#dugpas

There’s a loud SNORT.  “Doppelganger!  Oh, that’s a fun game you’re trying to get me to play, buddy boy.”  It’s petulant commentary, as his Other goes onward with his drivel.  It’s followed by another laugh at the command - which keeps going, and going, and he slaps his hands on his knees, and it keeps going, and he stands up, and it’s not a humorous laugh anymore.  It ends with contempt cradled on his tongue, more of a cry.  He kicks the chair he had woken from, and he’s angry because THIS SCENE is what he should be waking up from, not the other way around.  “You pissant, I’ve spent blood, sweat, tears, and YEARS searching for answers, and you think you can just get them served to you on a silver platter?  I know it would match the spoon in your filthy, boyish mouth, but I’m afraid you have the dynamics here miscalculated.”

His fingers dig into the seat, free hand rubbing over his face.  His nails claw in deeper when Windom slams the brakes, squeezing it hard, his whole body clenching up.  Dale doesn’t dare turn fully to look at him, his partner, eyes barely focused on Windom from the side.  He knows.  He knows that Windom is right.  Dale wants to argue it anyways because he’s ashamed, and he doesn’t want this reality, not at all.  He doesn’t want there to be no consequences.  He wants some form of punishment for this.  

He watches Windom intently, and abruptly stops tapping his cup once the other starts rubbing his head.  Oh.  Alright.  Dale silently traces one finger atop the doughnut box, having been ready to pop it open.  So much for that peace offering.  He sighs to himself, thinking away about how next to fix the situation.  Maybe he could do a quick run to the store, grab aspirin?

He perks up at the mention of dinner.

Dale leans toward Windom in his seat, smiling enthusiastically.  Maybe if he’s cheerful enough?  Could he set a positive mood?  He reaches over, setting a hand on Windom’s shoulder, gently squeezing.  Dale’s expression is bright.  “Of course.”  His voice is soft, but clearly excited.  “What else would I rather be doing than having dinner with my two favorite people?”  His thumb rubs against Windom’s suit jacket, and he pauses to sip his coffee, eyes still on focused on him.

She’s been waiting around for him, sitting on the couch, trying to read.  It’s not working out.  She wanted to see how late he’d come home this time.  The answer:  pretty fucking late.  Late enough that she’s two glasses of wine in, and when he walks through the door, her fingernails scrape against the glass as she clutches it tightly.  And she fixes a stare on him.  Waits until he acknowledges her with a glance.

@dugpas

“Explaining or feeling the need to explain?”

Windom’s eyes follow the other closely.  Sees every little twitch, every recognizable tic.  The familiar expressions that let him know what the other is feeling.  Is it the woods?  This place?  Is it him?  A hallucination?

He was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the asylum, and this is a situation where he confuses his entire life’s work with one goddamn statement from a doctor.

“Can’t help if the message was never meant to be conveyed clearly in the first place.  Can’t help that the world is filled with beings barely passing the evolutionary stage of a neanderthal.  Cant help if they don’t comprehend how they’re being saved.”  He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth.  Arms cross.  “I don’t ever plan to explain myself, even if it’s necessary for anyone to understand me.”

He hums for a moment.  “That would...  Be missing the entire point.  What matters is the end goal, not people’s feelings along the way.”  Then he chuffs something of a laugh.  “Unless the feelings are negative - I need those.”  A pause.  He cocks his head to the side, putting on a lop-sided smile to match.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  Should I say we need those?”

He’s trying to understand.  Put words in the others mouth, watch if this impostor will gobble them up or spit them out.  Are they really the same?  Or is this a Thing of its own origin?  Is it corporeal, in his head, barely existing on this plane?

Worse:  what if his reflection is thinking the same?  Is he real?  Like he has to remind himself, he digs his nails into the palms of his hand.  There’s a feeling there, but is that feeling actually occurring?  

That would be a funny punchline if he had ever heard the joke.