses off and massages at his temples. Where does he even start?

    Fifteen minutes later, his previous research partner more or less has an edited version of his encounters with Wesley Starks. Spencer rocks in his office chair and chews on the stir stick from his coffee, pensively (a habit which used to drive Levi fucking up the wall, but since he can’t reach over and rip it out of his mouth, he lets it slide, just this once).

     “I mean, it’s fucking insane, isn’t it?” Levi prompts.

     “Yes. …And no. Wait, WAIT, WAIT, before you freak out and go all Super Saiyan on me, listen. I’ve got this friend who studies particle theory and—“

    “Don’t. Even. Say. It. Tarek. I will fly to Wales, and strangle the life from your eyes, so help me.”

    “We’re scientists. We have to entertain the theoretical. The possibilities. It’s what SCIENCE is, Lee.”

    “Thank you for taking my nightmare so incredibly fucking seriously, asshat. I have papers to mark. And I’ll get back to you on your inscription.” He slams the laptop cover to Spencer’s protests. Spends the next minute with his face in his palms, muttering angrily to himself. Glances between his fingers at the clock in his dingy office. 6:47 in the evening. He should go home.

    Better yet, he should go home and not think about Wes at all. How infuriating that other man was, without even having a history with him. The strange dreams that have been plaguing his miniscule amount of sleep. (    Wes, Levi and Charlie in a boat, drifting down the river Styx. Charlie playing a mandolin and serenading them as they talk about the newest issue of New Scientist, West with his socked feet in Levi’s lap. A lit cigarette trailing ashes in the black water. And even with all the death around them trying to climb into the rocking vessel, they keep talking, eyes on each other.     )

    There’s the sound of footsteps outside his office. Heavy set, and purposeful. Levi thinks it might be the janitor, although he doesn’t usually come down to the basement at night. Even the staff have bought into the idea that Professor Bradley’s office is haunted. Grabs at his messenger bag and coat, chair rolling back with a squeak against old, checkered tile. “I’m just own my way out. Give me a moment.”

    And then who comes through the door but Wes.

    Levi heaves an almighty, irate sigh. Runs his clenched fingers through his messy, dark hair. “Are you kidding me, right now?”

    Charlie decides to make an appearance, making a disturbing little noise of glee.

“By the power of Our Lord God, son.”     The answer is as simple as that — it is so matter-of-fact that some will possibly be able to describe Boucher in this moment as looking bored. The effigy in the shadows vanishes at once without a trace, without the preacher so much as blinking an eye; and he smooths over the creases in his robe as he takes a seat at one of the pews, facing Bradley still.     So this is how things are. His creation and the academic’s are similar, but not identical. They are made, perhaps, of the same stuff — but they do not operate under the same rules. Far more alarmingly and curiously, though — it appears as though Bradley’s creation is not fully, or at all, under his control. While Boucher’s is an extension of his own body, does not possess thoughts of its own, an empty vessel for the preacher to pour himself into — it would appear as though Bradley’s is a being almost entirely separate from him; in mind, certainly; and mostly in form as well.     Curious indeed. He would argue that perhaps the researcher was someone sent on the Edwards kid’s behalf, since the latter is much too cowardly do to the job on his own — but as of ten minutes ago, David had been convinced the Edwards kid and himself were the only two people in the world capable of such feats. What then? And what does he want of Boucher? And what does this… being with a head like a deer’s skull want of him?

“I have been fortunate; the Lord has graced me with many gifts. It is His will that has made me so.” He explains, rubbing his hands together, gaze ever-shifting from Bradley to his tall horned friend, then back to the researcher. “I have been living under the assumption no other man has been blessed with these gifts. Well — one other man —” who does not deserve them, he thinks, but does not speak it aloud, “— but I know that man, and that man isn’t you. What are you, then? And what is it that you want?”

     Levi’s face distorts into something incredulous, like he can’t quite understand what the other man is saying, despite being so incredibly unsettled just one minute ago. He has to back up, finds himself sitting on the steps that lead up to the pulpit with a graceless sort of controlled fall. Stares levelly back at the other man. “I’m sorry, did you just refer to… as a gift?”

    He knows it’s not going to help with his research to insult the priest, but sometimes his mind is simply shattered by how certain religious types tended to spin life’s shitty narrative to suit themselves. Tornado rips your home out of the ground? God simply wanted you to relocate. Stricken by cancer? God knows you’re strong enough to handle the affliction and your belief in Him through your suffering will be an inspiration to others. Haunted by visions and voices? Bam, you’re a vessel for God’s holy messages. Levi rubs at his temples underneath the arms of his glasses, has to stop himself from scoffing.

(     Play nice. You’ve been looking for answers for years, and this could be the lead you need.     )

    Nausea and vertigo make the room spin as he recalls those dark extensions of David. He glances at Charlie, who looks between the both of them, then also sits down at the chapel’s organ despite having no discernable bottom half.

     “LOOK LEVI. I’M THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERAAAA.” The thing cackles, waves it’s fingers around in what it feels is a suitably spooky gesture. Levi deeply regrets going to Willamette’s production of the previous mentioned Andrew Lloyd Webber piece. Charlie had flown around like a bat out of hell for a month afterward, shrieking about the lead character. He’d always been endeared to anything in a cape.

    Doesn’t dignify the creature with an answer. Takes a deep breath. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that question. He still isn’t entirely sure of how real all of this is. And if it is real, how on earth he could ever justify Charlie as a blessing. “What I said before still stands. I’m a researcher from Willamette University. I’m writing my doctorate on something known as ‘The Prophecy’. What I’ve uncovered so far points to you. As for… the company I keep. It’s been with me for a very long time. Until this morning, I thought it might be mental illness and delusions, but… I don’t know it’s purpose, but I have been tentatively researching it on the side.”

     Their head tilts forward in a mirthless laugh, hands shoving into suit pockets, jacket barely wrinkled by the action. ❝ I have no choice in the matter. This is no playground of mine – nor am I quite as benevolent as I once was – rather, this world is a PRISON, each form I possess – a CELL. For the choices I have made. Look well, Charlie, the GOD you see is not what it once was. ❞

     Their eyes scan the subway station, with the small bits of trash littered on the ground, cockroaches crawling in the corners, the faint smell of ammonia and the sound of dead speakers.

      ❝ I do not consider this a wreckage. Rather, I consider it the success of FREE WILL. I cannot assume responsibility for the choices of my children, I only gave them TRUE LIFE. And for that…I cannot fault their CHOICES. Just as I cannot fault your host for his lack of FAITH or MANNERS. ❞

     Their head turns to Levi once more, eyes devoid of any kindred soul despite kind words on a smiling face.

     ❝ I am no illusion of yours, child. Neither is Charlie, despite what Dr. Norberger might say – humans, always trying to explain the world through their own –  ❞ Perfect whites replace Their iris for exactly half a second as They roll Their eyes. ❝ The medication you’ve taken is quite useless when what you are seeing is TRUTH – Though, as tired as you are, perhaps you should rest before the train arrives. It is going to be quite late, after all. ❞

    “HOW POETIC YOU ARE, NEW GOD.” Charlie snorts derisively, allows it’s skeletal fingers to overlap over one another underneath it’s maw like an attentive student. “IS THIS ANOTHER ESCAPADE INTO MARTYRDOM, THEN? SELF INFLICTED PUNISHMENT AND HUMAN PRISONS. YOU’RE NOT SO DIFFERENT THAN HOW THEY SAY YOU ONCE WERE. DID YOU NOT PLANT YOURSELF INTO A HUMAN SO MANY CENTURIES AGO? THEY TELL ME YOU DIED FOR THE CHOICES OF YOUR CHILDREN. SO DRAMATIC. ASK MY PUPPET, HE LOVES TO SPEAK ABOUT THESE THINGS.”

    Levi shuts his eyes to their conversation, massages at his temples as though it might rub the hallucinations away, though they persist. One eye cracks open and he looks the stranger over, notes dismally, “That’s exactly the sort of thing a hallucination might say. Or some part of my brain that deems yours and Charlie’s existence necessary.”

  He reaches in his messenger bag, pulls out a container of round, white pills and shakes two out into his palm. Charlie tuts, exchanges an amused look with the other deity. “IN THE BEGINNING, I THOUGHT HE WAS ONE OF THE SMARTER OF HIS KIND. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. HE CANNOT SEE THAT EVEN THOUGH HIS SENSES BECOME DULLED, THAT WE STILL CONTINUE TO EXIST.”

This is… not quite the reaction Tony was expecting. Admittedly, he isn’t sure what it is, exactly, that he was expecting — theirs is a vow of silence, after all (a habit Tony should really learn to adopt with most people he meets — the less people any of them talk to, the safer they remain — but alas, he is a social creature at heart and he’ll be damned if he lets a little misguidance on Chris and Martha’s parts — admittedly, not the smartest of the bunch — get in his way); but he was expecting something other than this, at least. No one has ever frowned at him for offering them free coffee, let alone free alcohol.

“It’s uh, coffee… with whiskey?” This seems like the obvious answer. Tony’s never met anyone that didn’t know what an Irish coffee was before. He pauses as to take a sip of his own, as though to demonstrate it’s safe — as though he’s brewed the man poison, or something. “You want it because it’s cold and curling up with a nice serving of whiskey is nice — and because it’s past eight, which is the only socially-acceptable time to consume alcohol.” He pauses, gives this a short thought, and adds, “— unless we were living in Europe — in which case, a glass of whatever with lunch is considered socially acceptable. The exact kind of drink depends on the country, though.” Wine in Italy, Spain and France; beer in Germany; vodka in the former USSR. He’s rambling because he knows this is not an answer he truly needed to provide, because the academic already knows it (but then again, who would have asked him that question to begin with?) — and because he’s getting the inevitable feeling that Mr. Academia over here might not like him as much as he thought he does. Nevertheless, Tony tries to offer the man another tightly-pressed smile before taking yet another sip of his own drink.

    Almost everyone that encounters Levi is quick to point out the exact moment where his face slips into that mixture of exasperation, annoyance and superiority that can only be described as “Bitch Face” (Wes ™). It’s unconscious for him: that deadpan stare, the thinning of his mouth, eyebrows drawing together – as if there isn’t anyone in the world that could be as unimpressed as he is by the human race at that very moment.

    It’s not his nicest feature, especially to people that only really had kind intentions in the first place. And arguably, up until now, this guy hasn’t exactly done anything to get onto Levi’s shit list, besides exist. He looks down at the steaming mug, skeptical. This guy’s right. It’s cold out. And Levi tends to run colder than most, chalk it up to his skinny limbs and bad circulation. More than once, Wes had rolled over in bed while sleeping and woke up with a yelp, complaining about his ‘goddam icicle feet’. His eyes become downcast. He misses that idiot, even if they’ve only been apart a couple days. His therapist thinks he might have an addiction to sleeping pills, but Levi knows better. It’s something else that he’s constantly in withdrawal from. Something with tired blue eyes, and the driest, sexiest sense of humor this side of the multiverse.

    Narrows his eyes again at the barista, as if he’s caught him with his guard down, and takes a haughty sip of the liquid. But not before blowing on the cup, which Wes insists is one of his more prissier habits (     “It’s not going to burn you, Princess Bradley, I put a couple ice cubes in it, JESUS.”     ).

    Makes a surprised murmur. He doesn’t really care for alcohol, to be honest. It’s good for taking the edge off, but this particular combo of coffee and whiskey is… not the worst. Offers an awkward, forced smile. “It’s. Not the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Hey — hey!” This is not the first time Levi has gotten physical with him. More accurately, this is not the first time either one of them has gotten physical with the other. Wes has had his dark moments, too. But he’s cold and tired and, admittedly, disheartened by just how this Levi, or any Levi who doesn’t really know him just yet, utterly dispises him.

Suffice it to say he is seriously not in the mood to be manhandled by a skinny little nerd.

Jolts of pain shoot up his back where it hits the desk, but Wes is still fast to react, two large fists reaching to wrap around Levi’s wrists as he bangs him against the doorframe. He takes charge quickly, using his hold of Levi’s wrists to swing them around, him being the one to crowd Levi up against the doorframe now. He holds his wrists against the wall at either side of his head and leans in close, breath strained but words heavy and percise, as though he were trying to explain things to a slow child. “You need to chill the fuck out. You hear me? Fucking chill.”

    His breath punches out of him when their roles are reversed, and for a second all he can do is stare, the room spinning, and Wesley’s face an inch from his. He can feel his breath on his skin (warm), his fingertips bruising as they wrap around Levi’s own narrow wrists (cool). Again, he doesn’t have the decency to be scared. Just furious. What did he think was going to happen? And perhaps there’s a small, primal part of himself that wanted a fight anyway. Because honestly, how are there even words for a situation like this?

    His teeth clench and he strains with no avail against the other man’s hold. There’s helplessness to the gesture, something that he’s not entirely a stranger to. He very much wants to hit this man. He very much wants him to lose it, and maybe have this man hit him. It would be better than this feeling. Anything usually is.

    Charlie apparates beside him, just as close as Wes, anxiety making the feathers around his shoulders ripple. It’s all fun and games until the vessel gets harmed. Levi finds himself smirking at this, despite the absurdity of the delusion. Feels like he’s goading a bear as he spits right in Wes’ face. “Make me.”

The range of emotion Levi can get Wes to experience within the span of five minutes is really quite extraordinary. He goes from offense to anger, desperately wanting to give Levi a piece of his mind (I swear you’re in-fucking-possible sometimes, I don’t even know why I do this half the time, guaranteed to get a rise out of a Levi who is already deeply involved with him, even if not from this particular one); from there he quickly moves on to guilt and shame and pity, wanting to apologize, to tell Levi he’s sorry because he really is so very thoroughly fucked, and it’s all Wes’ fault, always has been — then right back to anger. Fine, whatever, Levi thinks he’s being stalked — probably a good reason to be in such a foul mood — but god, has Wes forgotten that this fucking asshat used never to let him catch the shortest of fucking breaks.

Wes being Wes, he cannot let this pass unchallenged.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” He mutters as he grabs the towel tossed at him, removing his glasses and carefully hanging them from the collar of his shirt before running the towel through his damp hair. “I fucking told you. How in the fuck could I have broken in here, taken your key — set aside the fact I apparently left no fucking evidence behind, which is fucking ridiculous on its own — how could I have done aaall that — and for you to still have the same fucking key, huh? The exact same fucking key. I look like the fucking FBI to you, fucking — duplicating inconspicuous household items for? What? Shits and giggles?”

He’s referring to that one scene in the Sopranos Levi is probably both too young and disinterested to remember. FBI agents trying to take down Tony Soprano make an exact replica of a small desk lamp he has in his basement — except their replica contains a hidden microphone — to implant in Tony’s home. They succeed, but a few days later his daughter leaves for college and takes the replica with her, thinking it’s her father’s ordinary, useless lamp – and Tony Soprano lives to see another day.

Wes steps out of his shoes and kicks them aside, then simply drops the towel down to the floor and spreads it over the small puddle he’s made.

“Fuck you, I’m not leaving. It’s fucking freezing out there.”

    And then, this lunatic who has no right whatsoever to be in his home, has the audacity to argue with him.

    “Oh, I’m the piece of work? I’m the piece of work?” He’s repeating incredulously, and getting up in the other man’s face, despite his better judgment, face hot and angry, “Do I look like I fucking know the scope of whatever freaky shit you get up to in order to invade my privacy? Huh, do I? I mean, you don’t exactly strike me as the type of person who has a lot of normal obligations or even a fucking direction in life. So who’s to say you don’t devote your time to duplicating shit in my dorm for just that? Shits and giggles.”

    He’s trembling. Furious. This is why he’d gotten his ass handed to him over and over and over in grade school. He never knew when to quit running his mouth. And his indignation and that want – no need, even, to be right was worth every bruise and bloody lip somehow.

    “Get the fuck out of my house!” Wes is the same height as him, he knows because he doesn’t even have to tilt his head to yell in his face, but the man could easily overpower him in a fight. Yet he doesn’t care, right now. He’s incensed. He’s insulted. This stranger coming here and treating him like he’s the problem. Mouthing off at him like they’re so familiar with one another. Two slender hands reach out to shove the other man towards the door, feet tangling up with the muddy towel in the process.

Oh. This is one of those universes. Well — Wes’ night is officially ruined.

“So you know who I am?” This much Wes can gather. Charlie, whether he is real or just a figment of Levi’s imagination, doesn’t usually comment on Wes unless he already knows him — at least not at a level which upsets Levi enough to actually answer the demon and/or apparition. He hardly ever talks to Charlie when Wes is around even when they know each other far better than they presumably do in this situation. He must have said something extraordinarily upsetting.

“Great. So you know about the whole interdimensional thing.” With the amount of times Wes has had to repeat this story, he’s not even mildly interested. Simply observes Levi with the same tired eyes as before, sans smile and very much preparing himself for an exhausting argument rather than the relaxing night he was expecting. He uses his normal speaking voice. Whether other dwellers of the dorms can hear him or not is really not an issue Wes can possibly give less of a fuck about — now or ever. “Which means you know where I got the key, Lev. Or, according to you, where you think I think I got the key. Come on, dumbass. You gave it to me. You’re smarter than this. Don’t insult your intelligence. More importantly — don’t insult mine.”

     Levi can’t really muster any more offense or shock on his face. The fact that he has to explain to a stalker that yes, he knows him, but no, he doesn’t really know him is enough to give him a serious migraine. So he simply makes a frustrated noise, like some half strangled cry and stomps away towards the bedside (or couch side if he’s being specific) drawer, and yanks the thing out so hard that it comes out of it’s moorings. Stationary comes tumbling out everywhere, in addition to a tube of Astroglide, a not-so-secret-anymore vibrating bullet, and… his spare key.

    He picks it up, weighs the two keys between his palms. They are identical in every way, except for Wesley’s still being cold from the outside temperature. Same blemishes in the plastic casing. Same worn down bearcat face. Has to sit down on the pullout for a second, even though his mind is rationalizing reasons for this already. So he’s a stalker that’s very talented at key cutting? And scoured eBay for this exact keychain available at the Willamette U gift store ten years ago? And forged Levi’s hand writing? No. This is too fucking much.

(     Of course, being a scientist, he’s got to examine all the possibilities. And one of them, although he’s been vehemently avoiding it, is that this man is telling the truth. Another Levi in another universe gave him a key.     )

    It’s far fetched but it’s almost the easier possibility, considering. And the guy looks way too tired to come up with an elaborate lie, matching dark eye circles and all.

    “Don’t call me a dumb ass.” Glares broodingly at Wes who’s currently dripping streaks of mud and melted snow onto his floor. Snaps, “And could you maybe stand somewhere else? Like outside the door? You’re making a mess in here and you smell like--”

    “A FRESH BURIAL.” Charlie adds helpfully. But also bobs around near Wes, sniffing like an eager dog. Whispers conspiratorially into his ear, even though he can’t be heard by anyone other than Levi, “PUPPET IS DISPLEASED BECAUSE WE WERE RIGHT, AND HE WAS WRO-O-ONG, DIRT MAN.”

     He’s wavering between numb indignation and hysterical rage right now. It feels like emotional whiplash and he’s too drained for it suddenly. He also sees the shiny purple shell of his sex toy on the carpet out of the corner of his eye and feels like he might die.

It’s 11:38 according to the big novelty clock hanging on the wall beside the counter, and the darkness out in the street makes it 11:38 in the PM. Tony surveys it through the big front floor-length windows; glances back to his copy of Atlas Shrugged (an old hard copy, first edition; Parker has been wanting him to read it for a long time now. Stole the copy from a B&B they were staying at on a road-trip to Niagara Falls. Parker only laughed when Tony pointed out the irony of stealing an Ayn Rand book); realizes he’s been reading the same paragraph over and over again for thirty minutes now, and gently folds the book shut. He doesn’t like the night shift; the shop is usually empty; but an employee had called in sick only an hour before their shift began and Tony had been unable to find anyone to replace them (this is what a good manager does, the owner will tell him later; and Tony will agree; but Tony pretending to be Chris will only smile and mutter shyly, uh, thanks, Marty).     But the shop isn’t entirely empty tonight. There’s that academic sitting at his corner table. He comes in every other day, either very early in the morning or late at night, always carrying a big leather shoulder bag filled with documents and photographs and drinks inhuman amounts of black coffee; occupies the corner table and spreads whatever work he does there as though Gregory’s was his own personal study. He can sit there for hours and not speak to a single soul other than whoever works the cash register when placing his order. They’ve noticed each other before — the academic and Tony. The academic always seems to try and make out what he’s reading and Tony will catch his gaze over the opened pages of the book and offer a polite smile. The academic will offer a smile in return (more awkward than polite) and they will both return each to their own respective business, undisturbed.     Call it boredom or minute loneliness or simply human curiosity — but Tony finds himself doing something he’s never done before. A bottle of whiskey has already been removed from under the counter when he fixed himself a little serving of Irish coffee and he reaches for it again and fixes a fresh, much more generous cup of the exact same concoction; frothed milk and all; and steps around and out from behind the counter and over to the little corner table and, careful not to place it over any of the paperwork scattered across it in what Tony can only describe as a huge mess, finally holds it out for the academic to take and offers a tightly-pressed, tired smile.     “Irish coffee. Fixed some for myself — figured you might like some.”

@halfwaytohades.

    It’s almost midnight, so naturally Levi’s awake, mind going a hundred miles a minute. He chooses Gregory’s for a multitude of reasons. One, it’s close to the University, yet not close enough that he might encounter his peers. Two, the coffee is reasonably priced, neither so fancy that he doesn’t know how to order it, nor so cheap that he’d pretty much be drinking tap water. And three, the staff. Or one of them at least.

    He doesn’t know the guy’s name, but what he does know is that he doesn’t try to force small talk, or angle for tips or upsell. He’s perfectly fine with Levi drinking just regular coffee and lingering for hours upon hours in a corner of the café. He’s good on refills, circulating to get Levi a fresh cup as needed, before returning to his nose in a book. Levi wishes that more of his interactions were this efficient, this harmonic. (      Well, save for his one with Wes – the nature of their relationship being both baffling and constantly antagonistic and which Levi would not change for anything in the world, but that’s not anyone’s business but his own. A secret that’s for him, and a good one, unlike Charlie.     )

    So his natural reaction to the offered drink is of course a blank expression, followed by a raised eyebrow and a suspicious appraisal of said drink. He’d been in the middle of glyph deciphering, had been mid-glyph so to speak, and the man’s voice had broken his very laser like concentration.

    Damn. What about the efficiency? The harmony?

The young salaryman in the cheap cotton business suit turns to look at Charlie. Eyes tracking the demon’s movements. They straighten Their tie as if there was some flaw in the perfect half-Windsor knot.

❝ Great question, Charlie. ❞ They smile, lips curving up slightly. ❝ Though I dislike the term ABANDON. Tell me, if a parent sends their child to a school far away from home, providing the child with an independent education and the opportunities to reach their full potential – would you have said they abandoned them? I’m amazed you still call those gossipy old things gods. ❞

They turn to Levi with a perfectly SYMMETRICAL smile that’s meant to be reassuring. Yet They are too still, shoulders just barely rising and falling to breathe. They are eerily clean, not a speck of lint on the cotton suit. Their skin is too spotless. No dirt, visible scars or birthmarks, or even what the French call mouches. Their eyes are too BRIGHT at midnight.

❝ I’m afraid the train won’t be approaching, young scholar. There was a delay. It shall arrive at 12:19 AM. Oh no – wait – apologies, 12:24 now. ❞

    Charlie wheezes with amusement, circles around the other deity, the tattered tails of his robe dancing behind him like party streamers. “FULL POTENTIAL? YOU JEST, NEW GOD. THEIR EDUCATION HAS BEEN ONE OF DECAY AND VIOLENCE. ARE YOU ASSUMING RESPONSIBILITY OF WHAT THEY’VE BECOME WITHOUT YOUR ‘GUIDANCE’? THOUGH I SUPPOSE THIS MAKES YOU MUCH MORE ENTERTAINING THAN THE OLD ONES. WINDBAGS, THE GROUP OF THEM.”

(     Though truth be told, Charlie has not found himself in the company of his superiors for a long time. He finds them dusty and crotchety. Gazing impassively with their otherworldly eyes into the abyss of human life from the other plane. And gossiping. Always gossiping. Charlie had tired of the noise a long time ago.     )

    Levi watches this interaction with alarmed curiosity. Charlie, and everything associated with him after all, are what Dr. Norberger refers to as some of his more complex delusions. So the stranger on the platform wasn’t real, either. Even though he’d sworn he’d taken his medication this morning. Hard to tell, because he’s as groggy and tired as one is bound to be at this hour. He doesn’t respond. Simply narrows his eyebrows, tilts his head.

This is his key. Levi gave him this key. It was meant to be given to a neighbor dorm-dweller for emergencies but, well… no one who knows Levi likes him enough for even just this small courtesy. Levi’s words, not Wes’. So now Wes gets to have this key. He figures most Wesleys come to possess it at some point. It’s got a red plastic casting and is attached to a little keychain figure of Blitz the Bearcat. Wes sighs as he looks at it lie in the dirt-stained palm of his hand. What a fucking dork.     It is sometime around two in the morning that he turns the key in its appropriate hole. The battery in his phone had died out in the previous universe and Wes hadn’t the time to recharge it. No matter — it’s not as though he’s going to be disturbing anyone. Levi will be expecting him (or not exactly that — but he’s used to Wes’ comings and goings in all hours of the day and would not be surprised to find him standing at the other end of the door) and is, in all likelihood, still awake. These are their finest hours, after all — the small hours of the night in which neither one of them can sleep and they stay up conducting intense, heated debates about pretty much whatever — quite possibly fuck even more intensely than that — and only then finally manage falling asleep.     So it’s perfectly casually that he walks through the door in his fleece jacket and khakis stained at the knees, yellow hair dotted with bits of dirt and melting snow; tosses his key in the little bowl by the door; pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lets his gaze make a quick scan on the room before finally coming to a halt at the image of Levi sitting among masses and masses of scattered papers on the floor. Wes offers half a smile as he lets out a small sigh of relief.     “— hey.”

@halfwaytohades

    When the lock first turns in the door, Levi thinks he might be about ready to have another one of his hallucinations. Charlie had always joked about how the night was their time. Them, meaning the assorted nightmares that enjoyed melting out of Levi’s walls with their hollow eyes and gaping, dark mouths. He looks up from his little circle of research notes, heart jumping in his throat, knuckles tensed against the hardwood. He is sleep deprived and paranoid and just wishes he could pass the night in peace.

     But what, or more accurately who, walks through that door spells trouble in a completely new way, and he finds himself staring with a bewildered, angry sort of shock at Wesley’s figure.

    Wesley. The batshit stranger from the diner. On Willamette campus. In his dorm.

    “What the fuck are you doing here? How the fuck did you even—“ Levi scrambles upright, papers scattering with his movement, storms over to where Wes is standing and looking uncomfortably at home. His gaze darts in between Wes, smelling of wet earth, crystals of snow still clinging to his person from the outside, dirty clothes – to the key sitting in the little glass bowl by his doorway. Snatches up the keychain, horrified, and wonders when this stalker was able to procure his spare. It’s his alright. Down to the little nick in the plastic of the red casting, and the worn out image of the bearcat. The dorm number is written in sharpie in his spidery scrawl. “How did you get this? Did you fucking break in here? Who breaks into someone’s place, steals their key, leaves, locks the door behind them, and then comes back in using the key? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

     His voice is a crazily pitched whisper, so used to muttering quietly to himself at night. It doesn’t occur to him that this is an occasion that could definitely justify yelling.

    “THE DIRT MAN RETURNS!” Charlie cackles triumphantly, swooping in the corner of Levi’s vision.