#smolalienbeewrites

Aziraphale/Crowley // across the multiverse; technically post s3 but doesn't actually refer to it // multiple human AU meet cutes // rated T // 5.9k words written for the @gomens-timeaftertime event!

In a universe much like our own, a man not dissimilar from an angel we know has just moved into a new flat… And then the image in front of our eyes blurs. Lines branching. We follow another one like a spark of electricity passing through the power lines. We hear silence; we hear the echoes of infinity — so many of them they become white noise. Our next stop is just one hop over, down the street but a universe away. The next scenes come to us in flashes, images overlaying images overlaying images. Some things stay the same – some things change. The faces remain each other’s mirrors time after time. For a while, it’s impossible to make out the exact words of the many voices, similar and different, across the different planes of existence. Their lives, their experiences, clash into one another to create a cacophony of sound. Wait long enough, though, and eventually, you will hear them all find a common melody, the same refrain, no matter the world or the circumstances.

read full fic on AO3 here!

In a universe much like our own, a man not dissimilar from an angel we know has just moved into a new flat…

Ezra sets the rickety plastic chair down in front of a foldable table in what is supposed to be his living room. He sighs. There's hardly any furniture in the flat just yet, only a mattress, a mini fridge and this lovely little makeshift office set up. As uncomfortable as it is — and as much as he longs for a proper chair and a properly prepared cup of tea — he's got work to do and it wouldn't do well to dawdle.

He hums to himself as he sets his laptop on the table, as he turn it on, as he logs in, as he opens a browser — and that's when he realises his first mistake. No WiFi.

He lets out a frustrated little puff of air. Well, that simply won't do. Of course, he could pack up his things, head out and go to a cafe or some such like, but the weather is simply atrocious and he is in no mood to brave London's rains today.

He has an idea, though. He scrolls through the list of available networks, hoping to find just a single open one, but no such luck. Eventually, though, one draws his eye.

StayTheHellOff, the network name declares amusingly. Well, that’s a challenge if Ezra has ever seen one.

He wonders, what would this sort of person use as their password? Something vulgar, most likely.

He tries fuckyou. Incorrect.

Fuckoff. No, that’s not it either. 

He gets it on the third try. Gofuckyourself. Ah. That sounds about right.

Nevertheless, he now has unrestrained internet access and plenty of blog posts to write. He gets to work.

Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock on his door. Then his doorbell rings. Then knocking, again, more insistent this time. RingringRINGRINGringriiiiiiiiingRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING.

Ezra rolls his eyes and goes to open the door.

"You!" Immediately, there's an accusatory finger being pointed at Ezra's chest. The man in front of him is thin, dressed in all black, with a curling wave of bright red hair sitting atop his head. "Get off my bloody network before I— I—" The threat dies off on the man's tongue as his gaze flickers up and down, taking Ezra in. "You hacked my WiFi?"

Ezra pouts. "Well, I'd hardly call it hacking…"

"So you did!" The man exclaims.

“Dear, your password was gofuckyourself. It’s not exactly craftsmanship, is it?”

Taken aback by Ezra's attitude, the man sputters. Ezra, unimpressed, reaches for the door.

"Now, if you don't mind, I really do have to get back to work—"

Before he can close it all the way, though, the man shoots out one of his long legs and shoves his foot in-between the door and its frame. "Hold on a minute, I didn't say anything about letting you use it!"

Ezra sighs. "It won't be for much longer," he explains. "It's just, I've only just moved in and I don't have anything of my own set up yet. Your WiFi was the only that seemed, well…"

The man narrows his eyes. "Seemed what?"

“It’s rather brusque, isn’t it? You can hardly blame me.”

It seems like he finds Ezra's words offensive, somehow. "You’re telling me you saw the words StayTheHellOff and really thought to yourself, oh, yeah, that's the person I want to mess with?"

Ezra has not actually been intending to mess with anyone, but the look on this man's face, well… He can't help but feel the need to rile him up, just a little bit. "It does sound rather like a challenge, does it not?"

The man gapes at him. "You— you have no idea what I could've done! Could've sent you malware! My whole network could've been riddled with malware and you wouldn't have known!"

"You know, I do have to ask, how did you know it was me?"

The man sniffs, shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs, clearly trying — and failing — to appear casual about something he already considers to be impressive. "Measured the ping time to your device," he explains. "That narrowed it down to this floor and— from there it was simple. Mary from 307 has just given birth and she's still at the hospital; 308, that's Leslie and Maude, they're in Italy in their third honeymoon; and I'm pretty sure Shadwell from 309 only uses a landline."

Ezra gives him an indulgent smile. "I can't say that I quite got all that ping stuff, but that sounds quite impressive, dear." The man seems to preen a little at the praise. "You seem to know a lot about these things."

“I’m— I work in cybersecurity, actually. ‘S kinda my thing.”

Ezra raises his eyebrow. “...and yet your password was gofuckyourself? I shudder to think what sort of advice you give people.”

The man has the decency to laugh at that, a nasal-y sort of chuckle. "Sod off," he grumbles, but it's amused more so than anything else. "Buy me a drink and I'll consider benevolently letting you keep using my WiFi."

Ezra smirks. "Only if you tell me your name first, dear boy."

“Crowley. Tony Crowley.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Tony." Ezra holds his hand out for a handshake. "I’m Ezra Fell.”

The moment their hands touch, Ezra suddenly realizes that he does, in fact, hope to see much more of Tony in the future. That he is not quite ready to let go of this man just — if at all.

The image in front of our eyes blurs. We know where those two will end up, later that same night.

Lines branching. We follow another one like a spark of electricity passing through the powerlines. An airport comes into our view. A red-haired man is pacing its floors, holding a phone up to his ear…

post good omens 3 // new universe asa fell/anthony crowley // canon compliant with the new universe // rated T // 4.8k words

"Darling, it's getting late. Are you still working?" Anthony, lit only by the moonlight and the dim glow of his laptop screen, continues to type away for a few more seconds. Asa waits, hovering in the doorway. Lately, he's had to get used to this sight — his husband, always click-clacking away, stubbornly refusing to do anything else but keep working on what will, eventually, become his second book, for now tentatively titled Astrophysics is (Really) For Everyone. Asa tries to be supportive. Asa is also growing increasingly worried.

read full fic on AO3 here!

"My dear, is there any reason in particular you're wearing gloves in what seems to be about 20 degrees Celsius?"

Sat a table in the back of the cafe, Anthony is furiously typing away on his laptop. Occasionally, he huffs and puffs to himself in annoyance; most notably, though, his hands are clad in thin, black gloves.

Asa lingers at his side, two to-go cups in his hands. Receiving no reply, he places one cup — espresso — next to Anthony's laptop; the other cup — tea — he sets down on the other side of the table. He takes the seat across from his husband. He waits.

After a couple sips of tea, he tries again. "Anthony?"

Anthony blinks. At last, he appears to notice his surroundings — the interruption, the coffee, Asa himself. He utters something less than savoury under his breath and straightens up, his back cracking loudly.

"Asa— hi." He smiles apologetically. "Sorry, I was—" He gestures at the laptop. "Yanno. In the zone."

Asa shakes his head fondly. "The gloves, dear?" he repeats the inquiry.

Anthony's eyes dart over to his hands and he hurries to put them in his lap, out of view. Then, perhaps because he's looking for a reason to stall, or perhaps because he's usually awfully fidgety, he reaches for the cup. He winces the moment his fingers wrap around it.

Asa, well attuned to his ticks, frowns.

"Well?" he prompts once more.

Of course, rather than respond, Anthony lifts the cup to his lips and takes an infuriatingly long sip of coffee. He makes a face — likely at the temperature of it — but powers through without a word of complaint. Definitely stalling.

.He sets the cup back down after what feels like a century. "It's nothing."

Asa merely raises his eyebrows. He knows his husband's lies when he see them.

He's right, too, of course. Anthony fidgets with his cup; Anthony glances at his laptop; Anthony, finally, slams it shut with a frustrated sigh.

Without being asked to explain, he speaks, so softly that Asa barely catches the words, "I'm trying not to bloody shed everywhere."

"I'm sorry, did you say shed?"

Anthony groans. In lieu of responding, he pulls one glove off and lifts his hand to show it to Asa. Asa gets just enough time to see that Anthony is in fact shedding — there are little white patches on his hands where the skin is coming off in thin flakes; not enough to be strictly alarming, but certainly enough to be noticeable.

"Oh," Asa says softly. Anthony hurriedly puts the glove back on.

"It's fine," he insists. "I just don't wanna— leave flakes everywhere."

"Is it very uncomfortable?"

Anthony shrugs and sniffs. He stares pointedly into his coffee.

"Anthony."

An annoyed huff. "Itches. Hurts a bit, but." A humorless laugh. "That’s probably unrelated to the shedding."

"Shedding— you're not a snake."

"Might as well be. At least then I’d know it’s gonna stop eventually."

Asa shakes his head. He considers his husband carefully over his cup of tea. "You need a break, you ridiculous man," he decides. "And some hand cream. How about we head home, stop by a pharmacy on the way and then go for a nice walk? Give your hands a rest, use your legs for once."

Anthony opens his mouth and Asa knows exactly what's about to come out of it — objections and complaints, as usual — so, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, he adds, "I've been really craving some ice cream lately…"

It works like a charm. Anthony's whole body deflates and he immediately relents, nods. "Fine, angel. We'll go get you some ice cream."

Asa should perhaps feel a little bit bad about this tiny spot of manipulation, but truth be told, he doesn't. He is always in the mood for ice cream, after all — and if that benefits Anthony's health, too, well… there's hardly any harm in it, is there?

Anthony stares at a blank page.

He knows what he's supposed to write about — his notes are scattered all over his desk, nebulas and theories on the origin of the Universe and calculations and star maps and outlines and—

But. Where to even begin? How to convey the size and the wonder and the science of the entire Universe with something as simple as words? He doesn't have the language for it, certainly not one that isn't the language of maths.

He rearranges the printouts in front of him. Then rearranges them another time. He scrolls up a page to where the title of his eventual book is, written in BIG BOLD letters — ASTROPHYSICS FOR EVERYONE. Stares at those letters for a minute or two. Scrolls back down to the empty page. Tries typing a sentence, two sentences, a mathematical equation; the letters swim in front of his eyes as they often do. Is that a d he typed in there, or a p? He rubs at his eyes.

What a terrible idea, he thinks. A book, I mean, really? Takes him ages to write even a single scientific article; the writing bit of science is how he nearly failed most of his degrees, no matter how brilliant he supposedly is.

A book.

He slams his laptop shut with a frustrated hiss, not having written even a single page. The deadline looms heavy in front of him. He needs a drink.

Chapter 2: Character Development

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // human AU, game development AU // rated T // chapter 2/?

Crowley – just Crowley – is a programmer at a video games studio, coasting from project to project with a bare minimum of emotional investment. He gets a good paycheck, his coworkers leave him alone, and, well, the misgendering really doesn’t bother him that much. So what if he’s tired and constantly on the verge of changing his job on a whim– he’s fine. Really. But then along comes Aziraphale, fantasy author, consulting writer and, worst of all, a kind-hearted bastard who still sees the good in people. So maybe there is a point to it all. And maybe it’s enough to change one person’s life.

read full chapter on AO3 here!

Crowley devours Eden in three days.

Or, more accurately, three nights.

Ever since his conversation with Anathema, he’s made sure to leave work at exactly the minute he’s done; or, if he can swing it, earlier than that. He waves off any last minute tasks Beelzebub has for him – “I’ll get to it tomorrow. Ciao!” – and, on one memorable occasion, he even turns down Aziraphale’s invitation for after-work drinks.

Okay, so that last one might have been a mistake. In Crowley’s defense, though, he was about fifty pages away from finishing the book and he really needed to know what was gonna happen to Jophiel and Angelo. At the end of the day, it’s all Aziraphale’s fault, after all.

Plus, as soon as he was done, he could buy Aziraphale all the drinks he wished for. They would also have a long talk about forms of address and how Aziraphale needs to dial it down on all the dear girls.

Problem for later, though. As it is, Crowley doesn’t wish to dwell too long on how significant it is that he’s entertaining the idea of coming out at all. If he did, he’s fairly sure smoke would start coming out his ears.

So, it only takes him three nights to finish Eden.

It goes, more or less, like this:

Every day, after work, he comes back to his sad excuse for a home – a grey, minimalist flat in Mayfair (the job does pay well) – then, he has his first proper meal of the day. He changes into his most comfortable silk pyjamas. He crawls into bed or sprawls over the sofa, sometimes with a bottle of wine in hand.

And then, he reads.

He reads with few breaks, until he’s desperate for a piss or until his stomach growls angrily. He reads until his eyes become sticky with exhaustion or until he dozes off, Eden cradled to his chest.

Eden is… well, it’s not very good, truth be told.

Crowley, as a general rule, doesn't read. That doesn’t mean he’s bloody illiterate, though. Or that he can’t tell what classifies as a good book. Eden decidedly does not. Its prose is overly flowery, it spends more time telling than showing, it drags at times. Crowley’s read a few snippets of Aziraphale’s latest writing and the difference is staggering – it’s clear the practice has paid off. But… perhaps that’s what makes Eden so special. It’s raw. Reading it, Crowley feels as though he’s been allowed a peek into Aziraphale’s most intimate journals.

Shame permeates every page. Shame and fear. It’s painfully relatable.

The night he finishes it, he can’t fall asleep for hours. He tosses in the darkness, stares at the ceiling, suddenly all too aware of every bit of his body. The way his breasts move when he breathes, the mounds tucked away between his legs, always oozing some sort of disgusting goop, the smoothness of his jaw. The rounded corners of an incorrectly designed user interface.

Come tomorrow, he’ll march into the office and once more play the role of Antonia J. Crowley, the brilliant female coder.

For now, he’s just Crowley and he’s fucking exhausted.

When he does fall asleep, it’s with the corner of Eden digging into his cheek and Aziraphale’s words ringing in his ears.

He had abandoned his skin at last and shone brilliantly, a bright sun to Angelo’s eyes. Angelo who could only smile despite the tears flowing freely down his cheeks, over the skin that tingled where Jophiel’s lips had touched it. He could still hear Jophiel’s laughter all around him. Finally, he was free.

Chapter 1: First-Time User Experience

good omens // aziraphale/crowley // human AU, game development AU // rated T // chapter 1/?

Crowley – just Crowley – is a programmer at a video games studio, coasting from project to project with a bare minimum of emotional investment. He gets a good paycheck, his coworkers leave him alone, and, well, the misgendering really doesn’t bother him that much. So what if he’s tired and constantly on the verge of changing his job on a whim– he’s fine. Really. But then along comes Aziraphale, fantasy author, consulting writer and, worst of all, a kind-hearted bastard who still sees the good in people. So maybe there is a point to it all. And maybe it’s enough to change one person’s life.

read full chapter on AO3 here!

Crowley glares at the coffee machine.

The coffee machine, clearly not considering him a worthy opponent, does not glare back, no matter the intensity of Crowley’s gaze.

It’s been a long week. Every week in the lead up to the release date is usually a long one, gah, not to mention the background talks of a brand new project. No rest for the wicked, as is the industry way. It’s this time of the year when Crowley spends his free time idly browsing LinkedIn and various tech job boards.

Not that he’s really planning on changing his job. The devil you know, right? Far less effort than endless job interviews and email chains.

So, it’s been a long week. And the coffee machine is broken. Of course, it’s already been replaced with a new one, but then thing is – the thing is, the new one is just as broken. Crowley wants to scream. He doesn’t. Instead, he bangs his hand against the top of the stupid machine and promptly winces in pain.

“Oh!” A voice from somewhere behind Crowley interrupts his miserable train of thought. “Are you okay, dear girl?”

Crowley flinches at the word, but he says nothing about it. He turns around and there’s a tight smile on his face. “I’m fine,” he grumbles. “Just–” He waves a hand at the machine. “New coffee machine. Broken piece of junk.”

“Let me?”

With a shrug, Crowley steps out of the way. “Be my guest.”

While the stranger approaches the counter, Crowley leans against a nearby counter and takes a look at him. He has blond hair, white almost, though it looks natural, unlike Crowley’s signature red. His clothes are something else – vintage, beige and brown and blue; and, most peculiar of all, he’s wearing a bloody bowtie. He looks horribly out of place against the white-grey walls of a modern game development office.

“And… all done! I believe your coffee machine is actually in a tip-top condition!”

“Tip-top… what?”

Crowley circles around the stranger and looks over his shoulder at the culprit. The coffee machine continues to be suspiciously quiet and so his gaze bounces between it and the man standing at his side. Perhaps sensing his disbelief, the stranger picks up one of the cups and places it underneath the muzzle. He smiles at Crowley and gestures for him to do the rest. Fine. One eyebrow raised, Crowley slowly reaches out and presses a few buttons on the touchscreen at the front of the machine. It whirrs and clanks and bonks and at last dark liquid pours out and into the cup.

Crowley exhales in relief.

“Consider me impressed,” he drawls. “You are a real miracle worker.”

“Oh, hardly.” The stranger waves off the compliment, though his cheeks appear to take on a distinct shade of pink. He takes a step back, putting some more distance between the two of them. “I worked at an office with this type of machine. They can be rather fiddly, so it’s no wonder you were struggling with it.”

“Well, either way.” Crowley picks up the cup, downs the coffee like a shot and immediately places it under the muzzle for a refill. The stranger gapes at him wordlessly. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“No need, truly.”

Crowley hums. “You new around here? Or are you remote? Dropped by to finally see our glorious office, did you?”

“Ah.” The stranger folds his hands on his round stomach and smiles politely. “The former. I quite enjoy these face-to-face interactions, far too much to give up on office work entirely.”

“Lucky if you got to choose,” Crowley mutters, mostly to himself. “I’m Crowley,” he adds, offering his hand for a handshake.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s hand is enveloped by one much thicker and warmer than his. “I’m a new writer. Well, consulting writer.”

Now that rings some bells. “So you’re that author everyone’s been raving about.”

“Dear me. In a good way, I hope?”

Crowley lets go of his hand and shrugs. “Mate, I don’t know. I don’t read and I’m certainly not consulted on these decisions.” Seeing a brief flash of hurt on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley sighs and continues, “But, you’re here. So you must be good.”

It works. Aziraphale’s face lights up in an instant, like a bulb with a far too high wattage. Crowley’s glad he’s wearing sunglasses. “Thank you, dear. Now, tell me, what do you do? Oh, I know! You must be one of the lovely women making art! You look like an artist.”

Two strikes, there. Women, immediately followed up by, so you must be making art. Bloody hell. At least he didn’t guess at QA. Or, worse, that he’s a producer.

With a blank look on his face, Crowley responds, “I’m a programmer.”

“You must excuse me, dear,” Aziraphale says, looking as though he does feel bad. “I didn’t mean to make assumptions. Lord knows I’ve heard enough of those myself.”

Crowley looks him up and down, making a rather clear point of it.

“Oh, yes, I know, but there really is–”

“There you are, Aziraphale, buddy, my man!”

The booming voice that interrupts them belongs to Gabriel – the creative director. Crowley sighs, already planning a strategic exit – you never want to get accosted by Gabriel, not under any circumstances. Thankfully, he’s always been the type of creative director who mostly stays hands off, letting the individual teams do their thing as they please, but, well. He’s also very talkative, irritating and horribly American.

There’s also the other matter – namely, that the new project is entirely Gabriel’s idea. Which means Aziraphale is going to be spending a lot of time chatting with the guy. Oof.

“It is so good to finally meet you in person–” Gabriel continues and Crowley takes this opportunity to slink out of the kitchen before he’s spotted.

He doesn’t say goodbye. He does make sure to catch Aziraphale’s eye, though, and mouths a silent good luck at him. Then he’s gone.

Back to the grind it is. Maybe it’s about time that Crowley called in a favour from that guy at EA. See if he can wriggle his way in there before the new project properly kicks off.

He won’t. But it’s still nice to daydream.

The first night they spend together, Geralt half expects the bard to try and jump his bones. He doesn’t, though, apparently too occupied composing his next song.

“How about -” he strums the lute, making a series of noises that Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever get accustomed to.

They sit by a fire together. Two bedrolls nearby, next to one another, and that, also, is a new sight. The bard was quick to claim a spot right next to Geralt, all while muttering something about needing to keep warm at night. Geralt didn’t protest it.

“No, that’s not quite right, is it - I should try -”

“Bard,” Geralt grunts.

Finally, the bard looks at him. His eyes widen when he notices the food that Geralt is holding out towards him.

“You haven’t eaten since we left Posada,” Geralt says simply.

And it’s not so much that Geralt is worried about him. It’s more so that he doesn’t want to have a dead body on his hands and, for some reason, the bard refuses to leave.

“Oh. Oh, how lovely. Thank you.”

He will. It’s just a matter of time before he does, Geralt thinks.

Their first fight happens when the bard stubbornly refuses to let Geralt cross through Blaviken. He learns quick, apparently, because after that first punch, not only does he not bring up the tales of a butcher, but also his scent fills with both concern and rage whenever someone else does.

Now, he stands stubbornly in front of Roach, arms crossed as he looks up at Geralt.

“No, no, no, Geralt, you don’t really want to go there, do you?”

“It’s the quickest route.”

“And it is also Blaviken! We can go around, why are you in such a rush all of a sudden?”

“I’m going,” Geralt growls at him, already steering Roach to step around him. “You can stay behind if you so choose, bard.”

This will be it, Geralt thinks. No more of lute melodies or irritating songs. Just blessed silence that he now so dreads.

“Oh for Melitele’s sake.”

To Geralt’s surprise, there’s a heavy sigh from behind and then footsteps follow. The bard rushes after him.

“Geralt, slow down! I’m coming. I’m coming! Gods, you can be so stubborn sometimes. Did you truly believe I was going to let you go there alone?”

“Hm.”

Geralt doesn’t say that he did.

The first time the bard sings Toss A Coin in front of an audience, Geralt sits in the back and fears the worst.

They have just arrived in this town and most of the people gathered at the tavern seem blissfully unaware of a witcher’s presence. The bard has gone through his usual repertoire of jaunty tunes and Geralt hasn’t been expecting him to get to this one - in fact, he’s certain the reason the bard hadn’t brought it up before is because he knew Geralt would protest it.

Now, though, it’s too late. The bard sings of elves and devils, a nicely colorized version of what had happened in Posada.

It doesn’t go well.

But rather than blame Geralt for it, the bard is furious with the crowd around him. Even if Geralt hadn’t believed the bard’s words, his posture, his scent, they all give it away. The way he puts himself in front of Geralt when they leave, as though trying to shield him from the townsfolk.

“Absurd, this is simply absurd,” the bard huffs and puffs once they’re outside. “They know nothing! How can they claim that - gods, they don’t even know you, if they had known the things you’ve done for them -”

“Bard.”

“No, no, don’t give me that, don’t tell me this is fine, it is very much not!”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Well, I think I’ve been around you enough to be able to guess, my dear friend.”

Friend.

It’s the first time the bard has called him his friend.

After a particularly bad hunt, Geralt stumbles into their room still high on potions, black veins running through his face and all senses heightened, painfully so.

The moment he opens the door, the bard begins to ramble, except he cuts himself off as soon as he looks up and his eyes land on Geralt.

The bard blinks, slowly, and the movement of his body rings loudly in Geralt’s ears. He tries not to read too much into the bard’s expression or the way his heart skips a beat as he continues to stare. Instead, Geralt continues forward on unsteady legs until his knees hit the edge of the bed and buckle underneath him. He sways, but to his surprise there’s a hand on his shoulder that steadies him

“Alright, big guy, slowly,” the bard says, his voice barely a murmur. As though he knows how loud everything is, how overwhelming. As though he listened when Geralt had told him about the potions, about their effects.

He must have.

“Come on, now. Let’s - yeah. Let’s get you sitting.”

And the bard sits with him, not a trace of fear on him, even as Geralt trembles with the aftershocks, more beast than a human.

YOU - Why did I just do that?

LOGIC (Failure) - Uh… Um…

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Failure) - The ritual you’re currently engaging in with the lieutenant is named hand holding. It is a gesture shared between lovers or close friends, typically signifying a deep bond between them.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (Failure) - Why does a man hold another man’s hand? To feel its warmth?

REACTION SPEED (Failure) - Just don’t let go! It’d be weird if you let go now!

KIM KITSURAGI - “Detective, is everything alright?”

YOU - If this signifies a deep bond… then who is he to me?

ESPRIT DE CORPS (Failure) - Your half brother.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (Success) - Oh that is definitely NOT why you’re holding his hand right now.

VOLITION - You’ve been silent for the last ten minutes. You should say something.

YOU - “Kim… do we share a more profound bond?”

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant stares at you, wordlessly. Despite his shock, he does not let go of your hand.

The lieutenant speaks in a hushed tone. You strain to hear him over the surrounding hum - the city talking, the murmurs of the past and the nonexistent future.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) - Here, at the centre of the known world…

REACTION SPEED - And now also it’s very edge.

PERCEPTION (HEARING) - …everything is loud.

LOGIC - You remember the two-millimeter hole in the world - the way it swallowed sound and sensation around it - this is different.

EMPATHY - Surrounded by the pale like this, you hear, you feel, everything.

YOU - “Of course I was.”

RHETORIC - Right about what? You realize that you have no idea what the lieutenant is talking about.

YOU - “What was I right about, Kim?” you ask.

INLAND EMPIRE - In the far far distance, somewhere out to the east, you hear gunshots. Screams of the fallen revolutionaries, a bitter wail of failure.

Then, in the south, a child’s laughter, echoing all the way from Jamrock.

REACTION SPEED - It’s your laughter. You must’ve been six… Or eight. You can’t tell.

INLAND EMPIRE - Another familiar sound cuts you off from reminiscing further.

The call of the Kineema, from that fateful morning when the sound of its engine brought you back into the world of the living - with no memory, but with the first inkling of the approaching end.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - That morning, your life began - and ended.

KIM KITSURAGI - Back in the present, the lieutenant snorts.

His lips are wrapped around the butt of a cigarette. This one is nothing like his usually preferred brand - it’s thicker, stronger and it burns unpleasantly in his lungs.

EMPATHY - In the last few weeks, ever since the pale has gotten noticeably closer, he’s been smoking a lot more than one a day.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - This abandonment of his carefully crafted habits is what makes the gravity of the situation truly sink in, more so than the porch collapse stretching on in front of you.

KIM KITSURAGI - “The Gloaming?” He glances over at you. “The end of the world.”

VISUAL CALCULUS - You were wrong, though. About the timing of it…

YOU - “No.”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your curt response makes the lieutenant turn towards you fully. He regards you curiously, but says nothing.

YOU - Noticing the look on his face, you explain further, “It came sooner than I thought.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “Ah,” he exhales. The cigarette smoke is white, much like the odourless nothingness surrounding you. It curls, mixes into the pale until one is indistinguishable from the other. “Yes, you did say it would be…”

REACTION SPEED - He’s trying to recall the exact number.

YOU - “27 years,” you finish for him. “It would’ve been 24, now. If I had been correct.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “Mhm. I thought I’d live to see 70.” A sad smile.

INLAND EMPIRE - He was supposed to. But something has changed, some shift in the ever turning wheel of events, just out of your reach - he was supposed to see 70.

VOLITION - Don’t worry. He will. In another life - another universe.

You will, too, Harry.

YOU - “Perhaps in the next world,” you whisper. The words echo loudly in the surrounding memories.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant hums in acknowledgement. By now, his cigarette is nearly a stub. He pulls it away from his lips and ponders it for a moment before outstretching his arm towards you in a silent offer.

YOU - Rather than look at the cigarette in his hand, your eyes linger on the lieutenant’s lips.

VOLITION - Stop it already. This isn’t appropriate.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Oh, would you loosen up for once? None of that matters anymore. In fact, you could…

COMPOSURE - Pay attention. He’s looking.

KIM KITSURAGI - He is. Noticing your hesitation, the lieutenant meets your gaze and nods towards the cigarette.

YOU - At last, you take it. You take a long drag, until there’s nothing more left.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Your body buzzes - not with the nicotine smoke curling in your lungs, but rather with the warmth of his skin against yours as your hands brushed against one another.

INLAND EMPIRE - You will never feel this warm ever again.

KIM KITSURAGI - “Well then, detective…” he pauses.

YOU - “Kim?”

SHIVERS - The pale swallows you both and with you, the city. You hear it, for the last time…

YOU - What does it say?

SHIVERS - SEE YOU TOMORROW, OFFICER. IN ANOTHER WORLD - AGAIN. YOU CAN STILL SAVE ME

ESPRIT DE CORPS - And another voice, overlapping…

KIM KITSURAGI - “See you soon, Harry.”

“Jaskier. Is she flirting with me?”

“Is she - Geralt, are you really asking that?”

Geralt doesn’t respond at first. He turns to look at Jaskier, brows furrowed. Of course he’s asking that - there’s no good reason why Jaskier would still need clarification - except Jaskier continues to just look at him, as though waiting for him to say something.

“We’re married,” Geralt elaborates slowly. “Why would she flirt with me if she knows I’m married to you?”

“You - if she - you think she knows?”

“Yes.”

“Geralt, are you forgetting the part where she quite literally asked you if I was just your friend? To which you responded with… oh, what was it? Right, nothing. You never did respond to that question. And this entire time you’ve really thought that she knows?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, don’t you dare just hm this, husband mine, your absolute lack of words is how we’ve ended up in this situation in the first place! And no, don’t give me that look, either, you know very well I couldn’t have said anything while I was still choking on my own blood.”

A third voice joins them then and they both look over at where Yennefer stands, right in front of them. In fact, she has been standing there for the entire duration of their conversation.