#redacted fool!milo

The security job went by smoothly. The whole thing was a quaint reunion for a class of D.A.M.N. alumni; the client wanted to make sure the event was safe for everyone and that it'd go off without a hitch, hence security. The job was originally meant for Asher, though Milo ended up joining in for extra security. Making sure no empowered bullshit exploded sounds easy in hindsight, but that type of crap happens way more than people give the general empowered population credit for. Last thing anyone needs right now is Covert being broken by a water elemental’s waterworks or the tornado of shame from an air elemental. 

After the job, Asher suggested that they go to the nearby market. It took some time to really convince Milo—and some arguing over who was gonna pay for the damn food—but they got there eventually, parking a fair distance away from the function. People were filtering in and out of the streets and neighboring sandbox park, checking out the various booths and stalls offering food and merchandise. 

It's local, not too shabby. Food's halfway around decent, a good tiptoeing balance between greasy junk and relative substance. There was a chance you’d enjoy the atmosphere, so maybe he’ll take you here on one of your days off; he could even take you here tomorrow (if you both didn't spend all morning cuddling and procrastinating laundry).

Sunsets in Dahlia were always lovely around this time, and the venue had a good spot for viewing it. Though, it was a shame he didn't have time to take a picture for you before feeling the sudden need to bolt. 

Something happened based on how the bond—deep-rooted, intensely so—seemed to almost... fizzle, while he was sitting on a bench with Asher, ice cream in hand. 

(Had he been any less keen, he could've brushed off the sudden core pain as heartburn from the atrociously spicy shit Ash had him eat a few minutes ago. Note to self, Milo: don't fuckin' eat whatever Ash gives you. You think you'd learn after more than a decade with the asshole.) 

He practically shot up once the feeling slammed into him with the subtlety of a freight train. His back was ram rod straight, as if David was spiritually breathing down his neck for bad posture. A creeping sense of dread that gathered in his mind, and it was that sense that had him frowning and looking for his keys immediately. 

"Think I'm headin' back," he grumbled hastily, standing up. 

"Aww, you leaving already?" Asher chewed on a hot dog from beside him. "Thought you wanted to get somethin' for your mate before you left." 

Milo doesn't need to look at him to know that the man was probably eyeing him sideways; to be fair, he was operating on a strange gut instinct that must've been out of place for the younger shifter. He was never impulsive like that. Sure, Ash might beat him in terms of equanimity, but in terms of rationale, it's gotta be a close tie between Milo and David. And no, cursing does not make him less rational.

"I could probably jus' take 'em here another time. Market's still open next week, right?" Okay, he got his keys. Next, his phone. He’s typing at lightning speed before sending:

something happen over there sweetheart? 

The message is sent immediately, though it's left on that status. Sent. Not delivered. You'd normally reply after a few minutes if you were doing something else at the time. Let's hope that applies here. 

"Yep." Ash was quick to pick up on the sudden mood change—he adjusted his lazy seating, leaning forward with a slight frown. "Emergency?"

"Something like that," Milo replied, feeling somewhat rushed as he slung his bag over his shoulder. 

"Oh, shit. Everything good?" 

"Yeah, yeah. I just gotta get home. Make sure everything's fine, and all." Nonetheless, he did feel bad for leaving so randomly. "My bad, Ash." 

The other shifter shot him a comforting grin and shook his head. "Naah, don't worry about it. I'd do the same. Take care heading home, buddy." 

He did take care. Didn't run any red lights, followed the speed limit, routinely checked if there were any notifications from you (and no, there weren't any). In his head, this simple orange-tier emergency was then bumped to a red-tier emergency.

Maybe the surprise was the fact that said "emergency" was oblivious to them being an emergency to begin with. 

His sweetheart. His everything—he knows you like the back of his hand. He knows that he knows so. It's exactly what he says when he opens the front door and steps in. 

"Sweetheart?" 

What immediately greets him is the frazzled craze of you, at the glass coffee table, sitting cross-legged and looking existentially done. Oh, and the mess in your shared living room, surrounded by an eclectic array of leather folders and scattered paperwork from some terrible corporate nightmare.

"The hell?" He mutters, brows knitting together. 

Aggro's up on his scratching tree, eyeing you in a fashion not unlike Milo's, but you're paying him no mind, pen in hand. Though, begrudgingly, there were slightly more pertinent matters besides his fur baby’s displeasure. 

The bond. He can't feel it. 

"Milo?" 

He barely has time to figure out his next course of action with awareness reentering your eyes. You do nothing but stare at him from your place on the floor for a few beats, owlish. "You're home early." 

He snaps out of it then. "Oh, uh. Yeah, we finished up early." 

"Oh." You pause, then give him a bright smile. "Well, welcome home. I hope the trip went okay." 

The glass surface is peppered with documents, some printed and others handwritten. He recognizes the Department's seals stamped on some of those papers—confidential and undoubtedly related to your work. Must be what you were working on prior to his arrival. You're relatively open and communicative about your job, sure, but this is definitely one of the few times he's seen you... disorganized? Is that the term? Regardless, you're continuing to smile at him with no intent of hiding your files. 

Huh.

It should irritate him that the second he recognized you as not-you was when it hit that you were waiting on the floor instead of taking the chance to scare him a la menace-slash-stealth. 

He closes his eyes for a moment. A test, surely. To see and to also reconcile the rising tide of conflicted feelings in his chest, of knowing something wasn't right but slightly out of place. Reaching into his magic and quietly searching for your presence through it in the same way he always did. 

And he does get a response. Glimpses. Flickers of your magic respond to his own, but so very far away, like distant beacons in the void. So you aren't gone—he can be consoled by that for now. Though, it's hard to tell if such responses emanated from you or... you.

What the hell is happening? If you’re not here, then who is this? 

When he opens his eyes, he offers an easy grin, affecting casual nonchalance. 

"Aw, thanks, sweetheart. What're you workin' on?" 

He takes his boots off, yawns a bit near the end. Would it be right to call you—er, them—that? 

"Just combing through some periodical reports. Typical Department stuff, y'know the drill." You hum, stretching with a yawn mirroring his own, eyes scanning him for a moment. 

He takes the time to trace the line of your body, the placement of your features. It isn't some sort of shapeshifting demon, from the looks of it. Neither is it a hallucination, because Aggro's responding to your movements with low grumbles, his tail fluffed and swaying. 

It's then that you started sweeping the reports up into your arms, trying to fix them up. Not hurriedly or anything like you’re trying to hide from him, but casually. If he thinks real, real hard, it's almost an odd, parallel version of your first ever meeting with him, when he walked in on a total stranger in his old apartment. Thinking back on it now makes it more endearing. And, maybe he’s biased, but you seem real sweet like this.

"Oh, I was thinking of making dinner, but I know you wanted to restock on blood, so I wasn't too sure if you wanted human food." 

Throw normal out the window. 

"Blood?" He echoed, fighting for his life in trying to temper his tone into something that wasn't gross offense. Did you just say blood? 

"I know, I know! Don't scold me for ransacking your kitchen again, please," you groan, pausing between cleaning to throw a pleading hand up. 

As if you didn't just tell him he went out to stock up on blood—which he doesn't, by the way! He has no such blood stash, in this life, or the next!

"I still made food, but I swear on my job, I didn't burn anything. You didn't reply to my messages either, so you can't blame me!" You cringe. "Well, not entirely, but you get the point!"

You neatly stack the folders and papers prior to rising. He's left reeling with the mere mention of restocking on blood while you ramble your excuses. What's the next best response that isn't “what the fuck are you talking about” after hearing something like that? 

It takes a few seconds before he processes that you're coming toward him in this very moment and he has to tighten the fuck up. Okay. Lock in, Milo. Get your head in the game. You’re better than this. You’ve gotten past various hurdles in your life. Surely, this is all one lucid dream and you’re comatose from the radioactive spicy food Asher forced you to eat. All you gotta do is burst the bubble of this person who looks like your sweetheart but isn’t really your sweetheart yet somehow moves and behaves and sounds the exact same as your sweetheart. Tense your muscles. Puff your chest. Clench your ass chee–

"Milooo," you groan his name and it sounds so whiny that all his defenses crumble into pure dust at that very second, especially when you wrap your arms around his neck. 

He's so fucking fucked. 

You gaze at him pleadingly, right as he thinks he's ready to calm down too, and he wants to throttle himself. "Are you upset?" 

Milo's face scrunches up at the same time his heartbeat spikes. Or, well, it already spiked earlier from the stressful bewilderment over blood hoarding, but it spiked again, no thanks to your sudden surprise attack. 

"I'm—I'm not mad, sweetheart," he manages, shaking his head. Racking his brain for a possible excuse, he slowly utters, "just a bit tired from…work. Y'know how it can be."

Curiosity flits into your eyes. "Oh? Was it Dmitri?"

Dmitri? Dmitri? 

"Ah. Something like, uh... Like that, yeah." 

Like, Dmitri Rebane? The Rebane that Vincent mentioned that one time they talked in the days leading up to the Monarchal Summit? That Rebane? 

You push further with a concerned frown, unaware of the mental gymnastics his whole cerebral cortex was performing as your face nears his. “I thought the club was going to be closed for the next couple of days. Because some water elemental messed with the plumbing?”

Cartwheels, back flips, round-offs, spread eagles… 

Why was he lying to you-but not-you again?

“Well, uh, they managed to, um, fix the pipes. Like, a couple hours ago. Which is why Dmitri called.”

He has no idea either. 

You seem to buy it, momentarily astonished as you ponder this newfound information (or, a lie). 

“Wow. That’s really fast, actually. I didn’t think Dmitri took Surge that seriously.” 

“Aha. ‘Course he does. You know me and the guys. It’s practically our playpen.” Playpen? Really, Milo? Out of all possible fucking words in the English dictionary, you pick playpen? 

At least he knows if the company ever goes bankrupt, he can go throw himself into the acting industry and possibly get cast as something other than extra no. 3. Oh, who is he kidding? David, Asher, and Tank would drag him wherever they went. Ash, especially. 

And Lord above, you keep pressing yourself to him, wholly content with your arms around his neck and swaying side to side. Not a single inch of your body language gives off the air of someone who even recognizes something is off. All your touch comes naturally; you’re looking at him all delicate and sweet, your fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck, worry sewn into the pout of your lower lip. It isn’t anything new—he’s picked you up, spun you around, tossed you around within reasonable bounds and then some, but extenuating circumstances have made whatever this is much more difficult than it should be.

“I don’t get why Dmitri has to go to you for that. Shouldn’t he talk to Sam? Or Vincent, even?” 

Since when did Sam and Vincent become part of the conversation? You keep throwing all these names at him, expecting him to be all-knowing for all these questions directed at him that he doesn’t even know the answers to and—ah, you’re playing with his lips now. 

“Your lips are getting chapped,” you noted, drawing him back into reality. You’re lightly pulling at his bottom lip, then his lower lip, while the other hand wanders across his chest. Like some child discovering slime and poking at it, he subjects himself to your display of affection while trying to understand his own circumstances. As you wander and fidget with your own devices (his clothing, it would seem), he takes the time to note down your appearance.

Curiously, there’s two faint punctures on your neck. Bug bites?

Somewhere along the way, he misses the way you’re scanning his teeth with prying eyes, tracing the logo of the company on his uniform shirt with a single, languid finger. 

“Oh c’mon, sweetheart, s’getting cold out here in Dahlia. Cut a man some slack on his lips?” He asks, voice thickening with a faux search for sympathy at the end. You observe with a patient, innocuous expression of your own, contemplating his words. 

Please fall for it. Otherwise, his next best idea is locking you in his own house (how would that even work? Can’t you just phase through?) or somehow prevent you from leaving. 

He thinks you’re buying it, before he notices the relaxed manner by which you stare in his mouth. Dear God. Hopefully he doesn’t have anything between his teeth.

“Uhh. You good there?”

You’re staring, innocent. “Hm?”

“You’re…looking into my mouth.” 

“Oh. It’s just” —you laugh— “I like your teeth.” 

“Huh?” Where did that come from?

“I said your teeth, they’re nice.” 

You lightly take his work bag into your hands and step back. Ready to brush it off, he picks up on the stiffness of your movement. There’s a certain clarity in your eyes that wasn’t there before, and he can almost feel the wariness seeping through your bones. 

Why were you looking at his teeth?

“Sweetheart?”

You smile mildly. “You should go take a shower.”

There’s a newfound waver in your core that you try to hide through making distance, but it clicks before you can try to make your getaway. Actually—

He feels it; your magic, subtle, externalized, was detaching itself from him. 

“Well, I mean, dinner can wait. We can have dinner together right now, I’m not that sweaty.” He rushes to speak, shaking his head and stumbling forward in his haste.

Every little piece of information you dropped minutes, heck, seconds ago replay in his head like a broken, stuttering record. Rebane. Sam, Vincent. The blood bags. His teeth. 

Your gaze was hollow, brows knitted as you looked at him like he’s a total stranger. The earlier touches weren’t merely you playing cute; you took the chance, got close enough, and read his aura in the most subtlest ways while he was distracted by your proximity. You sensed it, identified him as a shifter. Perhaps as early as when he stepped in and your eyes met, you already felt the discrepancy in aura types.

His teeth. The bite marks on your neck. 

You're not his sweetheart.

Ah, shit. 

He takes a step towards you, voice cautionary. “Sweetheart.”

You take a step back. “Milo.”

Another step. Forward, back.

“Sweetheart.”

“Milo.”

“Can you… Can you hand over the bag?”

“I don’t think I want to.” 

There’s nothing important in that bag, actually. He has no idea why he asked for it. Sure, there’s his water bottle, the lunch box, his wallet and the like. Mainly materialistic things that everyone carries with them to their work. Arguably the most important thing there is the polaroid of you two in the picture slot of said wallet. But even that pales in comparison to now, when the person holding said bag is far more essential than any identifying document. 

He sighs, the breath slipping from his lips shakily. You know something’s off. So does he. There’s no point in trying to avoid it nor play it off. “Sweetheart, we can talk about this.”

Before he can even think to try and coax you from your position like a cat stuck in a tree, you just bolt. 

“Oh, shit—” 

Without much prompting, Milo sprints after you. Adrenaline shoots sky high in both your bodies as your footsteps thud on the carpet, then the tile of the kitchen. Aggro practically howls his disapproval of the sudden noise from his fluffy tower, but sometimes other things take priority. Your socks squeak on the floor as you swivel and round the corner of the kitchen island. He skids to a halt opposite of you, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape because are you two actually doing this chase sequence in the comfort of your shared home? 

For a few nauseating seconds, it’s a game of mirrors. The type of game people have played with families, cousins, maybe siblings in a chase. You move to your left, he moves to his right. He moves to his right, you move to your right. It’s damn near comedic.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he tries, lowering his voice to what he presumes is a comforting level. Making eye contact with you, in hopes of convincing you he had no hostile intent. “I just wanna talk.”

“Sure you do. What did you do to Milo? Where are your fangs?” Sadly, his method does not work. 

He’s almost ninety percent sure that if he were to shift into his wolf form right now, he would hear your heart racing. Even without it, from your widened eyes alone, he could tell you didn’t expect it to come to this. Neither did he, though if he told you that, he doubted you’d take his words seriously.

“Sweetheart, I am Milo.” 

“No, you’re not.” That makes him frown. 

“Yes, I am.”

“No.” 

Your outright rejection of him is laughable. “Says who?”

“Says me.” You stubbornly jerk your chin up, face all scrunched. 

Being outright denied passage to his own existence ticks him off a bit more than he expects. Even if it’s coming from you-not-you.

“I don’t even know what’s goin’ on! I know next to nothing about what’s happenin’ right now—you end up in my home, on my carpet, next to my cat, and I’m the bad guy for wanting to know who you are?”

“I want to know what you did to Milo!” You practically explode.

“And I want to know where my partner is!” He replies, clicking his tongue. Inhaling deeply to regain his composure, he fixes his gaze on you steadily. “I’m just as lost as you are, okay?”

“That’s what they always say,” you accuse, wagging your finger at him. Wagging your finger! The sheer audacity! 

“What the hell does that even mean!?” 

“I don’t know!”

This is a complete and utter shitshow. The security camera in the corner of the kitchen must be having a blast right now with this Tom and Jerry ripoff scene. 

Gritting his teeth, Milo summons every ounce of patience left in his body to loosen his tense muscles, glaring daggers at your equally defensive person. His bag, again of no importance, rests snug on your shoulder, while your hands on the countertop for purchase. On the bright side, this is definitely no shapeshifter. Only you could rile him up this much, so authentically you, all the while being as stubborn as a goddamn five thousand year old boulder. 

Man, he really should’ve taken you seriously that one time you asked if he believed in parallel timelines and alternate universes. 

He scoffs and steps to the left. You mirror that, too. “Ha, well, you ain’t my sweetheart either. My sweetheart would mop the floor with your actin’ skills.”

Your glare seems impossibly more venomous. “My Milo could run you miles around your tail, wolf.” 

“You sure he can function without his blood bags?” He fires back.

 You’re quick, too. “Can you function without your leash and ear scratches?” 

This has to be some morbid form of self-deprecation and intergalactic slander. Or it’s just friendly fire. Probably friendly fire. Definitely friendly fire.

“Sweetheart.” Milo purses his lips, takes his hands off the counter. Assuming a neutral position, he runs a hand through his hair, tongue flicking against the back of his molars as he tries to think of what could possibly calm you down.

“I don’t like it when you call me that,” you pointedly grit out.

His eyelid twitches at the same time his hand does. “Okay. Then, impostor.” 

He sharply jerks to the right, honeyed eyes drinking in the way you gasp and scramble to move the opposite way. Just then, an animal reflex trickles into his chest, slithers around his heart, and forces the muscle to pump more blood to his rapid-firing brain. Heat gathers in his temples at the same time he cracks a disbelieving snort, mainly to himself because there is no way in hell he is actually feeling some sort of stimulation from this. Oh, but he is. 

“This ain’t gonna work,” Milo breathily laughs. It could be the rush, or something else, but he can’t stop himself from finding any tidbit of pleasure in a good chase. Calm down, Milo, Jesus. This won’t go anywhere if you don’t hold some sort of productive topic to base the conversation on to begin with.

So, he tries again. “You and I both know—this game of cat and mouse, it ain’t gonna cut it. We can talk this out, like adults, over a cup of coffee, and preferably not with our teeth bared.”

You’re full-on frowning at him like he pissed in your cereal. “You don’t even have your teeth. Don’t talk about Milo like that.”

He can’t tell if he should thank you for defending his honor or not. 

“I don’t have the fangs you keep yappin’ about, because I’m not a damn vampire! I’m a wolf shifter, if you haven’t already noticed, which I’m sure you did, considering how nicely you’ve been talkin’ to me for the past thirty seconds.” He huffs under his breath. God, some things just never change when it comes to you. 

You bristle from your side of the kitchen island, but no longer reply. That blazing fire in your glower never dampens for even a breath as you contemplate your options. Eyes flitting everywhere in the kitchen, attempting to take snapshots of the layout for whatever escape attempt you were going to try and enact next. But it’s also out of place how desperately you scanned the space. You were a stealth, so you should be able to cloak and phase through objects with ease—no doubt that’d make this whole thing much easier for you, after all. It’s how many energetic nights of stolen clothes, food, and plain chasing played out in this very house; a lot of it came about because you kept phasing through walls to evade Milo’s attempts to snatch you mid-cloak. 

You’re a stealth. You should be able to… 

He squints.

“Why aren’t you cloaking?” 

Like clockwork, you shrink back. Frozen. It’s like time stopped, for all but a heartbeat before it resumed. Guilt, shameful and ruthless and tentative, twists your expression. And it should be disconcerting how closely it resembled the first time he met you. His you. More specifically, of how you turned sheepish after he called you out for perking up when obtaining substantial information. You were so easy to read, and the same appeared to apply to the present. 

He keeps going, realization dawning on him. “You could have hidden your aura from the second you heard me pull up in the driveway, but you didn’t.”

You don’t reply, pursing your lips down into a thin line.

“You…” He pauses, turns the words over in his mouth. “You can cloak, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can.” You snip, defensive. “I’m a stealth. Can’t you tell?”

“So why aren’t you cloaking? You could phase out this room, heck, the house, if you wanted to.”

“It’s none of your business,” you retort. But not even you can hide the mild panic in your eyes, the instability of your core.

He’s softening before he can think it through, the adrenaline gradually dripping from his system. He’s tempted to withdraw, hindered by the manifesting reluctance that he rarely sees in you. You may not be his, but it’s a reflection of the face he’s seen every morning for years. Someone he’s seen in the past, present, and probably will keep seeing in the future, and all the expressions that come with the gorgeous canvas of your face. The recurring nature, however, does not take away the emotions of seeing you disheartened. Cornered. Stressed. Scared.

He observes you in silence for what feels like an eternity, understanding closing in on him. The expression he has right now must peeve you, because you’re glowering once more.

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

He exhales. “Like what?” 

“Like—like that,” you stammer. “You know what I mean. Just, just stop.” 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t, but he has an idea.

You gulp, strained, “You—”

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The second those delicate, disarming words leave his mouth, Milo could see the fight bleed from your body. You falter, blinking wildly as you bring your hands close to your chest, shoulders dropping. You’re surveying him with a mixture of discomfort, unfamiliarity, and incertitude pasted all over your surly mouth, skeptic twist of your brows. You’re anxious.

Gently, as calm as he could, he enunciated it once more. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’d never hurt you. I’d never let you get hurt.”

He wasn’t the only one struggling with looking at someone who was a total copy of the person that meant something to them. 

You’re gaping. Again, no response, but the conflict in your eyes and your mollified stance is all he needs for confirmation. It’s the cue he takes to draw in another stomach-deep breath, proceeding carefully with this lower, levelheaded, even-tempered approach. 

“And I’m not just sayin’ this to get you off guard, okay? You have my word.” Punctuating his words by leaning in, his voice dips with sincerity. “I promise. I swear on it.” 

(There’s a certain sadness, upset in his own chest that he can’t quite put his finger on. He was never one for describing these types of emotions when they rose up—at least, in the past.

Or, perhaps, until you came along. All you carried was a key to his heart and a determination to renovate a chamber or two for your occupation. That’s alright, he had thought. Temporary or permanent residence, the mat on the door only welcomed you. Decorated in the light of your smile, the color of your touch, the sugar of your words. 

Empty as it was prior, maybe it was meant for you all along. In any way, shape, or form. Or time. He’ll be right here, key in hand, waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.)

“Listen. We’re both confused. We both don’t know what’s goin’ on, and we’re stressed. But we won’t get anything done if we keep fightin’ like this, if we keep runnin’ around the place, trying to one up each other. Let’s take a seat, I'll get you a drink, and we can talk about whatever this is. And if you wanna hit me even after that, hell, I’ll let you. But let’s try to unpack this before we get to that point. Is that okay with you?” 

“This is not fuckin’ okay.”

“Profanity, Milo-two,” you yawn, opening his fridge like you owned the place. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Panties in a— first of all, don’t call me Milo two. Second, I do not wear panties. Third, get out of my fridge!” 

To nobody’s shock, you ignore him.

The past hour has been the biggest doozy Milo Rebane has ever experienced in his lifespan. He’s blessed, or cursed, to live an existence bound to eternity, but his gut instinct is telling him this day takes the cake for the most memorable. From sensing something off in his home to crossing paths with someone who remarkably resembles you to an alarming degree, to currently trying to fend them off.

Fending them off was a generous way of putting it.

Right now, he was flabbergasted, watching from the kitchen entryway as you calmly navigate his home like you own the damn place. It’s an invasion without all the conquest. All your motions never radiated any semblance of reluctance or fear. It’s possible you traversed through the house before he got back home, since he doesn’t know when the swap happened. It’d explain how easily you were moving from room to room earlier and up until the present. How quickly you made yourself comfortable in a foreign place.

He’d practically hounded your ass with questions earlier. You didn’t complain throughout the process, surprisingly. It was all standard crap anyhow—your name, your age, where you lived, your occupation. It all matched up with what he knew of you. You had your own fair share of inquiries about who he was exactly, which he was fine with answering as well. Can’t really blame either of the two of you.

You groan aloud. “Jesus, do you have anything in here that isn’t caffeinated drinks?”

“All of those belong to you, investigator,” he hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You bought them and set up shop here.”

“That does sound like something I’d do.” After some time, you stand back up with one of those flavored, iced coffee brews in hand. You hum in appreciation, turning the bottle over in your hand multiple times. He nearly snaps at you for taking one of your drinks, but there’s a weird, paradoxical undertone that stops him from doing so. 

The lid cracks open with a faint click. “Oh, nice. It’s good to know that my taste never changed.” 

This has to be a weird episode of Inception. Or a Truman Show fever dream. He never should have allowed that movie marathon a couple weeks ago—some cosmic entity had to have caused this shit after seeing him and you huddled up on the couch, holding hands and giggling over popcorn and taken it as a sign that hey, let me just fuck these two over!

He clicks his teeth, groans, and strides towards you. “Alright, out of the fridge.” 

You blink. He glares.

“You heard me. Out, out, out. Eugh, you’re like a scavenger.”

Plastic bag dangling from his elbow, he shoos you away from the fridge to restock his own blood packets in one part of the fridge. He grumbles to himself, shoving the sanguine-filled sachets into the lower level of the fridge, just beneath the one holding most of your drinks. It was a comical sight; blood bags stored beneath a level of pure energy drinks and cold coffee definitely made an image worth snickering over. He just wasn’t in the mood for laughing right now, though.  

Looking over his shoulder, you’re leaning against a countertop and drinking from the stolen coffee bottle. Not a single part of your countenance gives off anxiety. In fact, you’re exuding a languid confidence, gaze meeting his. 

It would piss him off if it wasn’t a downright attractive look on you. Damn it all.

You smile crookedly. “You’re staring." 

“And you’re not?” Milo grunts, standing upright. 

He didn’t anticipate this at all, but it’s probably a good thing he stocked up on blood. In the past, you’ve offered him your blood for his routine feedings. It’s a generous act, really. It isn’t something that ought to bother him, especially since you’ve entered a serious arrangement not that long ago and he knows your offer came from a place of earnest consideration for his wellbeing. Any vampire would gladly take you up on that. Milo didn’t. Sure, he can bite now and then in the throes of pleasure, but he never does it solely for the feeding. He’d never subject you to becoming a blood bag supply for him to rely on; he would never engage in that, not when you mean so much more to him. And it took a horrendously uncomfortable, heart-racing, anxiety-painted confrontation on his couch following radio silence, hookups, and overall mixed signals to establish your newfound relationship.

He’d rather sit through a religious group’s attempt to exorcise him with garlic necklaces and prayers than run the risk of confusing your relationship once again. He has you and you had him, and he has had no plans of letting you go in the foreseeable future.

Hence, his fucking aggravation at current circumstances.

“No, no. I definitely am. My bad,” you laugh and finish off the rest of the coffee. As you toss it to the trash bin, you wander about the kitchen with a prying set of eyes. Curiosity ebbs off of you in waves, found in the awe of your o-shaped mouth and glimmering stare. “It’s definitely different. Your interior decor, I mean. Is it a vampire thing?”

“You’re gonna have to ask Dmitri that. Or Vince.” That was a funny thought. Dmitri would most likely shoo you away. Vincent would be confused, more than anything. 

“Vince, huh… Rebane, I’m assuming.” You focus on him again, eyes like saucers. Reminds him of Aggro. When he nods, you cover your mouth with a hand, laughing a little. “Does he have a partner?”

The smoothness by which you deliver the questions throws him off, prompting stuttered answers. “Uh, he does. He has a partner. Calls them Lovely, I think.” 

Recognition bursts in your eyes and you clap your hands like you won the lottery. 

“Aw, so they’re together here too.” 

He closes the fridge, the light shutting with a faint click. Tilting his head to gesture to the living room, you nod and follow his lead, leaving the kitchen. “Whaddya mean by that?” 

“Well, the Vincent I know also has a partner. He calls them Lovely, too.” There’s a particular fondness in your voice as you recount these people he apparently knows but doesn’t. 

“They’ve been through a lot. I don’t know if that applies here, too, but it’s a relief. That they’re sticking to each other, even now. Even if they don’t know about that other version of themselves.” 

As you two take a seat on the couch, he leans back and surveys you blankly. Frankly, he has no idea what you’re talking about. You’re really, really fucking confusing, and you have been, since pointing out you were another version of his partner. His own bemusement came from his efforts in trying to comprehend how you could possibly be so at ease in this predicament. 

“Sure. I don’t really talk to the guy all that much, so hell if I know,” he comments boredly. You shoot him a disapproving stare. “What? You think that just because vampires share a last name, we’re automatically hosting sleepovers and braiding each others’ hair? Ha, give me a break.” 

“I don’t think that, thanks.” You cross your arms and sink back into the couch with a huff. A contemplative look replaces the wondrous one, looking over the living room as well. There isn’t much you could probably analyze, past some potted plants or geometric ornaments he bought from some depot store. 

“I’ve actually been to that big congregation thing you vampires host, so don’t think I’m uncultured and unknowing.”

Milo squints, before his expression morphs into incredulity. “The Monarchal Summit? You attended one?”

As if picking up on his shock, you turn your head first before your eyes trail over him. Seeing his confounded face, your eyes twinkle with that same, fulfilling satisfaction. 

(You have no fear of making eye contact with him. You must know of vampires and their ability to trance—but you’re not shying away from it. He ignores the implications, whether it be you being ignorant or being that trusting toward him. You don’t even know him.) 

“I did. Surprised, vamp?”

“Cut the crap. No bullshit?” He doesn’t know why he asks. Even an idiot could tell you weren’t lying.

“No bullshit.” 

He thinks you’re going to continue, but you look at him strangely instead. “Are vampires able to detect lies? Is that a thing?”

He barks out a laugh, déjà vu hitting him. You asked something similar the first time you met.  

“If you’re asking if I just truth-checked you, fuck no. It’s a me thing, investigator.”

“Just making sure. But yes, I did attend one. Vincent invited me, and the others from the pack.”

The pack—the simple, innocent mention of them is enough to cause a visceral reaction. His face contorts as if he got sucker punched, muscles coiling with tension. It never gets easier. He knows that, but still—

“The pack, huh?” He echoes mutely. Two faces pop up in his brain, as hard as he tried to forget it. “That include Asher and David?”

If you notice his discomfort, you don’t point it out. (He’s grateful you don’t.) 

“Mm-hm. David wasn’t too sure about the invitation at first, but it’s not like he had a choice. The Shaw pack got quite a bit of traction after…” 

You trail off, suddenly reluctant to continue toward the end. He raises a brow. 

“Wait, the Shaw pack?”

That takes you out of the mental space you nearly slipped into. 

“Oh. Yeah, the Shaw pack. David’s the alpha.” You catch the puzzled face Milo’s making, interested. “Is he … not the Alpha here?”

“Like hell David’s the alpha. He’s the fuckin’ omega of the Talbot pack. Asher’s the alpha.” 

“Asher?” You sit up abruptly, engaged and completely gobsmacked. 

“Yep. Asher Talbot.”

“Asher? Like, bitch bottom Asher? Always late to the function Asher? Goofball and game tourney host Asher?”

He practically chokes on his startled laughter. There was so much to unpack with all of that, but he couldn’t help laughing at your shrill disbelief, increasing with every query. A lot of those things you listed—Lord, what the hell.

“I don’t know what Asher you know, but the Asher I know is… Aha. He definitely fits the bill as pack alpha.” 

“No way! David was the alpha, Asher was the beta. Ash’s chaotic energy was either handled by David or his own mate.  Those two were like, so complementary toward each other. Grumpy and sunshine!” You gush, leaning toward him. Unconsciously, he mirrors your posture, smirking in amusement.

“Oh, miss me on that shit, investigator. Next thing you’re gonna say is that David is perpetually grumpy and constipated.”

You snap your fingers, bouncing in place on the couch with a shriek of, “he is! Oh my God, he totally was!” 

He can’t control it then—he fuckin’ guffaws. You mumble to yourself, “well, in the past at least, before his mate came along,” but Milo’s simply too busy imagining it in his head. Asher, pack beta, who apparently likes taking it from the back and operates on playful vibes and energy. That was somewhat imaginable. But David? David Shaw, that bashful, socially anxious, tail between his legs 24/7 shifter? Being the pack’s leader?

“David would totally kick your ass if he knew you were laughing at him like this,” you sing, albeit smilingly. 

He wipes a tear from his eye, snorting over another cackle. “Here, the big guy would probably like that, as long as his mate was the one doin’ it. A bit too much, even.” 

That garners more laughter from you. It shouldn’t take him aback as much as it does—it makes sense—but even your laugh is the exact same.

He tries real fuckin’ hard to ignore the aching pang in his chest. Pushes it deep into his subconscious, even. Think of something else, Milo. Think of Asher and David, two whole wolf shifters, mind you, standing aimlessly in a grandesque banquet hall adorned in ostentatious baubles and even more pretentious creeps known to vampirekind. 

Back on track. Clearing his throat, he leans on his side, sinking slightly into the couch. Arm propped atop the cushion and hand resting on his head, he smirks. “So, those two went to the summit?”

You mimic his position, your expression far more cheery. “Yeah, and they took their mates with them.”

Mates. There goes that word again. 

Throat clogged, he swallows. “So, I take it that you were one of them?”

“One of?”

“Their mates. You went.”

He picks up on the way your breath stutters, imminent. Implicative.

Dreadfully, terribly, you shake your head.

“No,” you murmur. “I was yours.” 

Yours. 

All at once, he’s being submerged. Water clogs his ears, bubbles cascading from his nose and mouth. It’s icy, and it’s cold, biting into his skin without mercy. 

He’s silent for quite some time. Like a leisurely drip of tree sap, falling back to the earth in steady droplets, it’s a cruel reminder of what he could have had. It shouldn’t be so disorienting. It wasn’t. 

Yours, yours, yours. Mine. 

“Milo?” A call of his name, and he’s back to the present. “You good?”

He grunts, affecting indifference with a shrug. “Eh, beats me. But it makes sense. I was part of the pack n’ such.” 

“Fair,” you sigh. Nothing about your outward reaction indicates anything other than nonchalance, but he’d be dumb to assume that you didn’t notice his thoughtfulness. 

“The summit was chaotic. So much shit happened. But it was... It was fun.” 

He chuckles. “Fun isn’t the word I’d use to describe the gathering of uptight, asshole vampires with superiority complexes, but we can agree to disagree.” 

You snicker. “Sounds good.” 

After that, there’s a lull in the conversation. You move around, lying down with your knees bent and head on the arm of the couch. He looks ahead at the blank television screen. No attempts are made to try and fill the vacant space between the two of you on the couch, and frankly, he prefers it that way. It’s difficult to make sense of the situation. The elephant in the room, truth be told, was fucking ginormous. How could you really ask the question of what the fuck was happening and how did you get here, when it was plenty obvious that both parties didn’t have a single clue as to how this happened? The only reasonable, suitable activity would be literally anything else in that regard. It just so happened to be exchanging stories of mutual faces, known events. Even if the divulgence of such information would only leave a path of breadcrumbs to other doorways, other possibilities. 

One of those possibilities.

“Hey.”

You don’t glance, but you do hum quietly.

“Before I got back, how much did you snoop through?”

“I explored your kitchen for a bit. Then, your office. I ended up in the bedroom after some time, then the closet when I heard you come in.” 

Hm. His lips twitch. “And yet, you don’t sound remorseful at all.” 

“Sue me for thinking I was in the craziest lucid dream ever and I was in Luigi’s mansion.” The couch dips as you throw your legs over his. He scoffs, pinches your calf and savors the little yelp it gets out of you. (It’s novel, he admits, seeing you be so comfortable like this around him. Despite it not really being you, of course. All these emotions. So tedious, but so egregiously warm.) 

“My place does not look like Luigi’s mansion, excuse you. How dare you compare such—uh, creative taste to something cartoonish and gaudy and old-school—”

“Milo’s mancave then,” you resolve, stretching with an obnoxiously loud yawn. “You could think about sprucing up the place more. Make it feel like home, if you really want to.”

“Y’think I haven’t thought of doing that before? Don’t act like I forgot your little comment on my kitchen, you little snoop.” 

Rolling his eyes, he thinks back to every other time he’d contemplated the prospect while living here. Again, his hands are somewhat tied, but he at least had some agency in his life. Even if his Maker was kind of—well. His Maker, Invocation and all. 

His eyes trace the walls. A lot of the decor was relatively plain and modern, but he could understand where the interest was. There were some old, ornamental plates held up on the walls and particular carved detailing on the wooden shelves and cabinets that you probably wouldn’t find in another place in Dahlia. Still life paintings framed in ornamental gold, the type of frames you see in museums—the whole shebang. Any other decoration around the home was left as it was. 

Designing a home that wasn’t his could have helped him adjust more to his afterlife. There were a few things from his old apartment he thought of taking, too. But it was easier to occupy an already-filled, tailormade space than to find something to occupy the hollowed out, barren void in his chest after turning. Any reminder of the life he led might have been more harmful than benevolent. There was no room to doubt your existence when you’re thrust into the role of vampire princeling. He never felt the need to renovate this home—not when it came as a gift from Dmitri following his turning. A home befit for a prince, as he used to say. Milo played that role exceptionally well. 

“Just some food for thought, Rebane. Don’t think too much of it,” you reassure. In his periphery, he notices the way you’re staring at him. “Who am I to intrude on a life that isn’t mine?” 

He exhales a breath through his nose. Funny that you say that after the progression of the night. 

“A bit too late for that when you did exactly that an hour ago.” 

“Hey, it’s not like I asked to be transported here. I assure you: all I planned for tonight was making dinner, cuddling with Aggro, then cuddling with Milo.”

It’s weird to be referred to in third person, regardless if he’s aware that it’s referring to the version of himself you knew. 

His head aches. “And all I wanted was to spend time with my sweets. Guess we both can’t get what we want.”

Your lips quirk into an amused little half crescent. “Cheers to that. Here’s to yearning.”

He chuckles quietly.

“Here, here.” 

Another pause. Gathering courage to break the silence like this takes far more than he expected, but he can’t really complain about it.

But he doesn’t have to worry about carrying on the conversation when you’re sitting up. 

“I wanna see something. Lend me your hand?” Your hand's extended to him, waiting.

His eyebrows lift, but he complies nonetheless. As he slides his hand over your extended one, he wonders what exactly is playing out in that pretty little head of yours. Damn near shivers when your other hand starts tracing his knuckles, his lithe fingers, the back of his hand with all the fleetingness of a feather.

(Maybe he could wait before diving into how or why you ended up here. For all he knows, this could be the after to his afterlife.)

It makes itself known then. The shimmer of something sleek and thin on your fourth finger catches his eye far faster than he thought possible—and, technically, much later, since he had plenty of times to analyze you and never once noticed the fucking ring sitting smack dab around it.

You haven’t noticed that he noticed. The revelation has effectively struck him dumb, brain rapidly emptying. There’s—well, humans tend to follow that custom, sure, but he never thought he would follow through with it. Even when he was a wolf shifter, he assumed—

“Oh, this?” 

The hand he was essentially gawking at is soon lifted in front of his face and he jumps like it personally offended him. 

“That—that ring,” Milo croaks. 

There’s a bashfulness in your resounding giggle, and it makes his treacherous heart skip a beat. Fuck.

“We bought matching rings. You proposed it, actually.” 

“We what?” 

“This ring’s pretty,” you murmur, awe etched in your tone. 

Milo’s hand comfortably rests in the cradle of your two hands, your fingers lightly touching the metal band on his finger. Aggro’s all but cozied up on your cross-legged lap, tail flicking fondly every now and then against your thigh. The little guy’s already acclimated to your presence, which isn’t too astonishing. (It’s still you, despite everything. Even with a slightly different core, a mellowed out personality, and slightly more reluctant countenance, Aggro and Milo would recognize you.) 

Milo’s too busy drinking in the scene from his side of the couch—you beside him, of course—that he forgets to respond.

“Ah—sorry. I was thinking, what’d you say?”

You don’t appear bothered. “The ring. I’m assuming you picked it out with me?” 

He’d be shocked at the astute observation, if it weren’t for the fact that you were pretty sharp in general. In the kitchen, he appealed to you using the kindest, most patient approach he could possibly come up with. When you two had freshly met, as odd as that is to say, he was polite and acting as per usual. It’d be more surprising if you didn’t pick up on the fact that he and you were closer than the average couple.

“Mhm. We got it a while back.” Following the two first engagements in the pack, you and Milo were promptly tossed into contemplative positions on where you stood. Marriage was a big step forward for everyone involved, and it clearly meant a lot to the guys’ mates for them. (Though, Ash got proposed to.) The conversation you two had sometimes plays out in the times he’s swarmed with nostalgia; it was a time characterized by your reaffirmed commitment and devotion to one another, without a need for legal documentation, and it never failed to make him smile. All that you required was right there: your mate, and a bond so fervid no waters could wash it away. 

He has to pause from time to time and remind himself that the person in front of him isn’t you. Then again, the muffled, faraway buzz of the bond did enough in terms of alerting him that. It was strangely disembodied; the connection that you share is fundamentally bound to you, so its trail lingers around the person sitting on the couch, but it disappears there. Like an indistinct chain link, ghostly and not wholly there. At its core (hah), the bond ties him to you. 

And the you right now has their own form of a bond—a vampire’s bite. A mark. 

“Does it signify anything? Marriage?”

“No, not marriage. We’re mates. That’s practically marriage for us, what with the bond n’ all.” 

You nod, pocketing the information. “I… I didn’t think parallel timelines were a thing. Or would it be alternate universes? I’m not sure.”

“You and me both, impostor,” he concurs. “I work for security, not for, uh, the time and space borders for galaxies, all that shit. Fuck if I know.” 

You drop his hand and pull a face that’s not unlike a sneering rabbit. You’ve been doing that whenever he cussed, and he has to admit, it’s hilarious. Regardless of your displeasure, you don’t try to chastise him. Though, he’s sure you’ve most likely tried it with the version of him you’re more familiar with. 

“You really are just like him. You both curse a lot.” 

He smiles. “Call it the Milo stamp of verbiage.”

“Or you’re just foul-mouthed,” you grumble, looking down at Aggro and beginning to gently stroke his fur. The furball vibrates with glee, purring as you run your fingers and palm along the well-groomed coat. “Isn’t that right, Aggro?”

With an entertained grin on his face, he lounges into the couch as he focuses on the television. 

“Good luck trying to get Aggro on your side. My son is very loyal to me, as you may know. As traitorous as he can be from time to time.”

“I’m sure,” you comment dryly, unconvinced by Milo’s way of speaking. Though, even you couldn’t hide the wry smile forming on your lips. It’s contagious. 

It’s been an hour since the sun set, but time seems to go slower at the moment. Milo’s not sure if he should be grateful or anxious over it, but he doesn’t hate it. Still in the throes of registering this whole scrambled person thing and managing the inclement panic that comes with having an absent mate, he’d say he’s doing pretty good. Got you some water and some snacks before settling you down on the couch, letting you relax and get somewhat comfortable enough to speak. Nothing much else besides the television blasting something, a regular episode of some rotational show on a channel, but it serves as suitable background noise. Plus, it helped in getting you to gather your bearings after your near nervous breakdown in the kitchen.

Might as well break the ice and figure out what to do in the meantime. You’d judge him if he left another version of you unoccupied, bored, and without some form of entertainment. It’d be a bad look for him as a host, and as the other-boyfriend-slash-semi-mate. Although, he does find it more arduous trying to pry you from your reserved shell. He never thought this side of your personality would be more dominant in any way, but he does find it rather cute. You just need a little bit of poking.

He glances over. Aggro is purring aggressively—how is that even possible?—as you scratch his chin.

“So, what do you wanna do?” 

“I should finish my paperwork.” 

Well.

“Ah. Right. Your job.” The TV captures his attention yet again. Now what the hell is he supposed to do? It was already pretty damn awkward, since it's not like you did much talking past stiff niceties earlier. "Sounds... Sounds nice."

Long story short: he kind of sort of has no fucking clue how to talk to you right now.

As if picking up on his slight discomfiture in the face of being unknowingly denied, you poke his shoulder. “But I can do anything. I wouldn’t mind if you had an idea.” 

“Say less,” Milo immediately replies, standing up from the couch. It causes the sofa to jostle, and Aggro meows loudly from his place on your lap, mild annoyance in his mewls that you try to shush through soft laughter.

You have the same laughter. He shouldn’t be fuckin’ startled by that, but even he isn’t immune to the sound and the swell of emotion. 

There’s a part of him practically shouting your name from the hilltops, undoubtedly from the absence of your presence. Another part is determined to label this as a dream or nightmare that he’s yet to fully live out. But it feels too real, too tangible. He felt your skin against his, electric yet soft in the way it always was. He’ll make the most of it, he supposes. He’s sure you’re doing the same—this version of you assured him that you’d be okay, but his faith lies mostly in you. 

His sweetheart. Who knew he’d end up so lovesick? No complaints from his end, though. He’ll hold down the fort for you in the meantime and possibly get to know this mellow version of you some more. What else could he do?

Holding up a remote, Milo shoots your curious self a smirk. “You play Smash?” 

mimi's missive:

the pathetic, almost lovelorn yearning transcends dimensions

happy thursday or friday depending on your timezone!

i was writing this over the course of several days since posting part 1, and all my brainworms went into conceptualizing this. this concept plagued my brain since i listened to the fooliverse audios and chewed on the personality differences. erik, you brilliant-minded individual.