The Mad Ducktor was behaving. He was reading books, watching television on the projected screen, eating and sleeping regularly. For more than a handful of hours! Strangest of all, he wasn't insulting the guards through the cameras, picking apart their lives until they quit or demanded a leave of mental health. He was being a model prisoner, and no one knew why.

Gyro considered several options. Maybe the resident of the Supercell was a clone, or had mentally transferred out, or was trying to lull them into a false sense of security so that someone could come in person and he could escape. He sent a doctor to examine him, and Mad Ducktor complied with her tests, didn't steal any of her equipment, and didn't impersonate her. When her tests came back, they proved the chicken locked in the Supercell was the original. Well, the original clone.

In the end, there was only one thing to do. Mad Ducktor was many things, an overdramatic, narcissistic, unhinged lunatic, but he never lied to Gyro. He always told him the truth, or what he believed was the truth. If Gyro asked him what he was doing, he'd answer. He supposed he could have done it over the phone, project himself onto the wall and demand to know what was going on. But more than the structure of the prison had changed over the years. They'd built a decorum between them, an unspoken agreement of respect, even in their adversarial interactions.

It didn't feel right, not doing it in person.

So, Gyro took two flights, a boat, and a robot-powered dogsled to the Supercell. He input the five random alphanumeric passwords reset daily, and had the facility scan both his nucleic and mitochondrial DNA, his eye color, and his lack of lip makeup, which Mad Ducktor could never resist, even in disguise. He sighed in relief as he was allowed access, the warm air rushing over his feathers. Little Helper jumped down from his shoulder and undid his - mostly decorative - scarf.

"Be good while I'm gone." he instructed the little robot, handing him his cell phone, calculator, and spare glasses. Anything remotely mechanical wasn't allowed near his alter ego, as well as all basic office supplies. Little Helper gave a solemn salute, filament narrowed as if he was squinting at the door to the Mad Ducktor's cell, ready to keep a careful guard over his newly acquired cache. Gyro hid his smile in the ruff of his jacket, and after a deep breath, opened the door.

He wasn't sure if he had much in the way of expectations, but Mad Ducktor sitting crossed-legged and calm on his cot wasn't one of them. He didn't even open his eyes until Gyro cleared his throat loudly.

"Oh, look what the Antarctic wind has blown in. Gyro, darling." he said, his beak twisting up into a playful smirk. "Come to bask in your victory? I must say, that's not very heroic of you. What will your husband think?"

"He's not with me, if that's what you're asking." he said, automatically tracing the ring with a finger, feeling the etched detailing. He'd told Donald of his whereabouts, after all if Mad Ducktor did succeed in hoodwinking him and escaping those few hours notice could be crucial. But they'd agreed that his presence would be unlikely to produce anything fruitful.

"My my, how naughty of you. Is that why you came? Because I'm not in the mood." he said, though the way his eyes traveled over Gyro didn't really lend much weight to the words. He flushed in spite of himself, Mad Ducktor was just trying to get a rise out of him, distract him from his actual purpose.

"I'm just here to visit." he stated, and tossed the bag he'd been clutching into his lap. "I brought you some muffins, your favorite."

As soon as the little baked good was in the chicken's hand, his expression changed. The playful amusement evaporated, the flirty, searching stare went sharp and calculating. Instead of descending upon the food with all the haste of a harpy, as was usual, he carefully placed it on the pillow, unwrapped and untasted.

"What is this, some sort of pity?" he sneered, his voice as cold and biting as the howling winds outside.

“It’s a gift, you know, like normal people bring each other when it’s been a while.” he said, reverting into sarcasm because he wasn't sure he'd ever heard him so furious, not when attacking Scrooge or Paperinik, not when his schemes were foiled, not when he objected at the wedding.

“When have we ever been normal?” he snorted, which wasn't exactly wrong.

"You've been playing the part lately. Haven't had to hire anyone new in months."

"Isn't that what you've always wanted? Me in prison, far away, and you off with your happy, domestic little life. If this isn't it, I don't know how to please you Gyro, I really don't."

"I want people safe and you happy in that order. If you're done with escaping and evil you don't have to live here anymore. You could go to a lower security prison, or house arrest in a few years." he said, encouraging and supportive. But the Mad Ducktor merely sneered, standing up and marching towards him, each word punctuated by his descent.

"Oh Gyro, bello Gyro. Don't you understand? I don't have my own happiness, I'm part of you. The part of you that believes you deserve better and your enemies deserve worse. I'm not a person, I'm an idea with a body.  And I'm smart enough to know when I'm not needed anymore. You made your choice, and I've accepted it. So stop pretending you care!" The bravado of his words crumbled on the last sentence, as he stopped a few feet from Gyro.

The scientist closed the distance with his clone, wrapping his arms tightly around him. The sort of bone-crushing hug of a too long reunion, appropriate in feeling if not quite in the reality. Mad Ducktor was stiff for a moment, but soon returned the action, tucking his beak against Gyro's neck and preening the feathers there. He'd done it a few times when he thought Gyro was too sleep deprived to remember it. Certainly he never acknowledged it in waking hours. Several minutes passed before he dared to speak.

"You...you've really felt that way? All these years?"

"It's not a feeling, it's a fact." he mumbled, fingers gripping at Gyro's shoulders. "I'm hollow. A fragment of someone more complete. Why do you think I always came back? You might not need me, but I've always needed you. I'm useless on my own."

"That's not true! Even if you started out as a fragment of my ego, you've changed. You like muffins, you wear makeup, you listen to classical music. That's all you." he pointed out, earning a non-comital grumble. "I don't want to need you, because I don't want to need anyone, but when you're not trying to hurt my friends and family, I like having you around."

"What would I ever do without a reason to tie you up in a basement?" he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"You could visit. Bring a bottle of wine, help me with my latest gadget, try not to kill my husband for a few hours."

"You'd really want me there. In your lab, in your life?" he said, pulling back, incredulous.

"Of course. Geniuses have to stick together." he said, and caught sight of the glint off one of the cameras. "Oh dear, I'm going to have to erase all of this." Not to mention possibly bribe the guard to not report him aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal.

"No need. There's an EMP generator in my tongue bar. I activated it as soon as you came in." The Mad Ducktor said, sticking out his tongue the reveal the blinking gadget.

"When did you -? You know what. I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." he said, tossing his hands up. "I'll see you sometime soon, if you can get out of this latest version." he teased, and the purple-haired chicken grinned wide.

"You shouldn't toy with him like that." he whispers, deep into the night. That's when he stops paying attention long enough that it's just them. Or as close as they can get, now.

"What do you mean?" she asks, purposefully obtuse, and letting the sheet slid off her bare shoulder. The one webbed with scar tissue, sliding into metal. His fault, no matter what she says.

"You know. Just flirting with a homunculus." he says, jabs like a knife between her ribs. He's always been like that, rude and coarse. It never stops being shocking.

"It isn't like that, sir." she says, but she knows, as he knows, that isn't quite true.

"Mhm. You shouldn't call me that, when we're like this. It makes it hard to tell where the line is." he says. It's not an order, but it rings like one. She doesn't listen.

"Is there a line, really?"

"I don't know." he admits, but it's only a fallacy of defeat. "Is there a line between me and him?"

"Of course there -" He puts a finger to her lips, taps his temple.

"Shh. So many souls deserve a rest."

They sit in the silence for a finite eternity before he nods, gives her permission. This time, she obeys.

"I can tell when you change. We're avoiding him. So there is a him. There is a line."

"Convincing argument. Not entirely true." he says, with a certainty of a king. He'd had that before it was possible, or probable. Hopeful. Stupid. "We don't just share a body. We change each other. We merge. At first, it scared me, but now...I don't think I could survive without it." he admits, a point of weakness. One she can't guard against. She hates it. But not him. Never him.

"Should I stop, Ling?" she asks, and he smiles. It's crooked. He didn't used to smile like that, before. So maybe he's telling the truth.

"I didn't say that. But you should know, he's serious about this. He wants you." Her blush is high on her cheeks, and he kisses her, soft and easy.

"Like you want me?" she asks, unnecessarily. Still, he nods. "Would you be ok with that?"

"I am selfish. But we share everything, every second, until our souls fall apart. That's the decision I've made. So it hardly matters, really. It all depends on what you want."

"I'm not sure. I...He still scares me, a little. I have trouble forgiving what he is. Yet he is part of you, I see it, and I love you. So maybe I already love him, in some way."

"But not enough to touch you." he says, because of course he knows. That she still keeps that part of herself from him at all costs.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be. You could leave, whenever you wish. I would not hold you in servitude."

Lan Fan blinks. It's easy to forget how much he's changed things. Before, her only choice was to die at his side. Tradition demanded it. But he stopped tradition in its tracks. Him and the one he brought back from the West.

"You are a fool, my lord. I could never leave you. I never will."

"Never say never, my dear." he says, but he's smiling. The one with no edges. Her favorite.

"I will think about what you said. About Greed. Perhaps you could tell me more of him. The parts that don't overlap."

"Maybe you should ask him yourself. Some other day. Let's rest." he says, but she can't help but press her lips against that smile, while she still has it. She stops when Greed clicks into control.

"Woah, woah! Can't a guy get some sleep without you two gettin' frisky?!" he says, rubbing his eyes. She rolls hers, and pushes against his shoulder. With her left hand. It's a start.

Bradley remembers the first time like it was minutes ago. He knows that’s not normal, not that any of this is normal, not that he could ever be normal. Anyway. It was some time in sixth grade, when Dad got the promotion. When Mama had asked him why he was staring at the door, holding a stickered paper to his chest. Scratch and sniff, the highest honor. She laughed at his answer, ‘waiting for Dad’, and told him she hadn’t seen him in a week, so he certainly didn’t have a chance.  

Maybe she hadn’t meant that to be mean. It was hard to tell with his mother. Whenever he told her about things like that, she got mad. Accused him of being ungrateful, but he wasn’t, he loved his parents. Unless maybe he was? The New Age kid from school called his aura ‘troubled.’ Was he a bad kid?

Bradley had contemplated that as he sat in his room, sharpening all of his pencils to a point. He’d already finished his homework, and the books on the walls weren’t escape enough tonight. Hence, sharpening. It was boring, sure, but productive. “Never waste a minute on this Earth.” Dad always said. “Be efficient.” Staring at his ceiling wasn’t contributing anything, not to himself or anyone else. He could wash the dishes, but he didn’t want to see Mama right now.

That was bad, at the very least. Her words had hurt, but it wasn’t her fault Dad was gone. It probably wasn’t Dad’s either, he was making the most out of his life, providing for them. He should be grateful! But he wasn’t. He was being stupid and childish and wanting more than he -

“Ow!” he said, his train of thought interrupted, looking down at his hand. The handheld sharpener had slipped off the latest pencil, making a thin red line across his thumb. Bradley stared at it for a long time before sticking the digit in his mouth. No more blood came out, too shallow a cut. It was disappointing, somehow. If it was really bad, he would have to go to the hospital for stitches, and Dad would come home early to check on him.

He looked at the serrated, metal edge appraisingly. It wasn’t meant to cut anything stronger than narrow cedar, and had been dulled over several months, graphite sticking in the grooves. It probably only managed to cut his thumb because of the angle, the skin stretched taut.

Bradley tensed, throwing the sharpener onto his desk. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t want to hurt himself! Visits to the hospital were expensive, especially the Emergancy ‘Murphy’ ward. He felt a little bitter at the thought of the Murphys. The latest disaster member was in his grade, though thankfully not his class. He always heard about him though. Milo this and Milo that. He wasn’t that special. Just because his family was cursed or whatever, why did he get all that attention?

It wasn’t fair.

He picked up the sharpener again, moving it between his thumb and other fingers. Ok, hurting himself enough to go to the hospital wouldn’t be helpful. It was too grandiose, too dramatic, too bothersome. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. But a little cut, maybe that would work? Nothing dangerous, but noticeable. Maybe he could make up some fantastic story for the boys at school, something about tigers or construction sites. Then Milo wouldn’t seem so special, would he?

Bradley smiled, thinking of all the cool nicknames they could give him. Something other than Brad, which sounded like a football player. They’d say he was courageous and brave, and no one would be able to just dismiss him as a nerd and a teacher’s pet anymore. All at the price of one little cut. Simple. Easy.

He rolled up the sleeve of his three-quarters shirt, holding his weapon of choice just above his forearm. Mama couldn’t see the injury, she’d ask what happened, and she certainly wouldn’t believe an outlandish story or feel sorry for him. No, she couldn’t know. Nor Dad, he’d be ashamed of him.

For a moment, he hesitated. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t want to disappoint his parents. He never wanted to be like Uncle Harold, locked away in a white-walled facility, never talked about. But his parents didn’t have to know about this. By the time short sleeves came around, it would just be a scar. He could pretend he didn’t know where it came from.

Hesitations rationalized, he took a deep breath, angled the sharpener and cut for the first time. It didn’t hurt that much, just a dull ache, and this far up on his arm didn’t even bleed that much. But it was there, angry and red against his pale skin. Perfect.

Fall Out Boy was being pumped into his ears like water, hoping to muffle the sounds of cars and waves of broken conversations that fit together like puzzle pieces from different boxes. It didn't really work, since he valued his hearing more than his desire to block out the world, but it was a valiant effort, he thought.

The song was something early, From Under the Cork Tree probably, or maybe Infinity on High. He had a tendency to get songs from those two albums flipped. He tried to narrow it down with his scatterbrain of lyrics and guitar chords. No shutter sounds so it wasn't "Our Lawyer Made Us Change The Name of This Song So We Wouldn't Get Sued." There wasn't a sign of the cure for growing older, so it wasn't "I Slept With Someone in Fall Out Boy and All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me" either.

Of course, the werewolf could have just slid his phone out of beat up jeans and checked what song it was, but that was admitting he didn't know, an insult to his emo pride. So he just kept narrowing and narrowing while the song continued to crawl towards it's end, limiting it down to two, maybe three.

However, he was so caught up in his analysis that he neglected to notice the bus that went just a little further than usual on the pedestrian walk, going a bit faster than it ought to be.

Whenever Colt had read the line "it hit him like a train" in a book or short story, he'd always imagined it as an extreme version of the pushes he'd already known, a shove with a great deal more force behind it. Now he knew better. Getting hit by a vehicle is a different category of pain. Dull, but somehow faster than light. Fur and skin skid like flesh tires on rough pavement, feeling like all worst parts of a cut and a burn. One of his earbuds popped out like an overexcited popcorn kernel, but the other held, echoing the last lines of the song without so much as a waver.

"Now talking's just a waste of breath, and living's just a waste of death, and why put a new address on the same old loneliness? And this is you and me, and me and you, until we've got nothing left!"

With that, the title finally clicked into place.

"Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying." he wheezed, and later he remarked on how ironic of last words those would've been.

But strangely enough, he wasn't dead. Battered, beaten, and certainly feeling at least a little dead, but he wasn't.

Colt stood up shakily, sending seizures of pain to all of his edifices, but there weren't any broken bones or things popped out of sockets. Around him, New York continued as it always had, save a slight curve around where his blood had leaked out onto the pavement. He really should go to the hospital, but he was amazed to see the sudden number of beings clogging up the sidewalks.

On it's own, this wasn't so unusual, some people only came out at certain times, especially magical folk, but this felt different. They seemed to fit eerily into the spaces that had been there previously, like ghosts but even more displaced. Most of them were cloaked in black, and instead of moving they just stood there, watching him.

One in particular caught his eye, a slouched figure leaning up against a lamp pole, the light flickering faintly. At first, Colt thought him a werewolf like himself, but a good look at his face revealed the truth of the matter. A hellhound.

His heart jumped in his chest when he realized that the blank sockets were looking right at him, though his alarm was misplaced for two reasons. One, he hadn't made a deal with the Devil, so even if he was dying, the creature wouldn't tear him to pieces. Two, the hellhound in question wasn't looking at him, as soon made clear by the voice cutting through the other murmurs of sound like a hot knife through butter.

"Oh don't give me that look, I know you're grateful." Colt whirled around to see who it was, his jaw dropping at the sight his eyes gobbled up in the dappled light.

There was a woman standing on the other side of the street, dark skinned, a bit on the short side, and wearing a frilly dress in a shade of fluorescent pink that most people could not dream of pulling off, but she managed to just fine. Purple lipstick-coated lips curled into something like a smirk, and there was a power in it, an energy.

A few moments later she spoke again, presumably to the hellhound across the street.

"I've told you, I'm on strike. I'm not ferrying one soul until they tell me the truth. Much to your luck, eh, Kitty?" she said, and Colt realized that not only could he see them, they could see him too. Her words made him realize he should probably get out of the street, and he moved as fast as his injured limbs could move him to her side.

"Who are you?" he asked, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. Was she an angel? She certainly fit the bill for one.

"Name's Belladona." she said with a slight smile. "I'd shake your hand but I'd hate to accidentally suck up your soul." she said, and Colt paled considerably.

"Relax! I'm just kidding. I'm a reaper, I've got a grip on this thing. Most of the time." Belladona said, reaching out to shake one of Colt's now clammy hands.

"Wait, if you're a reaper, does that mean I'm-"

"Dead? Hmm, not exactly. You could be dead, and you should be, but I'm not at liberty to do so at the moment."

This didn't really clarify things for Colt, but he didn't think it was wise to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were. Though, he couldn't help but wonder....

"Why can I see all these creatures now?"

Belladona shrugged. "A side effect, I imagine. Being caught between life and death makes you able to see its agents. Although you've probably already seen some of them, just not for very long."

Colt nodded. It was true, he had seen flickers, but who hadn't in a city like this? Supernatural creatures were drawn to the urban lifestyle, now more than ever. You could find vampire covens and pixie terrariums within a block of each other, in this day and age. What was the odd ghost, or strange, unexplainable chill?

"That's Vex by the way. Top notch hellhound, I was in charge of his orientation myself. Not much of a talker, as you can see. You know he's looking for someone to share a lease with, and it's hard to find non-doomed company. You should talk if you're interested. Living in an all fae community, cut off from your kind, whoof! I'd consider it."

Colt was about to ask how Belladona could possibly know this, but when he turned to the reaper, she was gone. Vanished into thin air.

Vex, as she'd called him, was still there, watching. Colt felt a strange pull towards the hellhound, a familiarity he couldn't quite shake. Like he knew him. But that was impossible, preposterous. Yet his feet still alighted to cross the street, (being extra careful of cars this time.)

"Uh, hello." he said, in lack of anything better. "You're Vex right? I'm Colt. I heard you were looking for a roommate?"

For a moment, Vex did nothing. Then his muzzle cracked open a centimeter, in an expression one could vaguely classify as a smile. Colt smiled back. Deep down, he had the feeling this was the start of something big, something life-changing, in more than the literal sense.

All those other cases he'd worked, they were clear cut, simple. Divorce, business disputes, even murder generally had a pattern, a general sense of what arguments would be used, what evidence referenced. He'd become a federal DA first for the money, second for the chance to get that thrill back, that buzz of knowing your words were all that stood between someone living or dying. But even that had become dull and predictable. Like every other law position, there were patterns if you bothered to look.

Most didn't.

Matthew was many things, but predictable was not one of them. Even from their first meeting, he'd found ways to throw Lars for his loop. It was thrilling, the knowledge that he was dealing with something entirely unprecedented. The other murders of his nature tended to deteriorate into saying the same things over and over, or nothing at all, merely looking at him with blank eyes. But Matthew had a quick wit and a shrewd nature, and did not hesitate to show so.

As soon as he'd been placed in front of his cell for the first time, he'd looked at him and scoffed, as if unimpressed. Before he could say a word to defend himself, a chilling, quiet voice rang off the concrete.

"Men like you are overrated, so save your breath." Lars, not yet with his toolbox of avoidance and navigation around the Canadian-American's psyche, had simply been silent for a few moments, before telling him what his plan of attack, the mistaken youth with a lot of potential, and of course, completely guilty of his crimes. Lars had seen the room of evidence, there was no weaseling a maybe out of that.

The "mistaken youth" in question had just laughed at him, snickering into his hand as he stared him down with mirth in his eyes. "I'm sorry." he said unconvincingly once he'd finished. "You act like I have a chance in any court in the country. My brother," His voice was sharper at the word, almost tangible, but not quite. "was one of the most beloved musicians of the modern era. Even more so, now that I killed him." he noted, without a hint of remorse.

"It can be done." he said, not letting himself waver a centimeter in front of this fox-like boy. He couldn't, if he wanted him to do anything, his gut told him, and he wasn't wrong.

“Hmm." he hummed, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, unbelieving. "And when this all goes to hell, will you be able to tell me sorry with a straight face?”

What could be said to something like that? Lars could think of nothing, not then and certainly not now. So he'd left, but in his mind he was still sitting outside of Matthew's cell, trying to give an answer.

That night was his first all nighter since grad school.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In subsequent visits, Matthew would volunteer more tidbits about the brother he stabbed in the back, though not literally. "I beat him to death with a hockey stick. Not the nice one, the practice one." Lars left earlier that day. Not even he was so gruesome and coldhearted to shake that off.

However, not all of his facts were so morbid. “It was like he was the first to listen to everything I said.” he remarked once, so quiet the Dutch-American almost didn't hear it. But he did. That was one of the days Lars could believe Matthew was human, staring at the cell wall, his expression clouded in something dark and looking scared. Of what, he never really knew.

Other days, it was clear to see where Matthew's initial motivation lie. “I wished that I was as invisible as he made me feel.” he said, right in the middle of Lars reciting his lines at him. As often was the case, he didn't know what to say, so he reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

All and all, Matthew fascinated, horrified, and intrigued him in equal measure. He was an enigma, an uncracked code without perhaps a true solution. But he would keep looking, so long as he continued to keep him alive. But one constant with the Canadian was his stubbornness. He refused to follow Lars' plan, barely even scraping by immediately being declared guilty. And Lars was running out of chances.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now, he was steaming in his office, a cigarette between his teeth, smoke drifting from his lips. He'd dropped the habit five years ago, but if ever there was a reason to smoke, this case was it. He blew a ring out at his stacked pile of papers. (His usual cleanliness had also fallen prey to this case.)

Matthew was right, in a way. There was no easy way to get him off the hook, no ace in the deck, no surefire loophole. But there were methods. Strategies. Things that could work, that had worked. Lars knew them, knew how to bend even the most straight faced of juries. Not to fall into arrogance, but he was good at his job.

But this was no ordinary job.

He threw the dying stub of a cigarette into the trashcan, his mind whirring like an engine with the brakes on, desperately trying to continue but held back by the simple existence of friction. There was only one way to do it. Get Matthew to agree. How? He hadn't a damn. But he hadn't gotten where he was by not trying.

Walking through the halls of the jail a second time was more ominous. Many of the inmates were out to lunch, and the emptiness of their cells seemed more mocking than their cool gazes in the morning. He stood in front of Matthew's cell door, hesitating. Confidence was the most useful tool in dealing with the ever evolving faces of the Canadian's personality, but he had nothing left but desperation.

'Close enough.' he figured, and cautiously entered the cell.

He was still on the bed, but lying down now, his face turned towards the wall. The bright orange seemed somehow subdued on his frame, curled up like a child hiding from the world. In a way, he sort of was.

"Goedendag Matthew."

"Bonjour." he said, his voice torn like a jagged piece of fabric, not moving an inch.

Lars took a deep breath before he said his next words, abandoning his careful placement and just going for the heart of the matter. "I know you don't care about living for your own sake. This is all some big game that ends with your death, a chance to break as many hearts as you can along your way." The head lifted somewhat. "So if you aren't going to live for yourself, live for your family? Live for me. Live so I can become infamous, the guy who saved that crazy guilty son of a bitch in front of the country." Those eyes were looking directly at him now, curious and daring him to continue. "Live because you're the only goddamn interesting person I've met in twenty-three years of being here."

As soon as those words fell out, Matthew was grinning at him. Too wide, too big to be real. A taunt, yet it didn't feel like one.

"What a selfish thing to say." he said, neutrally, that stupid expression still on his face as he shifted into a sitting position.

Lars shrugged. He was right, of course. Matthew had an awful tendency to be. But what of it? It was his last shot, his last chance to get him to agree to be fake. The worst thing that could happen was his refusal.

But amazingly, Matthew nodded.

"Alright. I'll do it." He could hardly believe it, was this even real? Or another act to mess with him? He realized it didn't matter. Either way, Matthew was bothering to listen. He couldn't let go of this chance.

"Ok. Good." he said, shaking off the whirlwind of emotions attacking his system. He needed his professionalism now, his experience. "Now, we've only got an hour to clean up your act." he said, looking down at his watch to confirm the fact.

Matthew merely framed another Chesire Cat grin and grabbed him by his tie, shoving him up against the wall not unlike he had done earlier that day. He was stronger than he looked with that babyface, hockey formed muscle pinning him to the wall, crinkling his suit. His heart was pounding a dangerously fast tempo in his chest as he leaned in, his eyes full of something Lars didn't know where to place.

"Fix me in forty-five." he whispered, and kissed him. It was no halfhearted thing either, no tease to disarm him, oh no. This was real, and more of him ought to be worried about the fact.