#cherry-writes

Dexter watches the skies bursting into flame sometime in Strand 2218. He sees steamships colliding, their golden hulls crumpling like paper. Sparks ignite from the engine bay. Dusk sweeps the skies, a pale pink as soft as a baby's breath, speckled with burnished orange as the ships make their final voyage.

Debris flutters down, like fiery cherry blossoms, petals of steel and iron wrought with the failed ideologies of those who dared to dream. 

A few of them jump. Dexter can see them now, their uniforms bright and iridescent, while they splay their limbs. Little starfish soldiers, trying to fly. They drop into the seas, not even a splash can be heard.

From here, it's impossible to hear the screams of soldiers that are still aboard, the low-ranked cavalry that did not attain the privilege of an escape pod. 

None resurface.

The War is over. Even Dexter cannot mend together the frayed strand of 2218. This is where his efforts end. He must move quickly up the braids of time - try to catch Mandark sometime between Strand 2219 and 4625. Time, and its endless possibilities, weave before him.

“Sir,” there’s the nearly imperceptible held breath, the familiar cadence of Lieutenant Mordecai. “We need to head back to base before the Strand collapses.”

He turns his head slightly, regards the long, drawn face of his lieutenant, dusted lightly with a coat of ash. “And what of Mandark?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

Mordecai shakes his head. “Escaped again, Sir. Our apologies. There wasn’t enough ti- err,” he clears his throat. “We were barely able to escape ourselves.”

Dexter nods, turns back to the devastation taking place. Eluded once again. Another country to ruins, and another timeline to be unraveled.

“Did you know,” Dexter muses, “That in Strand 18, they used to have a maritime tradition.”

“..Sir?”

“The Captain goes down with his ship.” Dexter says, pausing and looking meaningfully at the skies. “Quite a romantic notion, isn’t it?”

“...I...I suppose," Mordecai's eyes dart between Dexter and the cliff side on which they are standing. Waves break on the coast below, the waters churning and roiling from the impact of falling debris.

He sees worry lines creasing Mordecai's brow. There's no point explaining, there never is with him or anyone else. How can he?

Mordecai will never understand what it's like to build something with his own two hands, to encase himself in it and fight 'til his dying breath. To be buried in one's creation. A tomb of your own making.

"....We really should retreat, Sir," Mordecai presses.

"Nope, that's not it," Mandark's lazing about on their couch, while Dexter's hovering over an open panel of wires and circuitry. Their Time Machine is almost completely dismantled, various nuts and bolts strewn on the laboratory floor, on the workbench, even some on the coffee table in front of him.

Dexter pauses. His wire cutter poised over a set of wires that he's just about to slice. He mutters to himself, "Alright, then the blue—"

"Nope," Mandark says, taking in another spoonful of today's indulgence of choice: vanilla pudding. Like all the other food he's eaten today, and for the past 28 days, it'll be regenerated tomorrow when the timeloop resets on him again. But damn if it doesn't taste good, and Mandark thinks he deserves the comfort food, considering the fact that he's been reliving the same day for a month.

Dexter glares at him from across the room, "You know, you could actually help me out here instead of sitting there stuffing your face."

Mandark grins. "But I am helping," he replies, licking his spoon. "You tried the yellow wires yesterday. The day before that, you cut the blue. Neither of them worked."

Dexter mutters something unintelligible, raises the wire cutters again.

"—by the way, red won't work either,"

Dexter's face turns as red as the wires he's trying to cut.

"OK fine!!" He throws the tool on the nearby workbench. "You know what, if you're so smart, why don't YOU fix the time space continuum and I'LL eat pudding?"

"You can't. I took the last one."

"You're a terrible boyfriend sometimes."

The vanilla turns bitter in his mouth. He knows it's a joke, but a little voice of insecurity in his heart affirms the sentiment.

"Sorry," Mandark says, and he winces at how insincere it sounds. He holds out the half-eaten cup in truce. "Share?"

For a brief, fleeting second he thinks that Dexter's going to reject him and go back to work. But instead, he heaves a big sigh, and starts making his way around the parts littered on the floor. When he approaches the couch, Mandark swings his legs back down and scoots to make room.

Dexter plops down next to him, teal cushions deflating as much as their spirits. Mandark wordlessly passes him the pudding cup, and watches as he moodily licks the spoon.

"If only we knew why," he mutters, half to himself, "There has to be a logical explanation."

He leans over the coffee table, one hand sifting through the pile of notes that they've painstakingly jotted down, notes that will be gone tomorrow when time resets again.

They sit like that for a few minutes in companionable silence, Dexter trying to make sense of their notes, Mandark being a worthless couch potato, passing the pudding cup back and forth between them. It's nice.

"It's OK, Dex," Mandark sighs. It's clear they're not going to solve this before time resets again.

He's dreading it already, the feeling of waking up at 5am and having the whole day's progress undone. The chagrin of needing to reapologize, reexplain, and redo everything with a grumpy morning Dexter who hasn't had his caffeine intake yet.

Dexter glances at him, notes still in hand. "I can fix this."

"I know you can," Mandark replies, "And you will. Probably. Tomorrow, or the day after. Just…why don't you work on your own projects for now?"

He frowns, "Won't my work simply be reset by morning?"

"Yeah," Mandark scrapes the bottom of the pudding cup, vanilla vestiges clinging to the spoon. "But you won't know that. Tomorrow-Dexter wont know that."

Tomorrow-Dexter is gonna be pissed at him, just as Yesterday and Today-Dexter have been, for the past 28 days. He's already feeling exhausted at the prospect.

Dexter puts the papers down, looks at him with an expression of confusion. "I don't understand. You'd rather see me work on something pointless than fix your predicament?"

Maybe it's because he's tired, from having woken up at 5am everyday for the past twenty-something days, or maybe it's because this vanilla has some secret truth-serum that is forcing him to spew unfiltered honesty. Maybe it's because timelooping grants him this kind of invincibility, the ability to say anything he wants to endless iterations of Dexter's who will, inevitably, forget by morning.

"I don't want to end this day on a fight or asleep," he admits. "Everyday, for the past month, you've been helping me. And everyday, you've been so unhappy. And it's my fault."

"I've burdened you enough. So just…go. Work on your nanotech. Or research. Or whatever." he makes a dismissive wave with his spoon, which still has trace vestiges of vanilla clinging to it. "Just…do what makes you happy, okay?"

He's actually kind of surprised that Dexter doesn't immediately go and do that. Instead, he fixes Mandark with an intense stare, goes as still as a statue.

"…What?" Mandark says, after a full minute of this. Not that Mandark is one to talk, considering he's the one who stares at him every morning when he wakes up, but still.

Dexter leans over, plucks the spoon from his hand, licks the residual vanilla off with a languid, deliberate stroke of his tongue. Mandark swallows involuntarily, watches the creamy trail of white disappearing between full, red lips.

"How many days has it been?" Dexter murmurs, his voice low. He puts one palm down on the couch, slides it up the cushion 'til it's just besides Mandark's thigh, not even touching him, but just existing in that space is enough to make Mandark's brain short-circuit.

"Uhm…" Leibniz, Newton, and Einstein, his eyes are cerulean fire right now. If he looks at him any longer, Mandark may just spontaneously combust on the spot.

He falls backwards as Dexter crawls up to him, one hand after another, like a cat stalking its prey.

The arm of the couch is digging uncomfortably into his shoulder blades, the fabric of his clothes bunching up behind him, "D-do you mean how long s-since the timeloop started, or—?"

Fuck. He's getting stuttery now, the way Dexter's arching his back up at him, bracketing his legs, and pinning him down with bedroom eyes hotter than the surface of the sun.

Dexter just chuckles, "I don't believe we'll be able to solve this in 2 hours, anyway, do you?" Dexter smiles wickedly. "Why don't we occupy our time with something else instead?"

He bats the pudding cup out of Mandark's hand, and it falls to the floor with a hollow, plastic clatter that Mandark can't even register because Dexter's pulling on his tie, dragging him up like a dog on a leash.

"You're not gonna remember any of this tomorrow, Dex," Mandark points out, voice faint.

"Yes, yes, I know," Dexter leans in close and murmurs. "But you will."

Then Dexter leans in and presses his lips to his. Mandark tastes vanilla.

Oh well.

He taps the keyboards restlessly while Exe lounges on the couch not 10 feet away. He's not sure why, why his boss would ever deign to allow him to work inside his opulent office. Its luxury far surpasses anything 12 will ever be privy to for the rest of his life. He tries not to think about how the soft carpet underneath his trembling boots probably costs thousands, maybe millions. All those little micrograins of dirt and soot falling between the threads, embedding themselves in fabric like lice.

Tries not to think at all, really, because thinking just lands him into trouble, and 12 is not an acrobat - he will not always land on his feet.

Though he comports himself as an acrobat would. Like he's balancing on a taut, floss-thin string. Below him lies the rings of fire, flames licking upward, trying to catch the tightrope, their red tongues whipping, leering. And 12 thinks, maybe, if somehow he can keep perfectly still and frozen, he will be safe. Safe from falling, safe from burning, safe from everything.

Mandark gives a huff, "Says Mr. Zipper Boots." Dexter feels the bed tilt as Mandark leaves to get something.

Dexter strains his eyes, but he can't see anything through the blindfold. It's completely dark. He relies on his sense of hearing alone, hears a drawer being opened, rifled through, then the scraping of wood as it's shut.

He hears soft footfalls against the floor and then Mandark is back, hovering somewhere in the space in front of him, judging from his breathing.

He touches Dexter's chin, feather light, tilts it up. Even with the blindfold, Dexter can feel that he's being given a once-over from head to toe. Can practically feel Mandark scanning his face.

"You remember your signals?" Mandark asks, uncharacteristically soft and Dexter nods. "Then demonstrate them."

Dexter lifts his leg, then whips his shin down rapidly against the carpet with a soft thud — once, twice, three times in a row. Like a good, obedient little pony.

"Good," Mandark purrs, and then he's running a hand through his unruly curls. The way his slender fingers push up against his scalp sends shivers down his spine. Dexter imagines dopamine dropping down every neural channel along his backside, dripping straight down to his dick. Mandark combs through his hair, rubs the nape of his neck with a touch that's both firm and gentle and Dexter arcs into it, leans head back as far as he can without compromising his balance.

"You like that, huh?" Above him, Mandark chuckles, and Dexter's about to deny it when he feels the same hand close around his jaw, firm and strong.

"Ah, ah, ah," Dexter chides, holding the vampiric serum just out of reach. Mandark struggles against the robot arms that hold him, but to no avail. "Silly Mandark, did you really think it would be that easy?"

"Give it to me," Mandark demands, eyes locked on the vial.

Then Dexter tsks him, actually fucking tsks him, and shakes his head no. He places the vial back into his labcoat pocket. "Now why would I do that?" Dexter strolls across the room, sits back behind his desk. "Do you know how many resources it takes for my laboratory to produce just 50 millilitres of this? Resources that are far better off being dedicated to other, more lucrative projects."

"I—" Mandark's eyes dart wildly to the serum, the tiny vial that's so close and yet just out of reach. He stops struggling against the robot arms - the hard steel is starting to hurt, and his skin is already sensitive from all of the burns he's sustained from the daylight.

Dexter folds his hands together and places them under his chin. "Now are you ready to behave and talk like adults, or should I order Computer to throw you out?"

Mandark grits his teeth, feeling Dexter's words dripping with condescension. After about a minute of silence, Dexter waves a hand and the robots release their hold on him, but still stand close.

"Chair," Dexter says, and one wheels in front of his desk automatically. To Mandark he smirks and gestures, "Sit." like Mandark's a fucking dog.

Mandark steps forward, reluctance in every movement, and sits down across from him.

Dexter smiles, "Good boy."

"Don't—" Mandark starts, but Dexter quirks a brow and he forces the words back down his throat and instead says. "...How much?"

Dexter cocks his head, "For this?" He takes out the vial again, dangles it in front of him, "Oh, my dear Mandark, you could never afford it."

"Everything has a price," Mandark retorts, steadfastly not breaking his gaze with Dexter and focusing solely on the mocking blue eyes behind horn-rimmed glass. "So name yours. I didn't come all the way here just to be made a fool."

Dexter laughs, "You really want to know? How much it costs DexLabs to produce this?" he places the vial between them on the desk. The only thing stopping Mandark from swiping it and downing it right then and there are the two robots looming behind him. "I'll show you."

He reaches below his desk and types in a swift command on his keyboard. The monitors behind him light up, and Mandark winces at the neon blue that suddenly floods his eyes. The screen fills up with data, numbers marching across the screen in rapid succession — invoices, purchase orders, payroll reports, all summing up to....

"Oh my God," Mandark's jaw practically drops on the desk. "T-that much?"

Even if he sold Mandark Industries...his car...his house...all of his worldly possessions would not be enough.

Dexter laughs, "Convinced? I assure you the numbers don't lie."

"So, tell me, Mandark," Dexter puts the vial back down on the desk. The blue liquid sloshes around inside and catches in the light. "Will you be paying with cash or credit today?" His blue eyes glitter with amusement. "We can also take a cashier's check."

"I..." Mandark feels a lump in his throat. "I..." he can't even bring himself to utter the words.

Dexter tsks. "Such a shame. Well, you know the way out."

"W-wait!" Mandark leaps at him, and the robots grab at him but he still won't let go of Dexter's arm, the labcoat wrinkling under his fingers.

"Please," Mandark says, voice barely above a whisper. "I...Dexter I can't live like this anymore."

Dexter pauses, eyes not leaving him as Mandark continues, "My company is hitting rock bottom. I can't afford to pay my employees because no one wants to contract work for a company run by a Vampire," he spits out the last word like poison, "Dex, I can't eat. I can't sleep. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder to see if a Daywalker is going to stab me through the heart with a wooden stake. I haven't fed in days. My skin burns. I'm so tired. I'm so fucking tired. Please. I'll do anything."

He clutches his sleeve. Dexter looks down at him, eyes glittering with delight.