Of course, anytime. Was just about to text you the same thing. - C

You’ve told him he doesn’t need to sign off his texts, but he does so anyway. It does not augur well that you both wanted to talk though. One of you stressed? Fine, the other can be a shoulder to cry on. Both of you? The two of you will stray into deep meaningful conversation territory, something you’re not sure you’re ready for after the news you just received. 

You knock at his door half an hour later and he opens it, clad in a Star Wars tee and grey sweats. 

“Hi, hello. What’s up?”

“They want to ship me off to England, Copia.”

His eyes widen.

“Oh shit. Okay, come in.”

And so you relax into the same routine that you do every time. He has a joint rolled each, waiting - Copia gets the best weed, he gets his weed from Dew and you’re pretty sure Dew gets his weed from actual Satan - and plops a vinyl onto his record player as you light up. This time it’s Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors. Copia makes a pit stop at his minifridge where he keeps an emergency stock of your favourite sodas before he falls heavily onto the sofa opposite you.

You’ve been friends for literal decades now. You’re each other’s safe places, a lighthouse in the storm of madness which is this goddamn Ministry.

“I’m all ears,” he says, gently, opening a can with a satisfying crack-fizz before passing it to you. You take a lungful of smoke and collapse into his old cushions.

“So I made cardinal, what, two years ago?”

“Two and a half. I did your rites.”

“Exactly. Well, apparently this branch of the Ministry now has too many cardinals. They’re looking to offload some of us to other churches around the world, those who need us. I got told I’m going to one of the English branches. Not even a metropolitan one! Some little village in the ass-end of nowhere.”

“They can’t just kick you out!” Copia says, eyes wide in panic. You sink even further into your goose down-hole of misery.

“They can. There’s only one title above cardinal, and may I remind you that you currently hold it?” you ask, reaching across the sofa so you can jab him playfully in the ribs with the point of your toes. He slaps your foot lightly, then gives it a squeeze as a quiet gesture of solidarity.

“We can fight it, I will fight it. I’m Papa, they can’t do this without my say-so.”

You make a noncommittal noise, because you’re not sure how much control Copia really has around here.

Another drag. Things get a bit less intense now you’ve unloaded.

“You said you were going to text me. So what’s your problem of the day?” you ask.

Copia sighs. Tokes, then downs all of his own can of soda so he can use it as an ashtray, too comfortable to reach over and grab the one on his coffee table. You got him that ashtray for his fortieth birthday. It’s a piece of polished agate with notches for cigarettes: ridiculously tacky and he’d fucking loved it.

“Sister Imperator wants me to get married.”

Carbonated bubbles spill out your nostrils as you choke on your drink. Copia passes you a tissue to dry yourself up and waits for you to regain your composure.

“What?!” you eventually manage.

“Yep.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Nope.”

You didn’t think so. He’d have told you. The two of you are so deep in each other’s pockets that it’s impossible to keep secrets.

“So who…?”

“If I don’t find someone, Sister says the upper clergy will choose for me.”

The two of you groan in tandem and sink even further into the sofa, feeling monumentally fucked in two very different ways.

You look over at Copia. A part of you has always thought he was handsome, back when he was aquiline-nosed and skinny, and just as much now he’s had surgery and gained a few pounds. He’s still your best friend at the end of the day, the man you care about most in this entire world, your rock, bay-by.

His eyes meet yours across the prone length of your bodies.

And at once, you both speak:

“I have an idea.”

“The two of you, engaged? Really?” Sister Imperator purses her lips, staring at you both. Copia has his arm around your waist: it looks possessive but doesn’t dip low enough to make you uncomfortable. Your hand is on his chest as if you were guarding his heart against the world. You ambushed her with this at breakfast and she’s halfway through her cup of tea, its rim a horizon she can scrutinise you over the top of.

“Oh, yes! We have been seeing each other for a while now, keeping it secret you see, Sister. Didn’t want to start gossip or what have you.” Copia seems to lie so easily. You were worried he’d be a blubbering mess, but when it’s your mutual freedoms on the line, he takes to it like a duck to water.

Sister narrows her eyes, but she also has no way to disprove it. The two of you do spend a lot of time together. What happens behind those closed doors is anyone’s guess, really.

“And you decided to get married now?”

“Well, you were the one who put a deadline on me,” Copia grumbles.

“We just thought, why wait? Saves you finding someone for Copia, and it means you don’t have to worry about the paperwork of transferring me over to another country’s Ministry.”

Sister stares at the two of you long and hard, analysing everything about you both: the way you cling to each other, the sincerity of your story, the lovestruck smiles that you hope you’re plastering on thickly enough. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until you begin to feel a bit dizzy. You’re glad Copia is holding you so tight.

Then she shrugs.

“Very well, if the two of you are happy with it, I can’t see a reason to disagree. We will hold the wedding next week.”

Oh. Oh dear.

“Next week?” you repeat.

“Well, why should I stand in the way of the happy couple? The quicker we do this, the better. It strengthens Copia’s Papacy to have a partner, and this Ministry could use a good celebration. I’ll start the preparations now. Get ready for a busy seven days.”

With that it is implied that you are excused, and so the two of you shuffle to Sister’s office door while still holding each other as close as you can. The moment you’re free, you turn to Copia with panic on your face.

“This wasn’t the plan!” you hiss at him, keeping your voice low. It wasn’t. You’d set the plan out after much discussion last night, and it had seemed simple: you announce your engagement and just keep on being engaged until you both found someone else to date who could help you out of your specific situations. Then you’d dissolve the engagement but ‘remain friends’. An actual marriage was very much not on the table.

Copia sighs and runs a hand over his face, the other falling to the small of your back to usher you away from Sister’s office.

“Okay, this can still work, you know? We go through with it, get married, and then all we have to do is not consummate it. Then we can keep going through with our plan and eventually just get it annulled. The only thing we need to do is, eh, not have sex with each other, which we’ve been doing for decades now. I think we can still pull this off.”

You find yourself tugging at your lip with your teeth, your tell-tale sign of nervousness. Copia takes your hands in his and squeezes them.

“If you really don’t want to, speak now. But please, just… trust me, okay? Have I ever let you down before?”

He really hasn’t, and you do trust him. You trust him more than anyone you know, honestly.

“Okay, let’s do it,” you say, and seal your fate.

You are assigned a wedding ghoul.

They meet the two of you for coffee the next day at the Ministry’s cafe, appearing with a seemingly endless number of clipboards, a bright smile on their face and their hair in ringlets around their ram-like horns. They’re in a tasteful black suit which gives them a reassuring air of professionalism, one you didn’t know ghouls could have - but that’s because you mostly see Copia’s lot sticking forks into plugsockets for fun.

“In hell they call me–” they open their mouth all the way and the sound of a thousand damned souls pierces out, “but on Earth, it’s just Ariel. Take my card.”

They pass a small rectangle of white from their breast pocket. It has a sigil written in ink on it.

“If you need me, you just need to bleed on it and I’ll appear. I don’t think that will be necessary because this is rather a fast-track occasion, as we will be seeing a lot of each other over the coming week. I want to make it clear that I have been the planner for every single wedding for Ministries in this country, though, and I am very good at my job.”

“You did Terzo and Omega’s wedding?” Copia asks, turning over the card in his hand.

“I did, yes.”

“It was a very good wedding,” he mutters to you.

“Yeah, from what I remember of it…” you reply under your breath. The two of you had gotten quite drunk that night and had hangovers for a week. Still, you recall the decorations being tasteful and the food magnificent. The married couple had seemed over the moon, too, so that was all that really mattered.

“First things first: have you considered where you want to get married?”

“We aren’t doing it at the Ministry?” you ask.

“Well, you will certainly have the ceremony at the Ministry. You probably won’t want to hold the reception in the Sanctuary, though, unless you like the old-fashioned, formal atmosphere. Some people in this branch have held receptions in the quad because it’s more open, others have asked to celebrate in the crypts so they can perform rituals throughout the night. I can host you pretty much anywhere that you can imagine.”

You look over to Copia, who raises his espresso to his lips and takes a thoughtful sip, mulling things over.

“How about the barn?” he posits. 

“Oh, shit, is that still standing?”

He nods, and a whirlwind of memories comes flooding back. The barn is right on the edge of Ministry grounds and was long-abandoned even thirty-five years ago when you first discovered its existence; a relic from the time your church had to farm its own food. As teenagers the two of you had often hid there at night back when you first discovered how fucking rad weed was. Eventually you realised nobody in the church gave a shit if you smoked, and the barn was left behind once more. 

You really thought it had collapsed. It was quite a nice place, old and atmospheric. It will probably be a nice place again, if it was tidied up.

“The barn sounds ideal,” you agree, checking Ariel’s reaction. They smile and scribble something down on one of their clipboards.

“Perfect, I’ll get a team working on fixing that up right away. Oh, please let me know which of these wedding invitations you prefer, and if there’s anyone outside the Ministry you’d like me to send them to.”

With a wave of their fingers two pieces of paper appear on the table, all fancy edges and calligraphy. It looks ever so real written in embossed ink, your full name next to Copia’s, the announcement of your wedding right there in black and white. For a second your mouth goes dry and you feel panic surging up your gullet, certain someone is going to catch onto the ruse the two of you are pulling –

But then Copia’s hand is on your knee, firm and warm, reassuring. He doesn’t look at you as you slide yours over his but he knots your fingers together, a silent little moment of solidarity.

You’ve never noticed before how much Copia’s touches ground you. Not since the two of you concocted this crazy plan, anyway. You squidge him. He squidges you back. 

“I like the left one,” you manage. 

“Me too,” Copia says.

Ariel smiles.

“Perfect! Let’s get this show on the road.”

It’s five days before your wedding and you feel like you haven’t sat down for a single second, instead collapsing into bed at night and immediately falling asleep. You’ve barely had a chance to talk to Copia, either. He’s too busy deciding on which rites need to be read, his time taken up with both his duties as a groom and as a Papa. All of your correspondence has been a few texts fired off when you have any free time, mostly mutually encouraging and reassuring one another. It’s been nice, a constant reminder that you’re on each other’s team in this.

Right now, you’re in the tailors. There’s a private one in the Ministry of course, the person in charge of the upper clergy’s robes, and right now they’re measuring you for a traditional wedding outfit. Three people buzz around you at any given time, discussing fabric options and what stitches to use and oh, is this good enough for a Papal wedding–

You look at yourself in the mirror, trying to keep a sigh out of your chest. You’re exhausted, rushed off your feet. You wish Copia was here. He makes everything better, really. Without him all you’re left to do is to mull over the situation time and time again.

Something occurs to you as you lock eyes with your own reflection. You probably could have survived in England, honestly. The Ministry they wanted to send you to looked small but homely, and you’d basically have been the head honcho there, title-wise. But, really, the thing you would have missed most wouldn’t have been this place, your room, your little corner of the library… it would have been Copia.

He’s been such a constant in your life. The two of you have never been apart for more than a month across all these years, and that was only for clergy training courses. The two of you even holiday together, most of the time. 

Being without him… well, it doesn’t sound like a life worth living, honestly.

If that’s the alternative, then this marriage really doesn’t sound so bad.

Why do your cheeks feel so warm all of a sudden?

There’s a burst of hellsmoke, and Ariel appears in the room, making one of the tailors scream in surprise and drop her brocade swatch. You’re sure there’s a glint of smugness to Ariel’s smile, but it’s quickly replaced with professional warmth as they present you with a clipboard.

“I need you to pick flower arrangements for your centrepieces. I have a few options here for you to take a look at.”

“Oh, ah, shouldn’t that be something I do with Copia…?”

“He told me to tell you to check your phone.”

You do, taking it off the side table.

I had to make a call on the bunting, I thought I should leave the centrepieces to you! - C x

You blink. Has he always signed his texts off with a kiss? Your cheeks get warmer and it spreads down your neck and across the expanse of your chest. Suddenly you’re feeling quite flustered.

“Can we take five?” you ask the tailors, and they dutifully step back, leaving you to head to the sitting area with Ariel clad in a robe held together with pins and hope.

“Are you alright?” Ariel asks, cocking their head. You hold the back of your hand to your forehead, trying to cool down.

“Yes, sorry. Just rushed off my feet. Let me look at these flowers.”

They’re all beautiful, to be fair. Most of them are black, because even though it’s the anti-pope’s wedding the upper clergy refused to budge on their favoured aesthetics. You take a look at the tasteful arrangements, wondering which is best, when suddenly you spot it.

“Oh, is this baby’s breath?”

Ariel peers at where you point, and nods.

“Mm-hm. I like this one myself, actually. Black and white is classic.”

You do too, a mix of black roses and white baby’s breath in pretty little patterns. 

“Let’s do this one, I think. Baby’s breath is Copia’s favourite flower.”

It is, you remember it. The two of you were on vacation in Turkey in your twenties, ostensibly for a religious retreat but really to just sneak out and get drunk on raki at night. The two of you had stumbled past a field full of the stuff, and Copia had hopped the fence to gather you a bouquet of it, saying he wanted to share something he loved with you.

You pressed one of those flowers in a book and took it home. You think you still have it somewhere.

Ariel is smiling at you.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing. You just look happy,” they say, and that makes you flush even hotter. For the first time you’re relieved to go back to the tailors, once your wedding ghoul disappears as quickly as they entered the room.

It’s four days before your wedding, and you’re finally sitting down with Copia… not in the way you foresaw, though.

The two of you are in the kitchens. It’s warm down here, bustling, but that’s because every Sibling who cooks has been called in to make a taster menu for you to pick from for the big day. That part, at least, is over: the two of you had a pragmatic discussion about what sort of beef would be preferred by guests, if the flan or the pie was a better vegetarian option, and dessert had been chosen quickly (tiramisu, of course). 

Now comes the hard part. 

You’re both staring down about twenty plates, each holding a delicate individual slice of cake, bites having been taken from every single one. Fresh berries and meringue; red velvet with cream cheese; lemon cake with lime zest in the frosting - all have blown you away. Brother Francisco the baker is looking at the two of you expectantly.

“So? Which flavour is best?” he asks. You exchange a glance with Copia, the two of you shifting your eyes down to look at the little tasting notes you’ve been making.

“They’re all good,” you answer on Copia’s behalf. Because they are. They are all good. But there only needs to be one cake, so that isn’t a very helpful conclusion.

“Oh, thank you! But there must be one which stands above the rest, no?”

You can see how nervous Brother Francisco looks, clearly itching to do well. A Papal wedding is rare, it’s been some years since a Papa wed while actively holding the post - Terzo got married many years after he had retired, after all, and Primo and Secondo are still bachelors. 

“Can you give me and my fiancé a few minutes to chat, please?” you ask him, and he seems relieved to be asked.

“Sure! I will be in the other room. Just call me if you need me!” he says, trying not to let the panic reach his voice, clearly trapped in a world where you’re going to throw all of his cakes in the garbage as soon as he’s out of your sight.

Instead, when you’re left alone with Copia, the two of you let out twinned sighs.

“Fuck me, this is a lot of cake,” you groan, feeling a bit sick from sugar.

“Ai, I know.” Copia runs his hand over his face. He’s not wearing any paints today, not even his “light” look of eye circles and dark upper lip, and you can see how tired he is. However stressful this week has been for you, you really can’t forget that he is still having to be Papa, too. 

Without thinking about it, you reach out to place a reassuring hand on his knee. As usual, he covers it with his own and gives you an exhausted smile.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Oh, yes. Tired. I mean, we are planning a wedding in a week, so that is to be expected, you know?”

“I get it. Copia, if you’re feeling like this is too much, you can always talk to me, yeah? We are still friends. I’m here to help you if I can.”

“I know. Thank you, baby.”

Your eyebrows raise. There’s that warmth again.

“‘Baby’?” you echo. The tips of Copia’s ears turn pink.

“Ah, sorry. I was just, eh, using pet names like a couple, yes?”

“Oh, sure.”

There is nobody else in the room you ought to be pretending in front of. You don’t address it. Quickly moving on, you clear your throat and look at the moat of cake before you both.

“Okay. I can’t eat another bite. On three, let’s say the one we were most pleasantly surprised by, and see if it’s the same.”

“Okiedokie, that sounds like a good idea.”

“One, two, three–”

“The carrot cake,” you say in unison, and then both look utterly relieved.

“Right! It was so moist, and the sultanas were a great extra.”

“Yes, yes! And the eh, buttercream, not too heavy. Just right, I think.”

“Could you have it as a wedding cake?”

Copia considers this, then nods heartily.

“Yes, I think it would be great.”

“Then we’re agreed,” you say with a grin, and as Copia calls Francisco back in to put him out of the misery of waiting, you realise you’re still holding hands with him.

It’s three days before your wedding, and you’ve finally had an evening to actually spend with your husband-to-be. This week has really been chaos. Clergy members from across the globe are rolling in from their last-minute invites, clearing their schedules in order to eagerly show their excitement for the Pope’s marriage. You’ve been seeing old, familiar faces from other branches, dragged in several directions at once to chat with longstanding friends about the nature of your relationship with Copia. You’re not even really having to lie that much. When they ask you when the two of you realised you were more than just friends, you answer that you’re not sure, it just seemed one day that the right thing to do was to get married. People coo and aww and it’s all quite a lot, really.

You wish this evening could be free of planning for once, totally ignore the stress of matrimonial ‘bliss’, but instead there’s still a pretty big decision to be made for the two of you.

“What do you think we should have for a first dance song?” Copia asks, as he sits at the other end of the sofa from you and rolls a joint you have never needed more.

“Oh, I thought the upper clergy would want us to pick one of your ones?” You’d sort of just assumed it would be Life Eternal, your favourite of Copia’s compositions.

Not that you’ve been thinking about it or anything.

“Eh, they want us to, but it’s a bit of an asshole move to dance to my own song at my wedding, you know?”

“Alright, fair enough. Did you have any ideas?”

There’s a beat and Copia goes a bit pink.

“Okay, just hear me out on this one.”

You chuckle.

“Sure.”

“I Do by ABBA.”

Your Copia fucking loves ABBA, so you ought to have seen this coming. You consider it.

“Any reason, or just because it’s a wedding song?”

“Well, it came out the year that we met, and I remember hearing it on the radio a lot. It’s… ugh, it’s stupid, don’t worry,” he says, waving the thought away.

“No, c’mon, I wanna hear it,” you say, sitting up to show your eagerness. A moment passes as Copia considers this, then he gives in.

“So we met when we were what, five?”

“Yeah, I think.” In the hazy vaults of your childhood memory, you can still recall that little floppy-haired boy with the weird eyes who became your playground friend.

“I don’t know if you remember, but one of the games we used to play was to get our teddy bears married to that song. And they were both girls, so it was actually a very modern thing for us to do, you know? Marika sewed us little dresses for them.”

Parts of that flicker back to you, the softness of your teddy bear’s paw in one of your hands, and Copia’s own hand in the other.

“Wow. Holy shit, Copia, I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Eh, yeah, it’s one of my earliest memories. Why, what’s yours?”

“Pissing myself on purpose at the Ministry picnic when I was four because my parents dressed me in my second-favourite pair of dungarees,” you state, and Copia absolutely loses it at that. You’re not sure you’ve heard him laugh so heartily since you started this whole wedding thing, but it is a real relief to see the stress fade from his face as he doubles over. It’s infectious and sets you off, and soon the two of you are wiping tears from your eyes and relaxing in each other’s company again.

It’s nice when he’s calm. You want only good things for him, honestly. 

He looks handsome when he laughs. 

The thought rolls over you unbidden, but when it’s lodged in your brain, it’s hard to shake it free. He does. He’s a handsome man, your best friend. 

And you’re marrying him.

And actually, you become acutely aware of another truth as your heart speeds up — you think you might be developing feelings for him.

Fuck. 

“Any other thoughts, or shall we pick that one, then?” Copia asks as he regains his composure. You try to pretend that you’re feeling normal about all this.

“Okay, sure. Let’s have ABBA, mostly because I want to see the look on everyone’s face when it starts playing.”

“Good, I’m glad we agree,” he says, and the two of you settle in to watch a movie and you have to pretend that the world isn't turning itself upside down.

It’s two days before your wedding, and you think that you might have feelings for your best friend.

This should, in theory, be fantastic news, seeing as you’re going to be marrying him. Yet all you can do is feel utter despair wash over you because there is no way he feels the same. The two of you have been friends for literal decades, and nothing has ever changed that. It would be foolish to expect that, in the span of a week, he’s begun to fall in love with you.

Oh, god. That’s what this is, isn’t it? This is love. The beginnings of it, at least, the part where the seed of affection starts to take root in your heart and make its home there. There’s nothing you can do. You just need to let it run its course and grow and flower, and hopefully you can prune it into submission in good time.

This hasn’t been helped since you told Ariel about your first dance song choice. They’d burst into a huge smile, scribbling down on one of their clipboards.

“Great choice. You know, some couples bicker about all of this stuff. Not you two, though. I don’t think I’ve ever found two people who agree more. You must be so glad that you found each other.”

Copia nodded along heartily, and it was like a dagger in your heart, because you knew it was all an act, a ruse.

A plan.

Fuck. This hurts. 

You can’t tell Copia. He’d be so nice about it, but in a way which would just kill you. Making sure you knew he was there for you, but also remaining firmly your friend. He’d never want to hurt you, after all, but it’s not like you can make him feel the same way about you.

Just hide it. Keep it under your hat. That’s the best thing you can do, for sure.

You try to drift off to sleep, lonely in your single bed, and not think back on years upon years of memories with Copia and find your heart fluttering at every one.

It’s one day before your wedding, and it’s been non-stop. Ariel appears every ten minutes, double checking you approve of decorations, asking your opinion on colour schemes, confirming seating arrangements for when you eat. They never look harried, though, their curls sitting perfectly either side of their face, which is a damn sight better than you’re doing. You’re pretty sure the bags beneath your eyes could carry a week’s worth of shopping at this point, and you can’t stop pressing the ball of your palms into them to try and clear away the continuous headache you’re suffering.

It does not help. You still suffer.

Everything seems to be ready to go, though. All you need to do is turn up on the day in the right outfit. Things should go off without a hitch, and you and Copia get to stay in the Ministry and continue your lives as normal. As they were beforehand.

And yet, for you, you know it will be so, so much worse.

The rest of your life will be you ‘pretending’ to be in love with Copia when you really are. It will be agonising. Every time he holds your hand it will be like putting it in hot coals. Every time he calls you a pet name it will be like someone is snapping your ribs.

You find yourself laying in bed that night. You can’t sleep, because of course you can’t. There’s only one person whose company you need right now. The only person who can make it better is the one who is inadvertently causing you this pain.

Still though, you go to grab your phone, and see there is already a message waiting for you on it.

Are you awake? - C x

You fire off a reply.

Yeah, I can’t sleep.

Immediate dots as he replies.

Come over? - C x

Of course you do. You swing yourself out of bed, tuck your feet into your slippers and arms into your dressing gown, and head through the dormitory wing the way you have a million times before. You could do this journey with your eyes closed.

Copia’s door is open when you try the handle. You let yourself inside and lock it for him, before turning to greet him properly: there he is, splayed out on the couch, the low light of the TV the only thing illuminating the room as he flicks through channels. He’s in a pair of pyjamas you recognise well from many nighttime meetings; they’ve got Kermit on them.

“Hey,” he says with a lazy smile. You walk over and plonk yourself opposite. The way you’ve sat with him so often, yet it all feels so different now. He rests his head against the back of the sofa cushion as he turns to look at you properly, giving you a tired but sincere smile.

“Are you okay?”

You laugh. What a question.

“Nervous,” is what you decide on, and he nods.

“I know what you mean. It feels silly, you know? We are friends, and we agreed to do this. But…”

“But it still all feels really… real?”

He nods. The two of you stare at each other for a moment, mutual nervousness obvious on both of your faces.

Copia breaks first, opening his arms.

“Ah, come here.”

Despite your better instincts you do, crawling up the couch and burying yourself into him. He wraps you tight in his arms and the two of you lay there, cuddling, and it both soothes the fire inside of you and sets it burning tenfold. You press your head into his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. It’s a little faster than normal, probably because he’s so nervous for tomorrow.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” he says after a while. It makes you ache.

“Me too,” you whisper, because despite everything, you are. In the comfort of his embrace, you feel yourself slowly nod off to sleep, finally getting the rest you need for the night.

You do not see the softness with which he looks at you, nor feel the way he traces the shape of your face oh so gently, that he might know how it feels beneath his fingers.

The next morning begins with a bang and a screech.

“What are the two of you doing?! It’s nearly midday, you’re meant to be walking down the aisle in an hour!”

You and Copia dart awake, a mess of limbs and exhaustion. Two people your age should not be woken up so suddenly, because you both make matching noises of utter panic. Ariel stands looking utterly harangued, their hands on their hips, brow furrowed.

“I… what?” you ask, blinking the sleep away. Copia wipes a line of drool from his cheek with his sleeve and doesn’t look like he’s awake enough to have the ability to talk yet.

“Erm, your wedding? You were both meant to be at your makeup appointments ten minutes ago! We have to hustle, people!”

Ariel grabs your hand and, in a manner which you thoroughly dislike, you suddenly find yourself being transported in a puff of hellfire to a different area of the Ministry altogether. You don’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Copia. You’re just… gone.

The next hour goes by like a blur.

You’re practically hosed down in a shower before being put into your wedding robes, hair and paints being done at once to save time. They match Copia’s, basically, but with a couple of small differences to make them uniquely yours: the cheek hollows slightly higher, lips filled out to be more heart-shaped. You barely get the time to appreciate how impressive you look because your dressing assistants are going so fast, tutting at you for making them work on such a tight schedule. You also barely have time to feel nervous, which you suppose is good, because if you think about Copia for more than ten seconds you do feel like you might explode.

All of a sudden you’re done, and before you can get a good look at yourself in the full-length mirror, you’re being hustled out of the door and down to the Sanctuary. You can hear the hubbub of guests inside, all of them ready for the ceremony to begin…

…but all of that melts away when you see Copia.

He’s fiddling with his gloves, the picture of nervousness, and he has to do a double-take when he sees you. He’s in his full papal vestments, mitre and paints included, but it’s something you’ve seen before. He looks incredible, but his outfit doesn’t quite shock you like yours does him.

“Wow. You look… wow,” he says, jaw a little slack as he approaches you. You laugh and give him a spin.

“You think so?”

“I really… yeah, you’re… I can’t find the, eh, words,” he admits, holding your hands at arm’s length and looking at you up and down. “You look very good. Amazing, even.”

You feel yourself grow a little warm and Copia stares at you, totally unable to draw his eyes away. He hesitates, says your name, and there’s a level of gravity to it you’re not sure if you’ve heard before.

“I think I need to tell you something…”

But then the music starts and the doors to the Sanctuary are hauled open, and then you’re looking at hundreds of thrilled wedding guests. 

There’s no time to speak. The two of you just have to walk down the aisle together - as is traditional of marriages in your church, as neither party can be ‘given away, freely their own person - and meet Primo at the altar.

You’d feel scared under all those gazes any other time. But how can you be when Copia is gripping your hand so tightly, and you know he’s going to be the one going through this with you?

How can you when, despite it all, you’re happy?

So you head down the aisle to one of the church’s hymns, noticing the way Ariel looks relieved in the crowd that you’re both there on time. You stand at the altar and let Primo conduct your marriage rites, but the words fall away into nothingness as you’re lost in the eager sincerity of Copia’s gaze.

And when you’re told that the two of you are met in unholy union, wed, and you’re allowed to kiss, yes your stomach gives a flip - because how could you have forgotten that you need to do that - but when Copia cups your jaw in order to bring you to him, you melt. The world melts. Everything outside of this melts, as your lips meet his for the first time and Copia kisses you not as a friend masquerading as a lover, but as if he means it.

Oh. 

This changes things.

Of course, you do not get a moment to actually talk to Copia about the fact he kissed you like he loved you, because you’ve got the rest of the wedding to trek through. There is a celebration as you kiss, and then many, many wellwishers as you make your way through the Ministry grounds hand-in-hand and to the old barn. Ariel has done an incredible job. Tables are set up around the edges with the floral centrepieces you chose, black bunting hangs from the newly reinforced rafters in a way which looks both macabre and delightful. Candles hang in glass jars and light the place, giving everything a slightly ethereal glow. Copia sees the baby’s breath and looks at you with unbridled adoration.

It’s perfect. You can’t believe you used to sneak out here to smoke weed.

Marika is wearing a big hat and openly crying, bringing you into an embrace. Psaltarian shakes Copia’s hand and tells him he’s proud. The two of you mingle, hand-in-hand, and drink champagne, hand-in-hand, and eat vol-au-vents, hand-in-hand. The crowd cheers for Copia to feed you one and he does, gloves not quite as soft as his lips were against your mouth. 

You eat, and it’s delicious, then you cut the cake, which is even better. Copia gets icing on his cheek and grins at you when you wipe it off and eat it. Maybe you’re letting yourself get swept up in the excitement of the day, but it really does feel like something has changed between the two of you.

And then you dance.

Oh, you dance.

Even Sister doesn’t look too unhappy when ABBA plays, lips pressing together in minimal disapproval but still not quite cutting through the smile she’s worn all day. Copia loops his arms around your waist and you rest your hands on his shoulders, and it’s silly and sweet, and the two of you can’t stop laughing at it.

You hear him whisper-sing along with the lyrics. You can’t take your eyes off of his lips. When the song ends, he seems to hesitate on something for a moment before making a decision. 

“Can I kiss you, baby?” he whispers.

“I’ll go mad if you don’t.”

You feel his smile as he kisses you again, and there’s another deafening cheer.

The evening is long, and the two of you drink quite a lot, but it’s a wedding, so you’ve got to, really. You can’t keep your hands off of each other, all gooey and soft, this newly-realised romance blossoming quickly. Eventually guests begin to thin out as the evening gets later, and the two of you are left to stumble back to the Ministry…

And the honeymoon suite you’ve been allocated, king-size bed and all.

It’s silly they even have it, especially because when you stumble in the door, you’re met with the realisation that several dozen couples - including ones that one of you is related to - have fucked in here, but as soon as the door is shut and Copia’s lips are on yours again, you can’t quite bring yourself to care. He presses you up against the wall and his hand slides up your leg, gathering your robe over his wrist so he can squeeze the skin he finds. You moan into his mouth and when he pulls away you see that your paints are mixing together, sharp black and whites now a muddied grey of your lust.

“Wait, wait. We need to talk,” you manage. Copia sighs and nods, but doesn’t let you go.

“Okay, yes, we do.”

“Copia… is this real? Or are we just swept up in the day? Because if it’s not, I think it’ll break my heart. If we let ourselves fall for each other only to find out it wears off when the adrenaline does.”

Copia looks at you for a long moment, and sighs.

“I… I think a part of me has always loved you. Ever since we first met. You are my favourite person, you know? I think… I think that I have tried to keep it quiet, because if I let myself feel more, it would have broken me if it didn’t work out. But now, with all of this… I want to try, baby. I want to try being in love with you.”

“So do I,” you sigh, and you kiss again.

Nothing stops you this time. He takes you to bed, and it is a sea of hands and mouths and gasps and moans. He undresses you so carefully, like you’re a present he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. You can’t even bring yourself to feel embarrassed being naked for the first time in front of him. It just feels so… right. He stares at you on the bed, looking at you as if you were every star in the night sky. He doesn’t care about the facets of yourself that you feel worried about: the sagging bits in your age, the parts that aren’t quite as perky and pert as they once were, the wrinkles that you’ve gained just from living. They’re you, and he loves every inch.

There is hunger in his eyes and it thrills you.

“Gorgeous, amore mio,” he sighs, leaning down to capture your nipple in his mouth, leaving a smear of grey in its wake.

You remove his papal regalia, each layer gone revealing more pale, delicious skin. You drag your fingers through the salt-and-pepper hair on his chest and he groans in joy. When you wrap your hand around his cock he’s hard and heavy and waiting, ready for you. When his clothes have joined yours on the floor you take him into your mouth and grin around his length as he chants your name like a prayer.

“Stop, baby, please, I don’t want to come in your mouth,” he manages, and you relent, because you want him to come somewhere else, too. There is lube waiting in the side table and he pours a generous amount on his fingers before working you open, wanting everything about this to be as pleasurable as possible for both of you. He uses his tongue between your legs too, as he goes, and you come in a blinding flash of a supernova.

Then he’s inside you, and it’s perfect. Like you were made to fit together. Your heartbeat matches his as his hot, hard cock hits that place inside you which has you practically singing in pleasure, and sweat ruins his paints even further as he works his hips in slow, sweet rolls.

“Baby… tesoro… amore mio… cuore mio…” he breathes, the staccato in his voice showing his ecstasy. You come again, clenching around him, and he spills himself inside you.

It’s perfect. It’s how this was always meant to be.

You go three more times before you both finally nod off from exhaustion.

You shouldn’t have worried that these feelings would slip away after the wedding. If anything, your relationship with Copia has only gotten more solid. It’s just like your friendship always was, but now it has the added level of mutual adoration and being able to kiss whenever you feel like it. The two of you are in a sort of gooey-love with each other, one which others maybe find a bit saccharine but is perfectly sweet to the two of you.

People say that they “married their best friend”. You really did it, and he loves you, and it’s great.

You get Ariel a very large thank you basket, which they deserve. They tell you they’ve never planned a happier wedding.

A week after the wedding, Sister calls the two of you to her office. She looks at you over her glasses before nodding approvingly.

“I’m glad to see that you consummated the marriage,” she states. Copia makes a noise of disgust.

“How did you…?” but he trails off, because he doesn’t want to know the answer, and you can’t blame him.

“Congratulations to you both. The wedding was lovely as well as being a perfect success. You’ve chosen well.” She pauses, before addressing Copia. “By the way, I’d have picked them for you as a spouse, anyway. That was the upper clergy’s plan all along.”

The two of you gawk at her as this information filters through.

“What?” you say at the same time.

“Well, you’re clearly ideal for each other, and you’ve been in love for years now. You just needed to realise it.”

“So why did you threaten to send me to England?!” you explode. Sister smiles thinly.

“Because I wanted to see if he would get a move on of his own accord. You’re dismissed,” she says, waving the two of you away. You leave her office in stunned silence.

“I can’t believe…” Copia trails off, but stops when you begin to laugh. “What?”

“I guess she was kinda right, huh?”

Copia considers the situation, and his anger melts into a dopey grin.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighs, tugging you into his embrace. “I love you, you know.”

Your plan works at first. Yeah, you’re exhausted, but you load yourself up with coffee and you unload the trucks. You’re laughing with your coworkers and shouting instructions back and forth. You’re shooting shit with the road crew, too, who are very nice and exceedingly professional. You don’t see the talent but you don’t expect to, nor would you bother them if you did. It’s unprofessional and anyway, at this point, you aren’t really impressed with anyone who does this for a living. You’ve cleaned up too much musician piss off the green room floor to be impressed with celebrity at this point.

But you get the trucks unloaded, and it’s a good day, a good distraction. The sun is shining, you’re working hard, things are going well.

And then you take your lunch break, which goes great for a few minutes while you shove a sandwich in your mouth. And then you think about going grocery shopping for your empty apartment. Despite the sandwich, your stomach feels hollow. Your eyes start to burn. And suddenly the chatter of your coworkers is too much and your head hurts and you have to get up and stumble out of there.

You know the building well, and you know exactly where no one goes. You make your way there—a little out-of-the-way storage space no one uses much, because it’s so awkward to get to. But it’s the perfect place to go and stand and have a good solid cry where no one can hear you, so you squeeze your way to it, past crates and equipment and spiderwebs, until you reach the door, open it, and step in.

There’s a strange moment where you do not feel alone, but you flick on the bare buzzing lightbulb and see that there is no one else here. Just a busted up armchair you could sit in if you wanted metal springs in your ass, and grimy bottle of Windex that has probably been abandoned for years, most of the fluid leaked out.

You take a breath, and you let it out. You start to cry. You are quiet, not wanting to draw attention even here, but somehow that makes it worse, burying your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking. An empty apartment, and empty bed. Years. Years with your ex, years amounting to nothing, but yet that’s not the worst part. The worst is how you feel like nothing, how your future looks so vacant and alone, echoing inside your chest like your muffled sobs around this cluttered little room.

And then you hear something behind you and you jump, looking around sharply through tears. A rustling, fluttering sound. You don’t see anything, though, and for a moment you wonder if you’re having sleep deprivation hallucinations. Or if it’s haunted. Isn’t it tradition that every theater is haunted? Maybe that’s true of arenas, too.

And then something swoops at you and you shriek and flail your arms instinctively. Not a ghost—it hits your left hand very solidly, and it hits the floor just as solidly, and you gasp when you realize it was a bat.

“Oh!” you exclaim, and for a moment, your tears are forgotten. “Oh, no, no, I’m so sorry, little guy.”

You approach with caution. Yes, it’s still here, and it’s still alive—your hit hadn’t been that hard. It has a little snub nose, and is peering up at you like you just offended it which, to be fair, you probably did.

Is it true that bats can’t take off from the ground? Of course, it shouldn’t be taking off in here anyway, you’re going to have to tell your supervisor that bats are roosting in the storage area and hope that someone will remove them humanely, but in the meantime you have this bat to deal with. But you’re not stupid, you know rabies would not exactly improve your current situation, and you’re stuck for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” you say to the bat, despite the fact that it’s a bat. “I’m so sorry. Give me a second, I’ll find a way to get you out, okay? I’m so sorry.”

The bat squints up at you. It does not seem to be fluttering, and you wonder if its fall paralyzed it, but its wings flutter a little and it wiggles its feet at you, so maybe it’s fine. You hope it’s fine.

You look around for a moment, but there’s still nothing really in this room.

“I’m going to be right back, okay little dude? I’m not leaving you alone, I promise.”

The words catch, leaving you alone, and you almost cry again, but this is not the time for that. You take a deep, shuddering breath, and another.

“Sorry, little guy. I was trying to have a breakdown and you interrupted. Not your problem.” You take a third deep breath. “Okay. I’ll be right back, okay? Please don’t…wander under the chair or something.” Could bats propel themselves across a floor? You have no idea. But you don’t have time to waste, and you duck out into the hall for just a moment again, until you find a long-handled dustpan and broom. That might work, and you grab them and head back into the room. “Okay, little guy—”

And then you stop.

You had not been gone for more than a few seconds, but somehow someone had slipped past you. A man, facing away from you, with long curls kissing the back of his neck. And then he turns to look at you, and you jump, because this is not just any man. This is the guy from the posters, the guy performing tonight with his band.

Even now he wears a mask, though it is a soft leather and not the shiny metal from the banners outside. But his face is unpainted beneath it, of course, and he wears too-long jeans with tattered hems and, for some reason, a leather cloak around his shoulders, probably a costume piece grabbed against the air conditioned chill of the arena. His feet are bare.

“Excuse me, sir,” you say immediately, wondering how the fuck he got past you. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I—I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“Yes, you did,” he says, and smiles. His teeth are long and crooked and sharp-looking.

You don’t understand that, but you proceed with your mission. “I, um, it’s just—there’s a bat in here, I found it. I’m trying to bring it outside. Maybe you should step out, you’re not wearing shoes and you wouldn’t want to get bitten.”

“Probably too late to prevent that,” he says. “Why were you crying?”

“You…heard that?”

“I was here for it, yes,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You feel your face warm. You’re bothering the talent, and now he’s asking about you, and you still hurt everywhere from the day and the night before.

“My ex dumped me last night,” you say. “I thought work would take my mind off of things but it didn’t. I’m really sorry. I came here so no one would hear me.”

His eyes are on you. Unsettling eyes—not because they’re mismatched, but something else, something too direct and too intent. “You were together for a long time?”

“Five years,” you say with a sigh. “Five wasted fucking years.”

He lets out a little whistle. “That is a long time,” he says, and he folds his arms. Which is weird because a moment ago he’d been wearing a leather cloak over them, hadn’t he? But now there is no such thing, just a basic black shirt and the tattered jeans. You definitely need some rest. “Did your ex say why?”

You don’t know why he’s asking, but damned it feels good to tell someone, suddenly. “My ex found someone else. Someone new. Someone better than me, I guess.” You sigh. “I’d say I wish them happiness but I don’t, if I’m honest.”

He lets out a sharp little laugh. His voice is so light it’s hard to imagine him fronting some kind of Satanic band. Don’t they all have deep voices and metal growls for days? Except Taylor Swift, of course.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he agrees. “Maybe you should cry a while first and let yourself be sad and angry. And then, eventually, figure out that you’re probably better off without someone who would throw away five years on someone they just met.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just stand there for a moment. And then you realize what you’re doing and where and with whom, and shake your head vigorously as if to bring yourself out of it. “I’m so sorry. I’m not even supposed to be bothering you and here you are giving me impromptu therapy.”

“I asked,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe you should go home, get some rest. You were working hard today, and I’d hate for you to hurt yourself on some equipment because you’re tired.”

“And risk fuckin’ up your show,” you say wryly. “No, you’re right. I should. I just want to—like I said, there was a bat. I’d like to take care of it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, and there’s a smile on his face, an oddly gentle, patient, amused smile. The kind of smile someone might give a particularly dim child trying to solve a puzzle, or a dog failing to complete a simple task. Like he could be frustrated at you for failing to grasp something, but instead he’s endeared.

And then he approaches, and holds out his hand for yours, smile fading. Confused, you let him take it, expecting him to shake it, but he does not. Instead he just holds it in both of his cold ones, looks at you with that intense gaze, searching your face for something, but if he finds it you do not know.

“The bat appreciates your concern,” he says.

“It’s gone, then?” you say. “What happened to it?”

“It found something that caught its attention,” he says, and shrugs. “That happens, sometimes. I’m sorry to have startled you, but maybe it’s for the best. You should go home, and get some rest. That’s what I think.”

He offers another smile. His canines gleam briefly in the flickering bulb overhead.

And then he bends and, to your surprise, presses a kiss to your knuckles. His lips are cool, his breath hot, and he lingers for a long, long moment there before he pulls his mouth away with a smack of lips to skin.

“Go tell your boss you need to leave for the day,” he says, and licks his lip with the point of his tongue. “And don’t worry. I don’t mind you talking to me. I think it was necessary, don’t you?”

“For me,” you say with a wry smile. “I don’t know what you got out of it.”

He shrugs. “I found something. Go on, then. Can you get home safely? Maybe you shouldn’t drive in this state.”

You are so tired, really. Drained. And yet, oddly relaxed. Maybe that was what you really needed, to talk to someone, to let it out.

“I’ll get the bus home,” you promise.

“Be safe. Remember that…” He hesitates a moment. “Remember that this moment is temporary. Live it, feel it, but—you won’t always feel like this.” He considers for a moment. “I’d invite you to my show tonight, if I thought it would help, but I have a feeling you would benefit more from a night off.”

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But thanks for the offer.”

“Ah, well,” he says. “Maybe another time. Goodbye. Thank you for trying to help the bat. Not a lot of people would, you know, especially not on a day like yours.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. But he lets your hand go, at long last, and you draw back. “Well, I felt bad for it. Good luck with your show tonight.”

“Thank you,” he says with a smile. His teeth seem even longer, and for a moment there’s a hint of something dark on their edges, but the light is bad and yellow. “Bye.”

You slip out, and go to tell your boss you need to take the rest of the day off, and tomorrow, too, for that matter. He’s too busy to care much and waves you off.

You sit at the bus stop to wait. You feel tired, but that odd restfulness still lingers, and you roll your conversation around in your head. Maybe things really would be okay. Eventually. Because you know it is not your ex you want back, not really, not after this. It’s just the fear of loneliness that gets you.

Maybe that’s all it ever was. Maybe that’s why your ex found someone else. But it still hurts.

Your hand hurts, too, and you glance down to find a narrow little cut just above your knuckles. You must have banged your hand on something unloading the trucks, but that sort of thing happens all the time.

Before your bus arrives, though, a car pulls up. One of the road crew you’d seen before gets out and says your name, then says, “If you want, Papa suggested I give you a ride home.”

“Papa?” you repeat, then glance back at the arena. Right, the singer, the man you spoke to, you’d heard people call him that all day. “Oh. Wow. That’s nice of him.” You shouldn’t really take a ride from a near-stranger, even on the word of “Papa,” but you’re exhausted, and at this point, you just don’t feel like anything associated with this band—this Satanic band, according to the guy already setting up outside with his signs and megaphone—would possibly hurt you, not really. “Uh, what the hell, sure. Thanks so much.”

The crew guy is just a runner, but he’s as nice as you’d expect. On the ride back to your place, you tell him about the bat in the storage room. He does not seem surprised; he just snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “That happens sometimes. You’ll understand.”

You don’t know what that means.

He brings you home safely, but before you get out of the car he stops you and hands you something. An envelope. “From Papa,” he explains, and then he sends you out and you head back to your apartment—empty of your ex and your ex’s things.

You dread it, even now. But you cannot just ignore it. You know that, no matter how hard you’d tried. You cannot just work and pretend it never happened, pretend you don’t hurt and pretend you don’t need to cry sometimes.

You make your way into your apartment, sit down, and open the envelope.

Inside is a print-out. A single ticket, not to tonight’s show, but to another one in a few days, a few hours away—not a bad drive, really. You don’t work that day, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you might make it.

And there is also a note, a little scribble on a piece of lined paper, its edge ragged from being torn out of a notebook.

Hope you can make it. I’ll be watching for you. I enjoyed our talk. Perhaps someday we will talk again.

It isn’t signed, but you know who it’s from.

You don’t feel like crying, to your own surprise. You did before, and you will again, but in this moment you do not. It is like the opportunity to tell Papa, to pour your heart out to him, the kiss on your hand, pulled some of that desire from you. Or maybe it’s because you can now, and so the need isn’t so pressing.

You clean up a little bit, and then you grab your laptop and listen to a few songs from this band, without headphones because there’s no one here to bother with your music. Your ex would have hated it, and for a moment you’re actually glad no one is here, glad of the solitude you’d dreaded.

You listen to several songs, and watch some videos, and look up hotels near the concert location on your ticket from Papa.

And then, out of curiosity, you wander through Wikipedia and Reddit to learn more about bats. You’d been right not to grab it with your bare hands, due to the risk of rabies, but you also see how useful bats are and you hope that the one really was all right.

You are briefly alarmed when your research informs you that sometimes people don’t even notice a bat biting them, and you glance down at your scabbed hand. But you read on and realize that it usually happens if someone is sleeping and wakes up to a bat’s presence, or is otherwise vulnerable to long contact with a bat without being aware for most of it. You hadn’t had any real contact with it, just smacking the poor thing out of the air, and that wouldn’t have been enough to do anything. And, you realize, you hadn’t even hit it with that hand. You’d smacked it with your left hand, and your scab is on the right.

You wonder if Papa had noticed the scab. He must have. It’s right where he had kissed you, lingering for a long moment. At the memory you feel warm, strange. You think of the cool press of his lips to your hot skin. You think of how from that moment, things had looked less dark and lonely. Not fixed, not at all fixed, but…less dark and lonely.

Still, you are exhausted from a sleepless night, from grief and uncertainty and a hard day’s work. You go to bed early, and you drift too easily into dreams.

You do not dream of your ex or of work or of the encounter in the storage room. Instead you dream that your fingers extend, stretching the length of your body, growing leathery skin between them; you dream that you are winging through the darkness, smelling tears that draw you to the taste of blood. And you dream of blood on your lips, on your tongue, thick and sweet, tasting of heartbreak.

And when you wake up, abruptly, safely in your bed. But you think you understand, the vanished bat and the present man, the lingering kiss on your knuckles, how bats can bite undetected. You know there is no fear of rabies but there may be something else, something stranger.

I’ll be watching for you, the note had said.

But you are tired still, and fall back to sleep. And in the morning, you reject your middle-of-the-night revelation as dream-addled madness.

You feel better, but you still cry as you make coffee for yourself, when you remember that your bed is vacant, that two days ago you’d known your future and now you do not. You cry, and you do not mind crying, and soon enough your tears dry again. Papa had promised you that if you felt what you felt and kept going, you would get through this, and you know that he is right.

You wonder how the show went last night. You will be at the next one, though, the one on the ticket. That you know for sure. You will go alone, and he will be watching for you.

In the meantime, you sit down with your coffee and get your laptop, and put on your new favorite Ghost song. You’ll be done crying over your ex soon enough, after all, when you’re ready. And you will move on to something new. You don’t know what the future holds, but perhaps there are things you don’t even imagine within it.

You sing along, stiltedly, still learning the words. You’re looking forward to the concert, singing along with a thousand people in general and with Papa in particular, pouring all your heart into it. You love this song already, and you want him to know it when he sees you in the crowd.

Ripping through every poem, like a vampire should…

-

Trip raises his eyebrows. “Like?”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm answers, waving a hand vaguely in the air between them. “Time is a circle? Choices echo across dimensions?”

“Choices.” Trip echoes. “Like stupid choices?”

There’s a pause. Hoshi blinks at him slowly.

“Hey, uh, what have you been doing in the timeloop?”

“Nothing.”

Malcolm sighs and rubs at his eyes. “So definitely a ‘grow as a person’ loop.”

Trip slumps in his seat. “God, I hope not.”

There’s a pause. Malcolm considers the situation: a timeloop isn’t something they’ve encountered before, but it’s not that far out considering everything else that has happened.

“Hmm,” He says, thinking aloud, “how are we presenting to everyone else if the ship is stuck in a timeloop?”

“It’s not the ship, it’s just me.”

Hoshi picks up on his train of thought. “Well, if everything keeps resetting, then it’s the whole ship, right? I mean it’s around you.”

“Oh.” He pauses for a moment. “I guess that’s true, especially since people come back to life and stuff.”

That earns him a look from both of them.

Malcolm leans back, hands steepled. “How do you know that? You said no one was dying.”

Trip’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Uh.”

He glances between them. “Well. You know. Theoretically.”

“Trip,” Hoshi says slowly, “did you kill someone?”

“Not intentionally!”

There’s a beat.

“Oh my god,” Hoshi says, sitting back.

“It was an accident! Or possibly self-defence? I don’t know it got real weird for a few loops, or maybe I had a psychotic break. There were aliens, or I though they were. Anyway, I got stabbed, but I woke up again. So everything’s fine now.”

Malcolm gives him a long, unimpressed look. “Trip, if you start a sentence with ‘I got stabbed’ and end it with ‘everything’s fine,’ I’m going to assume the opposite.”

“Everything’s fine.” He repeats, weakly.

Malcolm eyes him. Doesn’t ask about the potential psychotic break, but he does catalogue the way Trip looks: deep bags under his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there the day before – or what he knew as the day before.

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Where you got stabbed.”

“We’re in the mess.”

“And it’s basically abandoned, come on.”

Trip grumbles something under his breath, but he does undo the zip on his jumpsuit and lift up the undershirt to show them both a scar, just under his ribcage.

“Was that there before?”

“Um. No?”

Malcolm rubs at the bridge of his nose. “You’re not sure?”

“It’s been a lotta loops.”

He sighs.  “OK.”

Trip rights his clothes.

“Have you spoken to T’Pol?” Hoshi asks.

Trip sits up straight, something wild in his eyes for a moment. “What? Why would I speak to T’Pol?"

“Well, this is sort of her area, isn’t it? Weird science stuff?”

He deflates again. “Oh. Right. T’Pol.”

Malcolm exchanges yet another glance with Hoshi.

“What have you been doing in the timeloops?” He repeats the question asked earlier, firmer this time, not allowing Trip to verbally wiggle his way out.

“Uh,” Trip stammers for a moment, “well, you know the first few, I was just doing my job…”

Hoshi rolls her eyes. “And after you realised it was a timeloop?”

“Just… stuff.”

Hoshi raises an eyebrow. “Stuff like what?”

Trip opens his mouth, closes it again. “You know. Tried different breakfast orders. Punched a guy in the mess once.”

Malcolm has questions about that, but doesn’t get a chance to voice them.

“Tried to teach myself the cello – did you know Danvers has one on board? Failed at that. Uh, jumped out an airlock… with a suit, I mean. Once. Just to see.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Jesus,” Hoshi mutters again, setting her padd down properly this time.

Malcolm leans forward, his voice lower, more serious. “Trip, how many loops has it been?”

Trip stares past both of them for a moment, jaw working. “I stopped counting around seventy.”

“Seventy?” Hoshi echoes. “Trip!”

“I said I stopped counting! It’s probably been more.”

He lets that hang for a moment, the weight of it finally registering.

“Fuck.” Malcolm mumbles, leaning back again. “Are you… I mean…”

Trip shrugs. “I mean. I tried some… exploring, you know.”

“Exploring.”

“Like, personal growth stuff. Internal exploration. That sort of thing.”

There’s a pause.

Malcolm narrows his eyes. “Did any of this… exploration involve T’Pol?”

Trip stiffens visibly.

Hoshi’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god.”

“No!” Trip says quickly. Too quickly. “I mean… She figured it out in loop 23. Said I wasn’t taking it seriously. That I needed to reflect or something. And then she meditated at me for an hour.”

“She meditated at you?” Hoshi says.

“She just… stared. And then told me to try again.”

Hoshi looks like she’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“And I went back in the next loop to try again, but it, uh…” He trails off, his face doing something complicated.

The two of them exchange a glance, the laughter gone from Hoshi’s face.

“Trip. Did you seduce T’Pol in a loop where she wouldn’t remember it?”

He recoils instantly. “What? No! What the hell, do you think…? That’s… I mean… She initiated it!”

There’s a beat of dead silence.

His eyes go wide. “Shit.”

Malcolm sits back with a low whistle.

“Oh my god,” Hoshi says again, this time sounding both scandalized and deeply entertained. “You did.”

Trip drops his head into his hands. “I hate both of you.”

Malcolm smirks. “Did she call it an experiment?”

“Shut up, Malcolm.”

The way he seems to be attempting to bury his head into the table is enough for Malcolm to take pity on him. “Okay. Let’s assume this isn’t just some elaborate stress-induced hallucination…”

“It’s not!”

“… then there’s got to be a reason it’s just you, right? So either you touched something you shouldn’t have…”

“Not recently,” Trip mumbles.

“…or, something wants you to solve… something.”

“I am trying to solve it!”

“Trip,” Hoshi says, crossing her arms. “Be honest. Have you spent more loops trying to get out of it, or more loops just… messing around?”

Trip deflates again, and this time it’s more like a balloon losing air than someone who’s annoyed. “I was lonely,” he says quietly. “You ever know no one’s gonna remember anything you say? It gets... weird.”

That sobers them both.

“Well,” Malcolm says after a moment. “You’ve got us now. Might as well use the loop to do something productive. Like figure out how to bring other people in.”

“You think that’s possible?”

Hoshi nods. “Memory's a function of perception. If we can anchor something, uh, maybe in the comms system? If we get Phlox on board we might be able to do something neuro- linguistically…” She trails off, deep in thought.

Trip perks up. “That thing you did with the Romulan code?”

“Exactly.”

Malcolm glances at his padd, thoughtful. “I’ve got an idea too. Something with the ship’s internal sensors. We might be able to leave a kind of breadcrumb.”

Trip finally smiles, small but real. “So we’re doing this.”

“We’re doing this,” Hoshi confirms. Then she grins. “Unless you loop out before we get anywhere.”

Trip’s smile falters. “Yeah. That keeps happening. Sometimes mid-sentence.”

“Charming,” Malcolm mutters, standing and gathering his padd. “Well, let’s get moving before you blink out like a faulty transporter.”

Hoshi’s already typing on hers. “We’ll need Phlox. I don’t want to try anything neural without him.”

“Good luck explaining this without sounding insane,” Trip warns, rising after them.

Hoshi snorts. “Please. This is Enterprise. We’ve been possessed by space fog.”

Malcolm stops suddenly, looking over his shoulder. “Wait, what’s the reset point? When does it start?”

Trip grimaces. “Wake up in my quarters. Alarm goes off at oh-six-hundred. Tired, hungry, same dream. Sometimes I wake up already saying something weird, which is fun.”

“And how long does the loop run?” Hoshi asks. She’s still typing, filing away notes for later.

“It varies.” He admits. “On average, eight hours, maybe ten? The more I try and mess with stuff, the more unpredictable it gets.”

“That’s useful,” Malcolm says. “Also horrifying.”

They reach the turbolift. Trip hesitates before stepping in.

“I looped in the lift once,” he says quietly. “Didn’t make it to breakfast. Just… back to bed. Over and over.”

The doors slide open. Hoshi and Malcolm exchange a look before stepping inside with him.

“Well,” she says, softer now, “you made it to breakfast this time.”

Trip glances at her. “Guess that counts as progress.”

*

Phlox is halfway through feeding his small menagerie when the three of them enter. And Trip would never admit it, but there’s something comforting about sickbay; the soft sounds of animals and the man in the middle of it all, unphased by everything they throw his way.

“Good morning,” he greets them, without looking up, “is someone injured or are you here to tell me something improbable?”

Trip stops mid-stride, even as the other two continue in.

“How’d you know that?”

“Because this is Enterprise,” Phlox replies serenely, wiping his hands. “Also, Ensign Mayweather came in an hour ago swearing you’d walked through the corridor twice, and you didn’t acknowledge him either time. So. A theory?”

“I’m stuck in a timeloop.”

Phlox smiles like he’s just been told his favorite dessert is back on the menu. “Fascinating.”

Malcolm and Hoshi hop up onto one of the beds.

“Yeah.” Trip mumbles, knocking Malcolm’s leg until he shifts over enough for him to join them, “that’s one word for it.”

“Do you have any physical anomalies?” Phlox asks, already pulling out a scanner. “Unusual fatigue, memory loss, temporal scarring?”

“Got stabbed once,” Trip offers. “There’s a scar. It stayed.”

Phlox freezes, eyes bright. “A persistent injury across loops? Excellent. May I see?”

Trip groans. “Why does everyone keep asking to see the stab wound?”

“Because it proves your reality,” Hoshi says, then turns to Phlox. “Can you do anything or see if there’s something else being carried across the loops? Neural tags? Synaptic signatures?”

“Ah! Possibly.” Phlox’s hands are already moving. “We could attempt a micro-resonant frequency trace. If we embed something in the hippocampus, perhaps a stable echo pattern…”

Trip’s face falls. “That sounds like brain surgery.”

“Oh, nothing invasive,” Phlox says cheerfully. “At least, not yet.”

Malcolm claps a hand on Trip’s shoulder. “Think of it as personal growth.”

“Shut up, Malcolm.”

Phlox waves Trip over. “Hop up, Commander. If we can anchor your memory, perhaps we can extend the loop’s boundaries. Or identify the moment of interference.”

“We could put you in an MRI machine at the moment it loops.” Hoshi suggests, still tapping away at her padd.

“Wouldn’t the MRI machine just reset as well?” Malcolm points out. “We’d get no data.”

“Oh. Right.” She scrunches her nose up. “Well, it was a thought.”

Trip sighs and hops off the bed, trudging toward Phlox like a man heading to his own execution.

“You’re not going to drill into my skull or anything, right?”

“Certainly not without anesthesia,” Phlox says brightly, then gestures for him to sit.

Trip gives him a long-suffering look.

Phlox begins scanning him with the handheld device, his expression slowly shifting from curious to intrigued to quietly serious.

“Hmm.”

Trip winces. “That’s not the sound I want to hear.”

Phlox doesn’t answer right away. He turns to a console and begins pulling up neural readouts, murmuring to himself.

Hoshi hops off the bed and walks over to join him. “What are you seeing?”

Phlox tilts the monitor toward her. “This,” he says, pointing, “is a minor but persistent anomaly in the hippocampal formation. It shouldn’t be here. Not unless he’s been exposed to some kind of temporal fluctuation field. Or maybe an advanced neural feedback loop. Possibly both.”

“Is it dangerous?” Malcolm asks.

“Not unless he gets stuck like this forever,” Phlox replies with too much enthusiasm.

Trip groans and drops his head into his hands. “Great.”

“But,” Phlox continues, “it is traceable. Which means we might be able to piggyback a signal into the loop.”

Trip lifts his head. “Wait, like… send a message to myself?”

“Exactly! Something simple. A mental anchor. Perhaps an auditory cue, a specific phrase.”

Malcolm straightens. “Like a code word?”

Hoshi snaps her fingers. “Or a piece of music. Something the brain latches onto.”

Trip looks between them, cautiously hopeful. “You think that’ll work?”

Phlox smiles. “It might not fix the loop, but it could stabilize your awareness. Give you a few extra minutes before the reset kicks in.”

“I’ll take it,” Trip mutters. “God, I’ll take anything.”

Phlox begins prepping the next scan. “I’ll need to create a neurochemical marker to pair with the cue. Something distinct. Have you noticed any repeated sensations or memories that seem to trigger a reset?”

Trip hesitates. “Uh.”

All three of them turn to him.

He looks away. “...T’Pol.”

Another silence.

“Of course it’s T’Pol,” Malcolm mutters under his breath.

Trip glares at him. “Not like that. It’s just… whenever I’m done talking to her—”

“Talking.” Hoshi repeats, with audible air quotes, sending her and Malcolm into a quiet fit of giggles. Trip is too far away to hit them so he settles for a deeper glare.

“Whenever I’m done talking to her, it resets, right after. It’s happened five or six times now.”

Phlox nods, unbothered. “Emotional stimuli can be powerful anchors. It makes sense.”

Trip crosses his arms. “It’s not emotional.”

There’s another round of giggling from the two officers on the bed.

“I swear to god, you two.”

Trip mutters something incoherent and looks like he regrets everything.

Phlox pats his shoulder. “Let’s focus on the brain, shall we?”

A slim neural sensor is attached to his temple, the wires then hooked up to a small machine that Phlox wheels over. Trip reaches up to prod at the sticky patch and immediately gets his hand slapped away.

“Try to relax, Commander.”

He resists the urge to glare – reminds himself that Phlox is in charge of all of his medical issues – and shifts uncomfortably. “That’s a lot harder than you’re trying to make it sound.”

Phlox smiles in response. “I just need to tune the stimulus. The idea is to introduce a non-invasive echo trace…”

Malcolm slides closer, leaning over Trip’s shoulder to peer at the device. “What kind of stimulus?”

“Electrical,” Phlox says. “Very mild.”

Trip rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s a shock. Of course.”

He shifts again, mumbling under his breath about invasive and cruel medical procedures. Malcolm pats his arm in mock sympathy – he’s smirking when Trip glances up – his hand resting briefly on Trip’s wrist.

Before he can take his hand back, the scanner wines, all the lights above them flicker and Trip just has enough time to see Hoshi glance up in surprise…

…and suddenly he’s back in bed.

The alarm that has been bothering him for seventy plus cycles blares in his ear and he slaps at it half-hearted. The room looks exactly the same when he sits up, and his head is pounding a rhythm he doesn’t recognise.

“God damn it.”

He shrugs on his uniform – taking note of the scar that had been pointed out to him – and exits, heading back towards the mess to re-explain the situation to Malcolm and Hoshi.

Except, when he stumbles over the step out of his room, Malcolm is already stood there. Squinting.

Trip pulls up short.

Malcolm is staring at him with a very un-Malcolm expression – something like disbelief, rapidly evolving into tightly coiled panic.

“Uh, Malcolm?”

Malcolm squints harder. “Trip. What… what day is it?”

“Oh hell.”

Malcolm steps forward, unheeding of the crewmen that are being forced to dodge around him. “Trip. What…” he raises his hands to press them to his forehead. “You said you were in a loop. You said you’d been stabbed. There was a scar. You told Phlox. I touched your wrist…”

“Oh, good.” He replies, feeling suddenly optimistic about the situation, “you remember.”

The grim nod he gets in response suggests that Malcolm is not feeling the same optimism. “We pulled me in.”

The weight of that realisation hangs in the silence between them.

Malcolm exhales hard. “I remember everything.”

“Well,” Trip claps him on the shoulder, trying not to seem too relieved, “congrats. You’re in the club now.”

Malcolm doesn’t smile. “How do I make it stop?”

“Yep. That’s the million-dollar question.”

Malcolm looks like he’s still computing the full implications. “You mean to tell me I’m stuck in this with you now?”

Trip shrugs. “Unless it was a fluke. Might’ve been the scan. Or the shock. Or the physical contact.”

They both pause.

Then Malcolm narrows his eyes. “If it’s contact, then you’ve been grabbing people’s arms this whole time, haven’t you?”

The weight of T’Pol’s name hangs between them for a moment.

“I mean, I also grabbed Hoshi at one point in the last loop,” he offers weakly, “and she’s not also…”

Malcolm cuts him off with a sharp breath. “Of course. Of course it’s me who gets stuck with you.”

The grin he gets in response is notably sheepish. “You know, we’ve looped together for thirty seconds and you’re already on the edge of losing it.”

“I am losing it.” He replies. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Yeah, yeah, come on. We’ve got things to test and I think we need to visit T’Pol.”

Malcolm reluctantly falls into step beside him. “And I need to be there for that… because?”

“You’re in the loop too.”

“We have already established that.”

Trip shrugs. “Maybe you’re necessary.”

“Hey,”

They both look up to see Travis heading toward them.

“Oh, good.” Malcolm grabs his arm and drags him along with them. “You can come too.”

“Sure, yeah, where are we going?”

“See T’Pol.” Trip informs him. “Oh, hey, you don’t feel like you’ve lived this day before, do you?”

“Uh. No?”

“Ok. Mal and I are stuck in a timeloop, so.”

“You’re stuck in a timeloop,” Malcolm corrects, “and you dragged me in on the last reset.”

Travis glances between them. “And… why are we going to see T’Pol?”

“Because apparently, I keep looping out every time I talk to her. She’s probably connected somehow.”

Travis snickers slightly. “OK. Sure.”

“I hate all three of you.”

“Hoshi’s not even here.”

“I don’t care. I hate her as well.”

He gets another round of laughter from the two junior officers in response.

“And I hate this loop.”

The science wing is empty when they round the corner, only the difference in flooring signifying any change, and that’s not unusual considering how early it is. Still, T’Pol is already at the central console in her lab, scanning through data with her usual calm precision.

She doesn’t look up. “I was not expecting visitors this early.”

Trip shrugs, despite the fact that she cannot see him. “What is early, really?”

That does make her look up. She stares at Trip for a beat, then shifts her gaze to Malcolm and Travis.

“Was there something you needed?”

Trip takes a cautious step closer. “Listen, I know how this sounds, but—”  

“You have been experiencing repeated subjective time loops, originating sometime between 0600 and approximately 1600 hours,” she says calmly.

Trip blinks. “...Yeah.”

Next to them, Travis shifts. “Just me, huh?”

He’s ignored.

“How the hell do you know that?”

“I did not,” she replies. “Until just now.”

Trip frowns. “But you just said—”

“I have inferred that data from your behaviour over the past… iterations.”

Trip and Malcolm exchange a glance.

“Wait,” Trip says slowly. “You remember?”

“I do not recall specific events. But I have experienced a growing sense of... dissonance. As though decisions I have not yet made are already exerting influence on my present state.”

Malcolm mutters, “That’s deeply comforting.”

T’Pol ignores him. She finally gives Trip her full attention. “I believe our proximity during your previous visits may be relevant.”

“Uh huh.”

He sounds strangled enough that Malcolm bothers to whack him between his shoulder blades, a move that is heavily not appreciated.

Trip rubs the back of his neck. “Right. About that. I may have, uh... shown up here a few times.”

Malcolm coughs. “Understatement of the year.”

T’Pol tilts her head. “And how did those encounters typically end?”

Trip shifts. “Honestly? Usually with you telling me I was wasting your time.”

“I see.”

“And once you meditated at me.”

She pauses to think about that one. “I believe I was attempting to centre your perception.”

“I don’t think it worked.”

Malcolm pokes him in the arm. “And the other thing. The, uh, initiation…”

Trip stamps on his foot, hard enough that he cuts off partway through the sentence to make a pained groan.

T’Pol does not react. “I recall that.”

“Initiation?” Travis repeats, in the background.

“Wait, wait.” Trip brings both his hands up to his face in a misguided attempt to cover up the way he has flushed red. “You, uh, you remember that?”

“I remember... the aftermath,” she says. “Impressions. Not full sequences. I believe the more emotionally charged the interaction, the more likely fragments are retained on a subconscious level.”

“Oh,” Travis offers in the background, “so, the universe is powered by, like, awkwardness?”

Malcolm turns to laugh slightly at the phrasing, but they’re ignored by the other two.

“Well, maybe if you remember it as well, we could get Phlox to hook you up with those sensors too.”

T’Pol considers. “Did you get any useful information from those?”

“We, uh, we haven’t been back to sickbay yet.”

“I see.”

“Hey,” Travis interjects, ignoring Trip’s mumbled threat that ‘this better be useful,’ “if multiple people are remembering, maybe we could use that as some sort of anchor. Or a control variable in an experiment.”

T’Pol visibly considers this. “A reasonable suggestion, Ensign.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“It would, however, require controlled repetition.”

Trip’s eyes widen. “You want me to loop on purpose?”

She meets his gaze. “Do you wish to solve this problem or not?”

“Yeah, Jesus, OK.”

Malcolm pats his shoulder. “Hope you have fun.”

“Are you kidding? You’re coming with me.”

T’Pol turns back to her console. “If we are to make use of the loop, we must synchronize our actions and isolate environmental constants. I suggest beginning with a 0600 meeting. Bring Ensign Sato as well.”

Trip nods. “Got it.”

T’Pol pauses. “And Commander?”

“Yeah?”

Her gaze is steady. “Do not attempt to recreate… the loop we mentioned earlier.”

Travis raises an innocent eyebrow. “Hey, what happened in that loop?”

“Shut up.”

T’Pol glances back over her shoulder, as though she’s expecting them to have already left. “You have approximately seven hours remaining. I suggest you use them wisely.”

Trip sighs. “Right. Great. Timeloop team meeting at dawn. Fantastic.”

“We don’t have to do what she says.” Malcolm points out, once they’re in the corridor. “You could go back to trying to figure this out on your own.”

“No. No, I… we should do what she says. I think this is… I think she’s important.”

“It could be that.” Malcolm agrees. “Or it could just be that you’re in love with her.”

Trip glares at him. “Are we doing breakfast or what?”

But the words set off something in his mind, a careful replay of everything that has happened, and he sits in silence for the rest of the loop. Thinking.

*

The alarm buzzes again. More times than he remembers counting, and he wake with a groan, the previous loop rattling in his mind.

When he sits up, he scrubs a hand down his face like he has almost every other time. But there’s no frustration this time, no panic, just a slowly dawning realisation that he’s known for a while what he needs to do.

He gets up. Dresses slowly. Doesn’t even curse when he stubs his toe.

T’Pol is already there, of course. The room is quiet, dim with pre-shift lighting. She doesn’t look up.

“I assumed you’d return.”

Trip enters without fanfare. His voice is softer than usual. “Yeah. I think I figured it out.”

She turns to face him fully, leans back on the console. “Oh?”

Instead of responding immediately he crosses the room, perches next to her so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye, and feels her turn to look at him.

“Yeah. This whole thing… I thought maybe it was about solving a puzzle. Or maybe it was science based, I mean Malcolm even asked if I’d touched something recently, but I haven’t.”

She listens, quietly, doesn’t say anything.

“And… maybe it wasn’t. I mean, Mal said something last loop, and I think he… it was something I was too afraid to admit to myself.”

She still doesn’t say anything, and he turns to look, just to make sure she’s still there.

He takes a breath, steps closer. “It’s… we work well together, right?”

“I would say so, yes.”

“Right. And… we got close, doing the neuropressure, right?”

“Yes.”

“Right. So, um. I think… or, well, I guess I know, that I kind of fell in love with you. During everything.”

She’s very still. He can’t even feel her breath on his face, like she’s holding it for fear of spoiling the moment, and that more than anything gives him the courage to push on.

“The… in the loop where we… yeah. Well, I didn’t mean for it to happen, I wouldn't… not when I thought you couldn’t remember, but… I did come back, trying to talk to you again. Over and over. Because I missed you. Even when you didn’t know me.”

T’Pol swallows. He watches the line of her throat bob as she does, and feels his body sway towards her without his input. She catches his shoulders with strong, warm hands.

“I have always known you.”

He laughs, a wet sound, from the tears that are forming in his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you have.”

“You believe this admission will break the loop.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. It was worth a shot, if nothing else.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Her voice doesn’t shake, but this close he can see something in her eyes – something scared.

“Then… I guess I’ll come back and tell you again. Maybe it’ll be easier the second time.”

“Tell me again now.”

He breaths out, presses their foreheads together and feels her hands come up to cup his face. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Her thumbs brush away the tears that have slipped free. “I think I have been waiting for you to say that.”

“Well, that’s something.”

T’Pol’s expression softens almost imperceptibly. “If this is the final loop, what comes next?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I figure we’ll find out together.”

She leans up, just briefly, to press their lips together. “Perhaps, we could start with breakfast?”

“Oh?” A grin breaks out across his face. “Are you asking me on a date?”

She doesn’t answer, but her hands linger on his face as she steps back, and when she turns, she waits just half a second longer than necessary before walking toward the door.

Trip follows, still smiling.

They find Malcolm, Hoshi, and Travis at a table – Malcolm clearly in the middle of a wildly unhelpful explanation, judging by Travis’s expression.

T’Pol brushes her hand briefly against Trip’s arm. “Coffee?”

“Yeah. I’ll go wrangle the children.”

Trip approaches the table. Malcolm narrows his eyes. “What happened? You look… different.”

Trip drops into a chair. “Tried a new approach. Might’ve worked.”

“Oh?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Turns out all I had to do to fix time was confess my tragic, loop-breaking feelings. Classic stuff.”

Hoshi lights up. “Oh my god, it was a feelings loop the whole time!”

Malcolm groans. “I told you it was a ‘grow as a person’ loop.”

Trip points at him. “I hate that you were right.”

T’Pol sets a coffee down in front of him, joining him with her own tea.

“We will need to investigate whether the loop created external anomalies,” she says evenly.

“I should check the comm logs,” Hoshi says, already rising. “Make sure we didn’t miss anything from Starfleet while you two were having feelings.”

“I’ll come,” Malcolm says, standing.

There’s a beat. Hoshi kicks Travis under the table.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I’ll come too. You guys, uh… have fun.”

Trip watches them go. “Subtle.”

T’Pol slides her hand into his under the table. “Perhaps not. But it’s nice they are thinking of us.”

He smiles. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Malcolm glances back through the closing doors, watching Trip and T’Pol lean into each other over their mugs.

“So,” he mutters, “do we remind them that several of those loops technically violated about a dozen Starfleet regs?”

Hoshi hits his arm. “Let him have it. He got stabbed for this.”