gee willikers

Kendall had been on her way back from the library, considering the back cover of the book she’d just checked out, but she looked up when she heard footsteps approaching to find Leland.  He looked much better than the last time she’d seen him–his coloring was right again, his movement steadier.

She was surprised he’d actively seek her attention, even more-so when he actually expressed what sounded like gratitude.  His phrasing was a little stilted, but she decided, for once, not to press on his clear discomfort.

“It was nothing.  I was in desperate need of some excitement anyhow, and that party didn’t quite carry my brand.”  She shrugged and gave him a crooked smile.  “You feeling better?”

“Well I don’t feel like a wet sock jalopy anymore, so I’d say we successfully dodged the pine overcoat once more.” Leland puffed, looking pretty pleased with himself. Or with both of them, maybe. “I didn’t survive three wars to get back door parole from modern medicine.” He knocked the back of his knuckles against his chest where the now-defunct pacemaker was.

They’d tried to establish seret santa in Tommie’s office one year. It hadn’t worked. Half of them were too stingy, the rest too busy. The next year they had simply decided to all put a bit of money in and buy a couple of decent bottles of whiskey to share. (Which, Tommie was normally more a white wine person, but whiskey was writing fuel.) She snorted out a laugh at Leland’s response. “Guess you’re right. Will buy present if there’s a guarantee I also get one kinda thing. I’m not so big on the holidays myself, to be honest. What about you?”

“I miss the food.” Leland stated simply, staring down at his hands like he’d misplaced something important. He frowned momentarily before looking back up at her with a blank look, it taking a couple of beats before recognition flickered across his features. “You look like you’d get lots of presents.”

Leland was feeling almost human again, the antibiotics he’d managed to steal from the clinic with Kendall’s help seeming to do the trick. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened the other night, his memory made even foggier than usual between the infection and the alcohol. 

He turned the corner and stopped short when he saw Kendall, his eyes widening as he realized that he owed her some kind of thanks. A distinctly uncomfortable position for the whitest old man alive.

“Good work the other night.” He offered stiffly, feeling obligated to say something even if expressing basic courtesy was a struggle. “Attaboy, girl.”

“Woah-ho-ho, I don’t think so.”  Kendall reached to still the hand that had grabbed for the red solo cup.  “That might kill bacteria–” and all other organic matter it came in contact with “–but I think it’s about the last thing you need right now.”  She tried to gently prize the drink from his grip, using the proximity that required to study him, make sure he wasn’t about to collapse or something.  The fever was obvious and no doubt the byproduct of the amateur surgery she’d heard about, but that was about as far as her medical intuition extended.  In lieu of actual symptoms to check for then, she was left to watch his eyes for some sign of recognition amidst the delirium.

She found none.  He seemed to have perked up a bit from the earlier rumination, so at least that was something.  Kendall sighed, attention shifting to the offered pinky promise with equal parts amusement and resignation.  “You’re just…totally not here right now, arentcha.”  It wasn’t a question.  She certainly didn’t expect an answer.

Maybe she should’ve moved.  Some people might consider this an invasion of a private moment, but that wasn’t the sort of thing to really bother Kendall.  On the other hand, other people might consider it just fundamentally unsettling.  Kendall was among them, but she still stayed put.  She wasn’t sure why.  Perhaps out of morbid curiosity or concern that he’d die if left unattended.  Some of both, probably, but also, she didn’t want to admit, out of sympathy.  Whatever it was he was seeing was apparently using her presence as a scaffold, and she figured that if she left, it would leave with her.

She still hadn’t taken the pinky promise.  She wasn’t sure if it mattered if she did.  Christ, she’d had people switch out her company for others’ plenty of times before but this was next level.

“I could say whatever I wanted.” Kendall said, pushing him slightly with the hand still on his shoulder, his fever burning through his shirt.  “And you wouldn’t hear a damn thing.”

Leland made a face as she took the drink from his hand, though it didn’t seem to raise flags of any color for him. No, it was leaving him hanging with the pinky promise that caused something in his brain to trigger. He stared down at his own hand and flexed the finger, his brow furrowing before he looked back up at her again only to realize that the person he was talking to was not at all Mildred. In fact, it was possible that she might not even be human. With blue hair, pale skin (exaggerated by the moonlight), and giant round doll eyes, it wasn’t hard to imagine that she might’ve crashed nearby and was trying to blend in until help came. No, wait- that was the fever talking. It had to be. 

“I have the eardrums of a twenty-two year old.” He snapped in response to her comment about him not being able to hear her.  He reached for his drink, wrestling it back from her with an obstinate frown. He was annoyed that he’d lost sight of his ghost. “Come on, then.” He snapped, scrambling to his feet. He nearly tipped headfirst down the stairs, resting his hand on the top of her head for balance. “Help me break into the clinic.”

“Is this an interview or a test? I would have died forty years ago without ‘em.”

“What kind of question is that? As a male spider, I guess I’d be lucky if I got to fuck before being eaten alive by my mate. If I’m unlucky, I get murdered with a shoe and die a virgin. Does that sound powerful to you?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just a fancy word for witchcraft, but I’d still take it in the interest of keeping the remote control from you punks.”

Dear Dame with the knife,                   I’m too old for you. Appreciate your assistance the other day, though. Best wishes, -Leland

Dear Blue-haired broad,                   I’m too old for you. I appreciate your consideration (and explanation of the game, I guess. Don’t kids have anything better to do these days? Back in my day we threw rocks at boats and other kids.).                   I cannot fuck or marry you because it would be inappropriate. And I won’t kill you. Best regards, -Leland

I don’t know them, so I’d just put their names in a hat and let fate decide. 

“Yeah, but the lies could be entertaining,” she countered, before quirking an incredulous brow at his excuse.  “Sure, Leland.”  Still, even as she said it, the flush across his face stood out to her.  She furrowed her brows, about to ask if he was feeling okay when he reached for her.

Kendall nearly jumped out of her skin at the feeling of someone else’s fingers in her hair, despite how gentle they were.  If anything, that only added to the confusion as she jerked away, wide eyes searching his face for some indication of just what the hell was going on.  And then he spoke, and she realized as far as he was concerned, she wasn’t herself.  She could guess at who she was–generally at least–but before she could snap him out of it with a dose of her usual acerbic wit, he’d continued.  Kendall didn’t consider herself sentimental, or even particularly empathetic, but that tugged at her heart strings enough to give her pause.

“Hey uh, Leland, buddy…”  She trailed off.  What the hell was the proper response to this situation?  “I think maybe you’re uh, you’re not doing so hot right now.”  Carefully, she placed one hand on his shoulder, hoping it might ground him back in reality.

Leland took notice of her unexpected reaction but chalked it up to completely unrelated reasons. He didn’t see as much of Mildred’s ghost as he would have liked, his confusion typically presenting as memory distortion or loss. He currently had the brain of a twenty-two year old, but the gaps that had been left persisted. It took something like blood loss or a high fever to conjure the ghost of his late wife, which might in part explain why Leland was so cavalier in regards to his health.

His breath huffed from his chest in response, a kneejerk reaction to any display of worry on his behalf. Inexhaustible concern was one of the many things he’d always loved about Mildred, though. His childhood had been so underwhelming that he’d wanted to cut it short as much as he’d been forced to, which led to petty crime, which had then led to lower-level associations with the mob, which was then interrupted by the third registration of the draft during World War I. He’d been aggressively bouncing through life like a ping-pong ball prior to meeting his wife, and her compassion had completely altered his life. None of that was to say that Mildred had been a perfect human being, but in Leland’s eyes she had been.

“I just need antibiotics.” He assured her, reaching for the cup of bootleg spirits that he’d brought outside with him. In spite of the way that Leland presented himself, he wasn’t completely clueless. He’d been shot, stabbed, and bitten enough in his one-hundred and nineteen years to have an idea of what he was dealing with. He’d decided it was worth suffering through the infection and taking the risk of dying at old (old) age it if it meant the occasional lucky hallucination like this one. He probably could wake up the staff, or more likely break into the clinic and attempt to treat himself, but those were options at any time and this wasn’t. He was almost certain that she would disappear if he tried to move, and Mildred had never been the type to condone breaking and entering. “Don’t fuss. I’ll go in the morning.” He promised, lifting his hand and extending his pinky to swear by it.