#welsey

AO3 WORK NOTES:

As usual I am nervous about posting here but I was like eh, what the Hell, I WROTE the thing already, spent MONTHS on it, might as well. Herbert and Meg continue. This wasn't supposed to be so long, I considered dividing it into chapters, but it was always meant to be read as a one-shot before the eventual ACTUAL sequel, which I might write or not (this is a pretty self-contained ending to what was opened in the last one, though the sequel is fully plotted). As their relationship deepens, they become different people I think, so I hope I did whatever I wrote, and Herbert, some justice as he navigates this difficult time---cause Meg was always different anyhow. This was fun. I love writing about them. I know nothing about medicine, American colleges, breaks, guns, house purchasing, any of that, keep it in mind as you read it and be nice this is my baby <3 Also I listened to Plainsong almost exclusively while writing the prom scene and it fits too much, you're welcome. (see the end for more notes, etc).

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Meg knew she was dreaming again, at least at first, because it was all foggy on the edges—and colorful. She felt like she was trapped in a kaleidoscope. In fact, she was trapped inside of a grand celebration, an esteemed party. There was a plastic banner with words that looked like rubbish on them, announcing the occasion with pride. To the side was a table of refreshments, with punch and food. Strobe lights were above her, a bright pink, then blue, then white at different intervals, making her hair sparkle. A bored looking thirty year old DJ who would have made it big by now if he had only been born in New York played whatever records they gave him. Several pairs of kids were on the dance floor, doing their best to not embarrass themselves.

It was the 1978 Arkham High School prom (Go Stingrays!) The air inside the place was breezy, the air conditioners blaring at full, expensive power, and Tommy was big around her. They both knew they were on the brink of breaking up, and tried to make the most of that last night. Meg even had the Farrah Fawcett hair, though everyone knew she was wearing extensions. Her mother insisted.

Around her were a lot of different people she didn't remember the names or faces of—apart from her old friends, which seem to swirl and spin close by, at a comforting distance. There was Debbie with the red hair she dreaded, the beautiful body, model-like and sinewy. There was Bobby holding her like a drunken sailor and not a boyfriend, looking uncomfortable on the dance floor. There was Peggy, and Josh, whom everyone called Pop because he was addicted to soda (wasn't he?) and when he was thirteen he drank fourteen bottles of coke, throwing up on Lenny Brown's beautiful, new Levi's pants he had just bought.

Something like that.

There was Emmy and Jimmy to their left…

A waltz of the past.

Tommy was holding her. People still, sometimes, called her Meggie. Everyone was such a tiny little thing, with tiny little names: Peggy, Tommy, Meggie... She took a deep breath. The floor was so cold, which she somehow knew even if she didn't feel it on her, and her heels were uncomfortable. The girls were wearing way less makeup than at a 1986 prom, but everyone had bright eyeshadow on.

"Interesting crowd," Her boyfriend said, steering her back and forth. Meg hummed briefly. "Your friends, I'm assuming?"

"Yes."

"Hm.” He paused. “It makes sense. And they're all rich?" Meg laughed, eyes still closed.

"Yes, and so are you. They're your friends too..." Meg stopped.

The strange cadence of the voice, the higher pitch, the contempt… Previously with her hair against her boyfriend's chest, she looked up at a face that was now her height—pimply, some on his forehead and a few on his cheeks, with braces (only on the upper teeth, blue in color), and glasses. His hair was longer, he had bangs, but the eyes were the same—the usual confidence stamped on, defiant. His glasses were a little thicker. He looked oddly beautiful to her.

She smiled as if she had seen God for the first time.

"Herbert."

"Megan," He replied, still swaying. "You look nice." Her dress was a pink one, with flower applications, and a petticoat. She had her shoulders exposed, but the frills went almost up to her neck, so no cleavage. On top of her head was a little flower crown, with tiny roses that matched the ones sewn on the fabric, and a corsage. She would keep all of this in a box, never to look at it again, until...

Oh, God! Poor Rufus…

Meg frowned.

Rufus was alive at her house, waiting for her, sleeping by the fireplace…

Wasn't he?

"You look good too. It's a nice suit." She said, instead of dwelling—and it was. A light blue one, with a ruffled shirt underneath, and a black bowtie. He had a small rose pinned to his lapel, matching hers, as if they came together and there was never anyone else.

His hands were shaking, her legs were wobbly. They continued dancing nonetheless. The song was old, a very calm 50s ballad—her school was more traditional, less disco, or rock and roll. Obviously the children hated it. Further into the night, the faculty would loosen up, and they would let the DJ play things that were more top 40. Meg used to listen to the Rolling Stones and the Who, dreaming of Roger Daltrey and Mick Jagger... Incredible days that never come back.

Everyone is still alive.

"What's the purpose of this one?" Herbert asked, cutting her thoughts, a slight lisp brought on because of the braces. She smiled at that. "Why am I at prom with you, at your school, no less?" She shrugged, feeling her hair brush against her shoulders. Her mascara was probably clumpy and she had pink rouge on her cheeks. They both looked so young.

"I think I just wanted to dance with you," Meg answered, plainly.

Living with West the past few weeks had ruined her brain. She dreamed of him every night and they were never apart when she was awake. With Ace still in the hospital, even if her injuries had been light (Ed insisted, of course, and she acquiesced. No mention of any Innsmouth ailment of any kind, which raised questions in West's mind. Meg hoped for the best), they had become inseparable. It was breakfast, lunch and dinner together, when she could make West eat for a second, and nothing frozen. They plotted, they experimented on small subjects, they wrote notes together, feverishly. They argued. They looked away and came back, but nothing happened apart from that.

So, by comparison, this was nice. This was heaven. The dry ice fog didn't exist in real life, she remembered, but dreams were dreams.

"Were you always this combative, even at 18?" She asked, continuing the conversation. Herbert raised an eyebrow.

"Did you always wear flower crowns and frilly pink dresses, even at 18?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess you know my answer.” Meg was ready to go back to resting her head on his shoulder—before she could, he pushed her away to a normal distance.

“Hey, what…” When she opened her eyes she saw her severe math teacher, ms. Dillmore, with perfect white hair in a high bun, small glasses, and taciturn expression, coming towards them.

Meg straightened up, remembering she needed to be exemplary, as usual, and fixed her hair. West still had his hands on her waist, and when she looked up at him, she caught him staring. He averted his eyes.

"Halsey, West," Ms. Dillmore said by means of greeting. Meg smiled her classic bright smile, while the woman supervised the distance. Giving a look to West, he reciprocated with another of his own caustic ones (as if she were an idiot), which left the teacher, no doubt, embarrassed. After thorough upkeeping of the morals of this school, she walked away. Meg sighed, somewhat relieved.

"Does it hurt to smile?" West pursed his lips.

"At her? Yes." He pulled Meg back towards him with no shame, and she gladly put her hands around his neck, burying her head as much as she could into his neck without smudging her light pink lipstick. They were flush together, with no space in between—very inappropriate. What would her dad think?

"Were you the prom queen?" He asked and she nodded, rubbing her cheek against the satin of his suit. "Of course."

"Hey, there was competition. I thought I would lose."

"Oh, who could possibly beat the sophomore sweetheart?"

"Debbie," Meg said, looking to the side. It was obvious. She was more beautiful—her hair was always perfect, it didn't have to be permed or fussed with too much. Her eyes were brown, but shiny. Everyone wanted to be her, including Meg, though people would agree that she was more popular. That doesn't matter as much as beauty to girls (and no matter how many men said she was the most beautiful girl they've ever seen, it took her sometime in college to forget about Debbie).

Still, when Herbert looked, he snorted a tiny little contemptuous laugh.

Meg looked up in confusion.

"She's not all that."

"Debbie was my friend."

"Oh, was she? You never mentioned her,” his eyes turned darker. “Where is she now? Hm?"

"She..." But where was Debbie? Married?

Yes! With Bobby?

With Jim? Did she end up with Pop, instead of Peggy?

Maybe Tommy…

Meg couldn't remember. She left for New York so soon after all this...

“Well, I don't know.” He reveled in it, so she felt the need to add: “She's somewhere..."

Where? None of them still talked to her.

"Hey, Meg," Jamie Andrews said, she recognized the voice. They weren't close, but Meg turned anyway. "What are you doing, dancing with West?"

"Yeah, Meg," Peggy said, looking confused. "I mean, that is a little weird..."

Herbert gave them a wry smile.

"What's weird," he began, "is that you two have been dancing for ten minutes and yet it seems like your friend's cleavage is more interesting to your little boyfriend than your own." When Peggy turned, sure enough, Pop had been staring down Benny Darling's huge... Well. Personality.

She hit him on the face with her beautifully manicured right hand.

"Hey! What was that for?!"

"Asshole!" Benny, who had been listening, hit him too, going out of her way to make sure it stung. Her date, a boy twice Pop's size, came around and he shrunk into himself. West laughed, a classic mean spirited laugh.

"Oh, isn't that nice?" He asked, looking at Meg, who looked up as well, trying not to be amused. "You have to love prom. If all of them are like this..." They both turned their heads, seeing that a full blown discussion had now started from West's snarky comment, which involved Debbie and Bobby as well, trying to mediate it. "Well... Maybe I'd have liked to have gone."

"You didn't go to prom?" West looked at her.

"It seemed like I had better things to do with my time." Meg thought that made sense.

"Congratulations, Meg," Debbie said, looking so much taller than usual, making them turn. "Tell your boyfriend to keep it to himself next time." West's eyes sparkled.

"I'll try to behave if you leave us alone." Debbie looked at him, then at Meg, scoffing.

"What's wrong with you?" She was talking to her friend.

"Do you want me to list it?" Meg asked. West smiled.

“I…! Well… I hope you two die together," she said, noisily walking away, her boyfriend on her heel. West raised his eyebrows and grimaced.

"Well… If she dies, maybe we shouldn't bring her back."

"What?" Meg asked, earnest, watching her friend leave through the front door.

None of that had happened. She had a good time with her friends at prom—they drank from clandestine flasks, though Meg not so much (always keeping herself out of trouble), Debbie was sweet, Tommy was accepting of their fate... People had faces. They didn't have blanks for eyes. There was no fog, which was closing in now. Was she always this bruised? It contrasted with her dress, going down her arms. Maybe, because she had reanimated those subjects...

She needed to visit Ace...

She wanted to rest her head on West's shoulder for a while.

"Our work, Meg," Herbert continued. He spun her around and her dress accompanied her, swaying all around like a cloud of pink and frills. The couples around her opened the space. From the top, she no doubt looked like a flower blooming in the middle of the black tar.

It was as if they weren't at her school anymore, but inside the very hollow of Hill's chest.

"Oh, yeah. That," she stopped and they were close together again, the music transiting between them, her petticoat settling. He held both of her hands, crossed and spun them around.

West doesn't know how to do this in real life. It'd be comical.

“We have to go back to it,” He said, his face close to hers again, the dance calmer, more intimate—though appropriate.

“Do we? Can't we be here forever?” She looked at him, her eyes pleading. He intertwined their fingers, looking hurt as well. The song was soft, the others’ shoes tapping on the floor made more noise, in unison—an oppressive ballad of 1978. The music was coming to a crescendo and they kept dancing, to keep up with the crowd.

“No,” He said, sweating a little. She knew it was true, she just wanted peace for one moment.

“Will you ever take me to Switzerland?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Peru.” Meg looked at him, squinting her eyes, spinning, puzzled.

Peru?

The war… Right. We were discussing that…

“Well… We'll see,” she said and kissed him softly before she couldn't anymore. It was a chaste kiss, just to have it, not to devour, but to feel.

When they separated, she looked into his eyes.

“Herbert…”

“What?”

“What…?” Meg asked, drowsy, opening her eyes. The light was assaulting them from every corner, as if its only purpose was to make her head explode. The tick tock of the Felix clock came to her ears and the smell of tea filled her body from the nostrils to the stomach.

West was close to her.

“I asked what. You called my name.” Meg, her hand now on her forehead, rubbing her temple, looked up.

“I… Did?” He looked at her as if she were utterly alien.

“Yes?”

“Sorry…” Herbert scoffed.

“Well, were you dreaming of me?” He asked, mocking, putting her mug on her hand, which she closed the other one on as well, feeling the warmth.

“No,” Meg answered, sounding a little too petulant, before taking a sip. He didn't know she couldn't remember her dreams. “It was probably just your imagination.”

“I highly doubt it. In any case, it doesn't matter,” he looked at his watch. “We have to go soon.”

“Visit Ace…” Meg said.

“Yes, but also the other thing.” It took a second for her to remember.

“Oh, yes. Right.”

Ace was happy to see them—well, Meg more than West. Whenever they went, he usually stayed by the door, austere and uncomfortable. Meg approached, left her flowers (which she always brought), sat down and hugged her friend.

“So, almost out?” Ace nodded on her shoulder, squeezing, before letting go.

“Yeah, jail has been the worst. I hate everything but the jello.” Herbert hummed in agreement. Meg smiled.

“Yes, it’s bad, but it was necessary. The bruises on your neck…”

“I know, I'm not only cool, I'm also a miracle of modern medicine.”

“That's nice, ok? And how's Ed holding up?”

“Well, now that it's completely clear I am not going to die, the hypochondriac seems to be appeased. Praise Dagon, hallelujah.” Meg smiled at the Arkham reference, Herbert grimaced. It seems like Ace had plenty of time to catch up on local literature and legend, her stash of books piled on the chair beside them.

“Well, she seems well. Shall we?” West asked and Meg looked at him, annoyed. “What am I supposed to say? She's not sick. If anything she's crowding the place.”

“Herbert!”

“No, he's right,” Ace said, not even a bit hurt. “It's ridiculous. I can't wait to get out of here and out into the world again, I mean I don't even feel any pain.”

“Well, I can't wait to have you back home,” Meg would be so relieved. She needed a buffer between West and herself, something, anything to prevent the dreams, any distraction. Ace, with her video tapes and general high energy, would be perfect.

“Oh, right… About that…” Herbert perked up, his arms once crossed falling down to his sides.

“What?” He asked.

“Well… Ed asked me to move in with him. Apparently his parents finally allowed him to bring me along to his place and though I didn't wanna hide there, it seems like the best choice.” She looked down. “I mean, I told him I liked to live with you these past few weeks, but there's been a financial problem. I lost my job, which was already on the brink anyway…”

“Oh Ace, I'm sorry…” Ace waved her head.

“It's alright. I'll get back up. Ed will help. I'll still see you every weekend and at school. He lives ridiculously close…” She stopped and admitted, “...by car. It's still kind of secluded… I'll call, too.” Meg knew she would. “Can West afford my half of the rent alone?”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

“Great! It's solved then. Sorry to leave you alone with Nosferatu, but you could do worse.”

“Nosferatu, that's rich coming from you.” Meg smiled at their little discussion. She knew he was ecstatic. He didn't want Ace around in their place of work, though she figured he didn't dislike her, though they were so diametrically opposed. Trauma changes you, and going through it with someone else… Well. It's something else.

“OK, good,” she said, before West could come up with a real quip. “I do have to go, Ace.”

“So soon? You've been here three minutes! Less! You know I love having company for hours.”

“I know, but I just stopped by to see if you were still alive. I have things to do today.”

“I wish I had things to do…” Ace said with a deep sigh. West rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you'll live.”

“How do you know?”

“It says so on that chart.” Meg smiled at Ace, genuinely.

“He's right, it all indicates you'll have a long life.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Ace said, closing her eyes and laying back on the pillow. When West and Meg exchanged a look, she didn't see it.

“It looks better during the day,” West remarked when Meg parked by her house. She held the steering wheel, trying to take deep breaths.

The seat is soft. The birds are singing. The car smells of your perfume and Hebert’s shampoo.

It's ok…

It was strange, but since Hill died she needed to do her grounding exercises less and less.

Better not think of him…

“Are you sure you're ready to go in?” He asked. She looked at him.

“Yeah. I need to do this sometime. Besides, things won't go into boxes by themselves.” West exhaled through his nose.

“You're telling me…” He opened his car door and walked into the cold Arkham air, taking a deep breath. “I can't believe you talked me into this,” he continued after she came out.

“If we clean the house, we can stop paying rent and move in or I can sell it and we can get someplace else.”

I'm dying to get some place else.

Please somewhere else…

They both stopped, looking at it. The large structure, brown in tone, was looking back, old and not so decrepit, but also not so full of life. It looked like something with teeth that would bark if it had a voice of any kind. Of course, to any other people it was just a house. No more no less. None of the neighbors even knew what transpired that night, not from the way they greeted Meg when she tried to come over the next night. Once they had gone inside and closed the door, she threw up on a bush.

West held her hair back.

“Let it all out…” He said, with a patient, but still contemptuous tone—a classic. Meg dreaded that she was learning to accept that tone and know it for what it was—impersonal, rather than callous. His way of speaking.

He spoke again, this time by light, which reflected on his glasses.

“Being the dean does have its perks after all. It is a bit too big, though.”

“Yes, I know.” Meg sniffed. It was getting too cold. “My mother used to do the cleaning, believe it or not, then me, then a maid my father hired after I left.” West raised an eyebrow.

“You cleaned?” She shrugged.

“Wasn't that hard. It doesn't gather that much dust. Rugs were the worst part.” West had his lips parted. “What?” He glanced at the house instead of elaborating.

“Let's just get this over with, shall we?”

“Whatever you say.”

Inside, it was hot. Meg stayed by the door, knowing he studied her expression. He took the lead and went in, taking a turn for the living room. By the sounds of it, he opened the windows that hadn't been broken by… Well.

Meg felt her stomach flip.

The house breathed again, but for how long?

“Come in,” West said, approaching again. She looked at him hoping her expression was not a scared one. “Don’t worry, I'm sure the undead are not here today.”

“If you didn't make any more, they probably aren't,” Meg said. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in mock annoyance.

Ignoring him with a deep breath, the feeling of her surroundings outside of that Hell as a shield against all else, Meg finally stepped in. She hoped it was the last time—or one of them.

“So? Boxes?” West asked, appreciating the effort, but not dwelling—never dwelling. She closed the door behind them.

“Basement. My dad kept a thousand of those around. We will have to assemble them, though.”

“Of course we will.” She rolled her eyes.

“Stop complaining.”

“I will when we're done.” Meg led the way, ignoring him once more. He followed suit without another word, into the kitchen and the door to its side, which was almost hidden by brooms and pots. With some effort, she brought them out and opened the place up, turning to West.

“Ladies first,” she said.

“How chivalrous.”

They went down in silence. The basement doubled as a pantry, which she had forgotten. They were faced with strong iron shelves, and several cans upon cans, perfectly aligned.

“That's useful,” West said.

“Yes, my mom… She was afraid of natural disasters.”

“She sure was prepared,” He answered slowly, picking one up and examining it. “And thorough. These are new… A year at most.”

“Yes,” Meg said, moving towards the stack of cardboard. “She was always thorough. We can take these back home later. Let's just… Focus on what's upstairs first.”

“Whatever you say.”

Slowly, Meg and West made their way through the house. They packed frames away—West paying attention to a photo of Meg and Tommy at prom night, which he lifted and showed her. She squinted at him instead of answering anything else.

“Cute,” he said and half laughed. Once done, he placed the frame inside of the box, to be forgotten. Meg went through papers from the past—mostly work related things or letters to her mother from family members that she had read a thousand times, also throwing them in a box. There were magazines (trash), phone books with numbers from the 50s (trash), and lost rings under the couch (which West retrieved and handed Meg. She put them in her pockets). When she found a picture of her parents on their wedding day, she felt tears swelling up.

Herbert took it from her, and placed it inside of his own box, not looking up.

“So, where to?” He asked, getting up. Meg dried her tears.

“Put it by the door. The man I called to store them will send someone tomorrow.”

“Yes, you mentioned. Are you sure you want to put all of this in storage?”

“Yes, I am.”

She went into the kitchen to pack cutlery, plates and cups (for keep, they'd bring it with them). The fancy things, the things her parents only brought out during dinners with friends, or parties, she decided to store. Those were not as impersonal as white plates and plain cups—she might forget that her mother once ate from the ones she was keeping, but from the ones with yellow flowers, from the silverware with gold details, the glasses with shiny yellow rims? She doubted.

Meg stared at those for such a long time, she felt it might have been hours.

At last, she bent down to get the newspapers from the bottom cupboard. It was a bunch. Another one of her mother's ideas. She thought she might someday convince her husband to retire and move to New York, to be closer to her daughter. She had shared that with her one time—then there was no time left.

“We're packing that too?” West asked, taking a fork in hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to sell it?”

“Money is not a problem,” she said plainly, ripping a page to shreds. Herbert watched as she took a crystalline glass, wrapped it masterfully, and set it aside. “I'd rather keep it. I… I don't know why.” He didn't press it. Instead, West walked up to her side and ripped a page of his own, following her lead. After about ten minutes of silent work, he spoke again:

“Have you thought about it?”

“About what? Oh. That. No, I haven't. I went to sleep right after our argument.”

The argument in question was whether or not it'd be safer and more ethical to enlist in the army as doctors, once they had their degrees and practice licenses, or student doctors looking for accolades—though it'd still take them a while to be deployed—with the eventual goal to end up in South America's newest war—or what Herbert thought was going to eventually blow up into a war—all to get subjects. Meg thought it was ridiculous and extreme, Herbert thought it was a good opportunity. No one would know they were doing it, dead soldiers were dead and if they brought them back and the reagent worked they might even send them back home safe. Imagine that. Herbert had a contempt for authority, hated teachers and policemen, but when it came to his discovery, anything was game, anything was scientific advancement. Suffice to say they didn't speak before bed—when he woke her up with tea, it was the first words they exchanged in hours.

They were used to having intellectual strife at this point. In fact, Meg was loath to admit she liked it, being challenged. At the end, it was that which made great doctors, great artists or people—challenges, as opposed to endless ass kissing. Hill had a lot of that and look at what happened to him.

“He got a little a-head of himself,” Herbert joked when she brought it up one night, his head resting on the couch, his eyes closed.

Yeah. Definitely.

“It'll be the best move and you know it.” Meg stopped what she was doing and turned to him. He piped up. “We'd be forgotten there. Here you'll always be Meg Halsey and I'll always be… Well. There? We're just two other doctors. Besides, you don't want to help soldiers?”

“I know what you're doing and I want you to stop. It's going to take forever for this plan to turn up anything anyway. We're students. There is no war,” she said, turning back to her work.

“I need an answer.”

“Yes, you'll get one—eventually.”

Meg knew he wouldn't really push it, she could drag this. In fact, he seemed to be more lenient with her as time passed, kinder even. She couldn't think of anyone else he'd spend time wrapping old furniture and home appliances with. Still, since their last conversation inside of the cursed room at Miskatonic, they hadn't spoken about anything personal. Classes were suspended for a while to grieve over the tragic, mysterious losses. Meg and Herbert were psychologically evaluated—which he was obviously not happy about, but she made him behave otherwise they'd be in jail, or at Arkham Asylum. Ed and Ace plead hysterical amnesia. No one doubted Meg, and she vouched for West. The rest was history. Corpses coming to life was slowly becoming just another Arkham legend. They'd be going back to school after the holidays—which would effectively mean less time together for other purposes.

Herbert pursed his lips and resigned himself to taking a plate, continuing his work. They were done in twenty minutes. Stepping out of the kitchen, you would see the house had been cleaned: The tables were empty, the pillows reclaimed, the cupboards void. Meg and West picked book after book from the library/office, West examining each volume with interest, putting the ones he wanted in a separate box. They took them to the entrance until the wall adjacent to the door was almost covered in piled up boxes.

“Upstairs?” Meg asked, out of breath. He sighed,

“Why do you have so many things again?” Meg shrugged.

“Don't worry. All of my mother's things are already in storage, my dad's… Well, they're upstairs. The rest of the rooms are just guest rooms that were barely used. We can take the bedsheets.”

Except all the rooms have double beds. How useful would those be, Meg?

You're single.

He's single.

He's probably gay.

What is wrong with you?

Meg blinked. The last bit sounded like her friend Debbie, which was… Surprising. It had been years since she had seen her.

Didn't she marry Bobby?

No… Pop?

Tommy?

“Meg?” Herbert asked. She looked at him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, expectantly looking up.

“Yes, of course. Let's go.” She turned and climbed step after step, nearly forgetting the last tumultuous night she had done that in her frenzy of thoughts and memories. Herbert followed her along.

Once up, she pointed, “that's mine.”

“That?” The door was open and he could see how pink it was.

“I was in sixth grade when I decorated that room, ok?” He hummed and she decided to press. “How was your room growing up?”

“Dark,” he said simply, moving on to the open door. She could kill him for his ridiculously short answers. Instead, she went with.

“OK, but did you share it with someone?” He looked at her. She crossed her arms and stared as well, eager.

“No. It was just me. I had the smallest one. Happy?” Meg smiled—a small, but meaningful one.

“Try not to mock me too much, ok?” They both walked in. Herbert looked around and landed on:

“I'm sure it was fitting for a twelve year old.” Meg knew it was the best he could do. Looking at the scenery, she crossed her arms once more.

“Imagine losing your virginity here.” It was said before she could contain herself. He raised his eyebrows.

“There, by the teddy bears or by the pictures of your ballet recitals?” She slapped him on the arm and walked fully in, going towards the window.

“If you must know,” she said, opening the curtains so the light, however meager, could come back in. “I put the pictures away. And the teddy bears.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Tommy thought so…”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Yes. How do you know?” When she turned, he had a picture of her from before she headed out to college for what she had hoped would be forever. Her mom must have put that there after she moved, like a cherry on top of the cake of history—from childhood to adulthood.

“You don't seem like the type who has sex with just anyone,” Herbert said, seemingly lost in thought. Meg approached him, taking the picture in her own hands and looking, her eyes slightly doubling. It's always a shock what the passage of time, and looking at yourself in the mirror everyday does—that Meg in the 1980 photo was decidedly cubby on the cheeks, even if she always had good cheekbones. Or maybe it was the hair.

She put the picture down.

“And you do?” She asked, trying her best to keep it light and cool, still on the same subject. Herbert straightened his back.

“Well. Not anymore,” he answered and she could see his hands closing and opening, a sign of discomfort—or abstinence.

“Have you taken any today?” Meg knew he'd understand. He waved his head, unwilling to voice it. “Ok. Let's get this over with and go home.”

“Are you sure? This was taking so long, I thought I'd be buried over there with your furry friends.”

“If you don't stop it, I might do it.” She bent down and picked up one of the boxes they had brought, already assembled, not saying anything further in that direction. “I'll get them out and donate them. I didn't have the heart to do it before, little Meg was always attached, but now…”

“Well, you can put them in storage too,” he said, not looking up as he opened the big wardrobe to the corner and started removing leftover books, brushes, hand mirrors, whatever she still stored there, putting them inside of the box. “What's a few more?”

“I'm sure the kids might find better use for these nowadays,” she said at the end, though it was sad. End of an era. Herbert shrugged.

“Yes...”

Her room was empty and hollow. Everything was boxed and marked with a big magic marker that said “WHATEVER” on them—clothes, misc objects, toys… Herbert made sure to get her father's room alone, another one of his little courtesies—and by nightfall they looked at their handiwork side by side, with the front door half open so the air could come in.

“A day of real work sacrificed,” Herbert murmured, arms crossed. She rolled her eyes.

“At least you got to spend quality time with someone, that's always good.”

Why don't you kneel and beg him to like you?

“If you say so. I still think it's better when the person in question is a subject, or a Guinea pig. Fewer questions.”

“You know I'm curious about you.”

“There's nothing to be curious about, ms. Halsey.” He always called her that when he was trying to make a point. She wanted to kiss him when he did it, which was embarrassing.

Turning that frown upside down…

“I think there is,” she said instead. “You share nothing with me...”

“I shared my life's work.” Meg stopped at that.

It was true. His most prized possession and she had a cut of it, like a big cake decorated with the most delicious flowers—and she still wanted a piece of the boy across from her more.

“Yes... I know.” They were silent, but Herbert couldn't keep it down.

“May we finally leave now?”

“Yes, God, you sound like a five year old.”

“Whatever gets you out of the door and into the car. I'm not sure it came to your attention, but you haven't eaten today and I haven't even looked at my work, college and otherwise.” Meg blinked.

“Wow… Yes, you're right.” She scrubbed her eyes with the flat of her hands. “I completely forgot we left without breakfast...”

“The most important meal of the day.”

“Some doctors we are…” She half joked, turning to the door—and yet it had been difficult to get in…

And she didn't want to go out. She stopped, static, her legs a little wobbly. Herbert called her name, but she didn't look at him. Outside, Arkham, with the full wind on the leaves, the paved streets, the university. Here, her life—in a way—her old life. Her parents, in boxes…

“It's nothing… I…” Meg took a deep breath. “Well. I never wanted to come back here, but now…”

“There's more for you out there than in here,” he said, emphatic.

“Yes, I know…” Herbert approached her and she held onto his arm.

“You'll be alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She felt the confidence and finality in his tone. It was as if a certain thing—he saw further than she could. The floor was hard against her feet. His arm was full under her fingers. The house was less warm, colder, pleasing with all the windows they opened. The boxes were looming. Someone would come for the cans they left, and they'd have food for a century. They'd never have to come back for anything. It wasn't as if she hadn't said goodbye a long time ago anyway.

“Alright… Let's go.”

On the next day, Meg asked for a good price on the house. Her realtor, a nice woman in her fifties, was thrilled to be selling a property in a neighborhood that was never available.

“So many buyers, it'll go in no time!”

“Good,” Herbert had said before she could open her mouth. Meg side eyed him, before speaking:

“Yes, well, let's hope the buyers are happy!” In her ever charming and diplomatic tone. The woman squealed.

“Oh, don't worry, they will be! It's a lovely house.”

“Yes, Meg, don't worry,” Herbert said, looking at her. “Anyone would be thrilled to live there.” She didn't catch the mockery, or didn't care. Enthusiastic people were used to others disliking them, Meg figured.

“Listen to your boyfriend, honey... Husband?” Herbert looked at her, cold.

“Business partner.” She looked aghast.

“Really? Well, you sure make a good looking couple! Are you sure…?”

“Yes, Mrs. Arden,” Meg answered, mimicking his tone. “We're sure we're not a couple.” She dismissed them with her hand and a big smile.

“Don't worry about anything then, business partners. I'll make sure everything is settled.”

Once in the car, Herbert spoke up.

“How obnoxious.” Meg put the key in the ignition.

“I thought she was nice,” she said, turning it.

“No you didn't. You wish you did, because she looked nice. But you didn't.”

Great, soon he'll be able to tell you dream about him every night.

Maybe I don't. I don't remember them…

Be honest, Meg. Be honest…

“In any case,” she said, now moving the car. Herbert turned the radio on. “She’ll do the job. She's well known for selling quickly.”

“Hm. I hope so. At least we can finally focus on other things, a luxury these days. May I remind you the work has been rather stagnant thus far?”

“School is back soon. We might be able to…”

“To what?” Meg didn't know. Going to the morgue was risky now. People already either treated them like a poor little victim or a serial murderer—obvious which was which. Getting entangled in something else would be bad for business. They might even get thrown out for good, though Riley, the new substitute-soon-to-be-official dean, liked her. Every time he looked at Meg, she could see he still saw that little girl who thought he was Santa Claus—and that was good.

You think like him more and more by the day, Meggie dear.

“Yes, well,” she said, taking a turn. “Maybe we should spend some time scouring cemeteries or something...”

“Scouring cemeteries? Please. You wanna dig up bodies in the middle of the night?”

“You want to go to war?” She asked, looking at him briefly. He pursed his lips. “Sure, a probable war, but that's still about the most irresponsible thing I can think of…”

“Watch the road, Meg. Don't get nervous.”

“I am watching the road. God! Herbert, it's a bad idea. I don't think either of us are really equipped to go to Peru, now or in a few years. Or to enlist!”

“We unearthed a cat once, so we're experts at doing that?”

“Better than seeing thousands of dead people everyday, better than to participate in carnage…”

“We are doctors. Carnage shouldn't bother us.”

“Regular, everyday carnage shouldn't, sure. This is something else. I think we're being too hasty here.”

There was a pause in which only the sound of the motor could be heard, and her mother’s tape, faintly playing in the background. She sighed

“I think the cemetery thing is a nice alternative for now. We don't have anything else on the horizon.” He continued to be silent. She turned her head for a second, with a smile. “You know it's a good idea.”

“Is it? Where would we get a cemetery, hm?”

Meg shrugged.

“Ed.”

“Ed?”

“Yes. This was Ace's idea, actually.”

“The goth girl, of course. You don't have to remind me that now there is a crowd of people who know about everything…”

“Just listen, ok? Ed's family owns the cemetery, it's adjacent to a property they have in the outskirts of Arkham.” Herbert raised his eyebrows.

“So?”

“So, Ed told her we could get the records of people who would have their bodies donated to Miskatonic anyway, which his family is in charge of. People who don't have anyone else.”

“People without families, you mean? Homeless people?” Meg nodded.

“Or people who donated their bodies to science? Anyway, no one would come looking, other than maybe the dean, if we overdo it. I thought you might like it.”

More and more by the day…

“I don't really have a choice, do I?” Meg parked the car at their garage and turned the engine off. Another pause, where Meg tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, choosing her words.

“You have to trust me, Herbert,” was what she went with.

“If I didn't, I wouldn't be here.”

“No, you'd be in a fictitious Peruvian war, getting shot.”

“I'd be in a fictitious Peruvian war getting results.”

“Remember what happened last time you just got results?” She asked, looking at him. He pursed his lips and remained quiet for five peaceful seconds.

“The cemetery idea is more unethical than the army idea. Not every single body will be donated to science. Yet, you're offering to do it. Why?”

Wow, how observant.

As usual.

“Because…” She turned to the windshield and the garage wall. “Because I decided to do this with you. And because I wanna know if this thing is really gonna work. I'm not willing to go to war yet. Or enlist.”

“But you will, someday?” Herbert asked.

“If this is not sufficient, yes.” He took a deep breath. She couldn't understand why this mattered so much to him. It could come to nothing.

Still Herbert seemed satisfied, for now.

“Alright.” He turned his body to leave the car but she held him back with her hand, closing it on the fabric of his ever present black suit.

“This is… This is sort of a weird question…”

“Another question…?”

“...Did you have braces as a teenager?” Herbert looked at her, then to the side, then to his seat, trying to think of how in the world this question could possibly be relevant to anything… “Sorry, I… Let's just…”

“I had them on my upper teeth, for a time. Clearly my bottom teeth were left behind, I… Lied to the dentist I would continue to do my treatment in Switzerland. I suppose it was not a lie at the time. Why?” Meg waved her head to fend away the shock of the easy answer.

“Nothing, I don't know. I… I don't know.” He looked at her as if he didn't believe her.

Did I dream of it? Herbert in braces… How?

It makes sense… A lot of kids had braces.

“Well… Let's get something to eat.”

Herbert was in his room, looking at his notes thoroughly, trying not to think of the fact Meg was asleep—or supposedly asleep—in the next room over. The same old routine as the last weeks he had been living there with her, which turned out to be a good deal: The place wasn’t as expensive as he thought, which made sense considering the size, especially if compared to the esteemed Halsey mansion. He had space to work, or as much as he could get, and the street was quiet—the neighbors didn’t even stare at him when he left. Compared to his last situation, it was enough to get his undying gratitude, which he didn’t usually give out willingly.

Herbert tried to concentrate on his chicken scratch, remembering every teacher that had once squinted to read what he worked on. The comforting thing was that it was a common notion that a messy handwriting meant a higher IQ—in some circles. In any case, it didn’t help him. His hand was shaking, and though it wasn’t a part of the deal that he would stop using it, he knew Meg would be able to tell if he did.

Incredible. Three weeks with her and she owns you.

And that. That nagging little voice. It was worse off of the reagent, not that Herbert would ever admit to needing any sort of help taming his thoughts. He was good at that, which is why he was closing the notebook and throwing it onto the pile. Coffee would make him sharper… That’s what he needed.

Was she dreaming of me?

Ah, yes. He couldn’t forget about that either. He opened the door of his room in slow motion, stepping into the hallway on the board he knew didn’t creak. He walked from there to the kitchen, looking briefly at Ace’s things still around, amused.

Not for long. She’ll be gone soon…

He didn’t dislike her. For a goth witch she was alright, more trustworthy than he would have given her credit, or would say out loud. Her idea of getting bodies off of the cemetery was promising, considering everything—especially Meg’s disregard for sound logic. They'd be better off enlisting, even if not now. The army might have a strict policy about corpses going freely around. So, they’d be seeing Ed tomorrow, she had called him and laughed on the phone all the way. Herbert had tapped on the couch, looking at how she looped her fingers on the wire, and tried not to think too much about anything. He knew there was nothing to it—Meg wasn’t that kind of person, neither was Ed, but the familiarity did it for him.

She doesn’t laugh with you. She scoffs.

Herbert took the pot and washed it, in a sort of ritual. The clock kept ticking incessantly, but he figured it was better than complete silence. He poured the powder, a lot of it, and the water. Arkham was cold outside, but in there it was almost merrily cozy—a word he had missed for the past… Entirety of his life. His dorm room in Switzerland was the closest to an actual home for him, and it was polluted with voices from outside, people being brought in, and the crushing weight of recent discovery and secrecy. When he showed his work to Grueber, an enhancement of the master’s own, he had been almost nervous. He didn’t sleep, with Erich by his side, warm and almost comforting—but never completely. He played the music even then, all night long.

West sat on the kitchen chair, checking his watch and the clock. For what?

For the time to wake her up, of course.

Meg woke up at seven am. He needed to get there earlier under the pretext that he was just bringing her tea, and not trying to eavesdrop on any more name calling. It was like being a teenager again, not that he was ever a normal teenager. That was reserved for people who grew up in better places. All he needed to do was succeed.

When Meg asked him about sex, he did his best to answer. He had sex for convenience, sure, sometimes, as a release, but not… All the time. He preferred if people he didn’t know or like didn’t touch him. He preferred if others left him alone.

He got up to get his coffee. Three am on the dot and he felt his body decaying with every minute that passed. He needed to sleep, but his dreams had been… Erratic, lately. A side effect of the reagent, maybe, or being exposed to it in any capacity. He couldn’t ask other subjects to see if they had it as well, so it was a wild guess—also his best. He wasn’t the sort of person who dreamed as vividly, but…

“What are you doing up?” Herbert would have jumped out of his skin if he wasn’t the kind of person who makes others do that instead. So, he looked up. Meg was standing with her hair in all directions, yawning, and wearing pajamas. He tamed the feeling in his stomach and watched as she, without any ceremony, walked up to the table and sat down.

“I could ask you the same thing.” She shrugged.

“Nightmare, I guess,” her speech was drowsy, she was only half awake.

“You guess?”

“I can’t remember my dreams properly. I never could.”

Hm. There’s your answer.

“I see.”

“Yes. I remember the sensation of it. I think I was dancing at my high school prom the other night. It definitely felt like it, after I gave some thought. Anyway… Dreams are not that important anyway.” “They can be if they keep us awake.”

“Well… You’re awake.”

“I was about to go to bed.” “After drinking coffee?” He crossed his arms.

“To some people, coffee can act as a calming agent.”

“You aren’t using it anymore. Why?” She had to ask questions, a thousand questions, and what was he supposed to do, answer them? No, he’d sip his coffee and maybe she’d be less nosy. He had thought sometimes of what it would be like to have a partner—a business partner—who was less pushy: Someone who would let him drag them anywhere without restraint, someone who would go through things without a word. Well, Meg wasn’t that. He couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not.

“Herbert,” she began again.

Definitely not pleased.

“Don't. I'm tired.” She hummed at that.

“Sure,” instead of doing what she was in the habit of doing and pressing, she laid her head on top of her arms like a high schooler trying to score a nap in history class. “Tell me about Switzerland.” He almost choked on his coffee.

“What?”

“Tell me about Switzerland. Anything.”

“You want a bedtime story now?” None of his quips were packing punches anymore, he knew, not against Meg. They were, at first, even through his infatuation, but now… They sounded more lenient, like he was playing instead of fighting and accusing. Any of his so-called friends from before would be shocked.

“Yes, a bedtime story would be nice…” she answered, without any kind of shame.

“Hm. And you'll remember this tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, we’ll see. Maybe not…” She sounded like she was going to fall asleep in the middle of his telling… Which did give him an idea. If she did and murmured his name, he'd know she was dreaming of him.

You are fourteen years old, aren't you? Don't you have better things to do than humor her? Actual work, for example? Or do you want to end up like Dr. Hill and his incredible 26 inch television, his incredible file on a student to show for…

“I went when I was 18, forfeiting an education here. I had… Have an inheritance from my parents. It's where my money comes from.”

“Is it a lot of money?” Meg nearly whispered, cozy on top of her arms.

“That is personal.”

“You know I'm rich…” He thought about it for a second and acquiesced with a small, annoyed sigh.

“No. It's not a lot of money. It would have been a decent amount if I hadn't gone to college abroad, or here. As we stand, I'll be able to live on it for a few more years at most. Enough time to graduate and start working. In any case, I thought you wanted to know about Switzerland.”

“Yes… Chocolate.”

“There's chocolate here as well,” he said, trying not to sound amused at her nearly childish tone. She sighed.

“Go on.” He tried to think of it for the first time since he arrived. It wasn't that long ago, three months? But he didn't want to dwell on it. Dwelling was painful.

“I didn't see much. I brushed up on my German, my French… I studied. I stayed inside the dorm with my roommate.” The dorm was beige. Outside there were wooden planks, a nice flooring for a nice institution—the best. He killed himself to be there, he bent over backwards…

Meg hummed.

“Were you two close?”

“We were acquainted, yes.”

“Did he talk to you after you left?” Herbert looked down.

“No. He didn't.”

“Hm…” she paused. “Did you have other friends?”

“Some. Most were put off by how much time I spent with Grueber, I suppose. So in the end, not many.”

“Did you have a boyfriend?” Meg had her eyes closed and the question was so soft it was almost inaudible. He looked at her fixedly for a few long seconds, before answering:

“How do you know it'd be a boyfriend? Why not a girlfriend?” Meg shrugged weakly.

“Well, my roommate was a lesbian, so I thought maybe…”

“Fascinating correlation. Was Ace a lesbian?” Another shrug.

“You said you wouldn't be interested in me and for me not to…” Herbert waited. He counted the seconds, one, two, three, four…

“Meg?” He snapped his fingers next to her ear. “Meg!”

She woke up with a jolt, looking around herself.

“Jesus! What…? Wait, where…?”

“You are dreaming. Go back to bed.” With that, he got up and went to his room—his coffee cold and forgotten.

The house by the cemetery was big, but decrepit. It was built in Queen Anne style, with a large porch, which was now stained with moisture and overgrown plants—like the rest of it—making it brown and gray. Upon getting out of the car, Meg thought that it might have been pretty sometime in the past, when people still lived there. The more she stared, the more the place seemed to have a certain quality to her. It looked quirky, but fixable. It looked like it could have been someone’s home.

Herbert didn't think so.

“Garbage…” he murmured.

“Don't say that to our host.”

“I'll say whatever I want,” he continued, contrived.

“More and more like a five year old…”

“You bring it out in me, Ms. Halsey,” he said.

“You two start early,” came a voice from behind, which Meg recognized as Ed's immediately.

“Hey, Ed,” Meg greeted, closing her door. “I'm just cranky. Not enough sleep.”

“Oh, you too? Hello,” He said to Herbert at the end. Herbert nodded his way. “So? Do you think this will do?”

“It depends,” Herbert began.

“On what?”

“Why are you helping us?”

“Herbert…”

“Nath is helping you, I’m just helping her do it.”

“Yes, I'm sure the Darby-Pickmans being so interested in potential medical investments has nothing to do with it.”

“My family is really involved in this whole medicine thing, not me. Still,” he approached, “that does mean that I am in an unique position to help your research. My family will eventually push me to do what they think is the greater thing, which in their head is something like this. I spent my life in hospitals. I still do. My mother is a hypochondriac, my father…” Meg saw as Herbert turned into an aggressive cat, ready to bear teeth and claws, like he had at Hill before. She lowered her head

“If you think for one second I’ll let you exploit my discovery, you are mistaken.”

“I’m not…” Ed said, looking at Meg for support.

“This is important to us, Ed,” she said, putting her hand on Herbert’s forearm, which seemed to appease him a little. “I’d rather we have a deal. Even a contract sometime, though that would require a lawyer…” “A contract?” Ed asked, “Like an NDA?”

“Something like that…”

“Well, there is no need. Not one word will be breathed from me, I swear. Meg, what we went through in that hellish night should be enough. If it wasn’t for your quick thinking, Nath might have died and she likes you. She only wants to help. What I said about my family is that if they eventually push me to do something like this, at least I can tell them I helped a few friends in college. I promise, that’s all.”

“Is it?” Herbert asked. Meg held him tighter, though not enough to hurt. He pursed his lips. Ed smiled.

“Scout’s honor.”

“Hm. Let’s take a look at what you have to offer and then we’ll decide.”

Meg nodded at that.

“Good idea. Let’s just go in.”

“Alright, but don’t expect the Hilton. As West said, it is garbage,” Ed said, before going ahead. The other two exchanged a look, before quickly following along.

The house didn’t look half bad inside, only dusty. The furniture was mostly there, though half covered in several sheets. The walls were stained, but not molded. The floors were sturdy. Still, upon giving two steps, Herbert sneezed.

“There’s probably still toilet paper in the bathroom, I’ll get it for you,” Ed said and left the room. Immediately, he turned to Meg.

“Do you think this is wise?” Not even a sniff. Meg opened her mouth.

“Did you even sneeze or did you just do that…?” “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. He repeated, “do you think…?”

“I don’t know, is anything? I think maybe we just have to see all of our options before going into the minefield.”

“The minefield doesn’t ask questions or have a medically inclined family.” “But it’s not Ed who’s interested in this...” “Yes. Yes, he made it quite clear that it is your gothic friend who seems to be wanting in.” “Herbert, don’t talk about Ace like that. She is my friend. She is our friend. You two just pretend to dislike each other. I know that you weren’t crazy about her coming to live with us, but that doesn’t mean…”

“Found it, here you go,” Ed said, walking into the room. Herbert smiled at him with tightly closed lips. “Thank you,” he said, taking the paper and leaving it somewhere else when Ed turned around. “Shall we?” “Certainly, follow me.”

Meg and Herbert walked side by side. When their hands brushed, Meg could feel the slight tremble on West’s, so slight, but still somewhat noticeable—especially because he had steady hands. She watched as he wrote, word upon word on the white paper in bad, but perfectly still handwriting.

Ed opened the door to the backyard. From there, you could see the cemetery, not too far.

“You Darbies like to keep death close, I see,” Herbert remarked. Meg was shocked by the size of the place, and wondered how she had never heard of it—there was a gate, fences, and a litany of different crosses staring back at her. “I hope this doesn't speak of the success of your medical endeavors.”

“Well, my family is strange like that,” Ed said, ignoring the last part. “That’s your place. You can use the house, Ace and I no longer come around to live here and my parents never come in general. The basement is sizable, West, if you want to take a look.” Herbert looked at Meg, but she was still looking at the cemetery.

“Meg?” He asked. She turned to him.

“Oh, right. The basement, sure I’d like to see it too.”

It turned out that the Derby property was perfect. Ed continued saying that there was a groundskeeper, but he wasn’t going to bother neither West nor Meg, at his request—and some bribery on the side. He also gave them a schedule of the place, with the marked for donation bodies in red.

“As long as you leave something for the school, they won’t know you took anything. They don’t have this list, the groundskeeper gives them the number.”

“How convenient,” Herbert said, scouring it. Meg knew he wouldn’t admit it now, but with the list in hands his eyes sparkled. The light of the basement dangled from a wire and moved ever so slightly, changing the expressions on his face from side to side. She admired that for perhaps a beat too long, so when she looked at Ed again he had a knowing expression.

She looked at the wooden table instead, putting her palms down on it.

“What did you use this house for, again?”

Good one.

“My family lived here, before my dad married my mom. My grandparents made this into a pantry, hence the shelves…”

“I see. And no one will show up, are you sure?”

“Positive. My mother seems to forget the place even exists. It's been for sale for a while, but no one wants to buy it because of the, you know…”

“Looming cemetery? Yes,” Meg said. “How much are you asking for it?” Herbert’s eyes snapped up.

“What do you mean?”

“The house,” Meg said. Ed looked at her curiously. She looked at Herbert. “I’m selling my dad’s house and I… I don’t want to live my life paying rent…”

“And you want to live here?” Herbert asked.

“When was the house built?” Ed looked up.

“1909, I think. I mean, it’s solid, we’ve done all sorts of tests, no termites or anything. No mold either. It needs to be painted, though, the furniture needs to go…”

“Ok.”

“Meg,” Herbert said, putting the list down. “A word?” Ed looked from him to her and raised his hands as if to say “not getting involved in this,” which Meg thought was wise.

“I’ll wait for you two upstairs,” he said, taking his leave swiftly.

“Yes?” She asked as soon as the door closed.

“Have you gone insane?”

“Maybe. Look, the place is good. I liked it the moment I walked out of the car. It’s a hunch. It would be useful for us.” He put his hands on his waist—his fighting stance. “We’d have to do a lot of work to fix it, have you thought of that?”

“I could hire people, I have money…” “...Which won’t last forever…”

“...No, but we’re doctors. We’re supposed to make quite a bit…”

“...Eventually. Have you forgotten that the past few weeks weren’t exactly easy? This could be a symptom of grief. You are desperate to move on, making… Unusual moves.” “It is not unusual,” Meg said, suddenly angry. “And who are you to say anything about unusual moves?” The light on the ceiling illuminated both, tenuously, dangling back and forth, like the Felix clock in Meg’s living room, which she could faintly hear in her head.

It must have been high school she dreamt with the other night. She always felt this way when she dreamt of those times, even before… It made her feel as if she needed to go on, to move on to better things as fast as possible. And sure, maybe Herbert was right, but so what? It’s not like anyone decides things with an absolute certainty of the outcome—that’s not how it works. People feel as if they know what’s going to transpire, but feelings are hardly anything to go by, if her own feelings about him were to be taken into consideration. She knows that it would be a bad idea, she feels it, but sometimes she wonders if it wouldn’t be the best thing to just let it out…

Maybe it’s not the best time to think of this, not when he’s so close.

“Herbert,” she began instead, resolve fixed, eyes firm instead of wandering. “Buying this house will be a good thing.” Maybe. Maybe a good thing, but if he can be so sure of everything, why couldn’t she? He was always so arrogant, maybe she should borrow a little bit of it.

“Let’s wait,” he said, instead of arguing. “You told me to wait. It’s your turn.”

Fair enough, she had to give it to him.

It didn’t occur to Meg at first how intimate that discussion had been, not even when they were saying goodbye to Ed in front of the house, aptly numbered six-six-six—as if someone liked to play pranks on people who wanted to live near cemeteries—not even on the drive home. No. She was in bed that night when a faint notion that maybe it was strange for her to be buying houses with men she wasn’t in a relationship with, and even stranger to let them weigh into the decision of purchasing or not purchasing, of taking cans from her family’s basement or not... It was even stranger how she kept the plates and sheets for them, how she carefully made a small nest in that rented place for them both, when they slept in separate beds and had separate hearts.

In any case, they were going to the house tomorrow night, and they were transferring all the equipment there. A long day ahead would distract her from the weirdness, though she found it wasn’t entirely shocking anymore—she had said goodbye to her suburban dreams and normalcy the moment she chopped a large intestine with an axe to save the man sleeping one wall over.

“Night one,” Meg said onto the recorder. It had taken them a few rides, and days, to get everything settled on the lab, but Meg was impressed by how much they had done. The space was big, bigger than they had both thought at first, and as they worked together to make it into something feasible to operate in, it burst forth like a vision of greatness. Even Herbert admitted that “this would suffice,” which in his language might as well mean the place looks like all of his dreams come true. Yay for small miracles.

“December first, nineteen-eighty-six, ten-forty pm,” Meg continued as West looked at the corpse in front of them. The caretaker, a Mr. Johnson, let them know that a new one would come along in just a second as soon as their car stopped on the driveway.

“I have to give it to him,” Herbert said as he lifted one side of the black bag and Meg the other, carrying the poor former-soul into the basement, “He doesn’t seem to care about what we do here.” Turns out the girl was fresh enough; she had died a mere half a day ago—and it was a girl, of nineteen, which Meg was almost opposed to if she didn’t have faith that maybe they’d be able to save her somehow. Isn’t that what they were there for? Saving people?

“Subject died of an aneurysm. There was no one to claim her body other than an uncle, she was a borderline orphan.” At least that’s what Mr. Johnson said. Her uncle claimed she always wanted her body donated to science, however it was more fitting. Came, went, didn’t pay much attention to forms before signing them in record speed. Herbert pretended not to be happy, (“Half a day plus the time it’ll take for her to get here? That's too long…”) and though this was good, Meg wondered about other things. She had heard stories about the Derby-Pickmans growing up, stories of people they didn’t like turning up dead. Mr. Johnson said that the relative didn’t want anything to do with the girl because she was a junkie before Herbert took her out of there.

“Herbert…”

“Don’t get attached to the subjects, Halsey,” he said. He was right. It was a slippery slope.

That girl’s cheeks would be full had she still been alive.

She even looked healthy for a corpse…

“Halsey,” West said and she looked at him. She realized she had stopped talking.

“Sorry,” then, after clearing her throat, “no apparent heart failure or disease of any kind on her chart, but also no family history… West will administer twenty cc’s.” They waited a few seconds. Meg chanced a look at Herbert, the girl screamed and she was sure that things would go more or less the same way.

Instead, when the corpse followed the course of their bottled life, Herbert did something else: As Meg tried to thwart its advances towards her, he reached into his black leather bag and pulled a gun, shooting the girl on the back of the head.

Once the corpse dropped dead again, Meg dropped with her. Her blue eyes were twice their usual size looking at the oozing blood coming from the wound, which spilled and stained the beautiful wooden floor beneath. The room was spinning, so hard she pressed her palms down as a reflex.

“What… What…”

“Meg,” Herbert said, kneeling beside her. He tried to shield her from the girl by holding her to him, but she did as Meg usually did and gripped his forearms, trying to move him away.

“You have a gun… How… When…”

“I've had it for a while. Americans should really have better control over these things.”

“The girl…” Meg was looking at her once red, now sunken cheeks.

“Let's just go upstairs.”

“Well…” Herbert said in the living room, looking at the coffee table. Meg had her head on her hands. The furniture was good, underneath the sheets—old looking and well preserved, with the flowery cushions still comfortable, and only lovingly worn. “The subject was clearly not fresh enough.”

“Are you serious?” Meg said, looking up. “Herbert, you shot her.”

“Yes. And if I hadn't, she'd have attacked you like the others. Would you like to have ended up like Ace?” The gun was nowhere to be found, probably still on the table, beside their equipment.

“Since when do you know how to shoot?”

“Well, it's not rocket science. Besides, the subjects aren't exactly fast.”

“That girl…”

“This is what you get from asking too many questions,” he said, like a worn out master, fixing his tie in the mirror while she had another mental breakdown.

He left the room and came back with a can of coke they had stored in the fridge for later. He handed it to her. Meg held the can to her temple, feeling the cold seep into her skull in increments, praying it'd freeze her brain. Herbert sat beside her, the couch giving in to him.

“You didn't tell me. About the gun.” He smiled, sardonic, a smirk of pure contemptuous prediction that said ‘I know you’. It made her feel two things: Humiliated for getting caught and thrilled she was.

“Was this ever really about the girl?” He raised an eyebrow to punctuate the question and Meg wanted to hit him with the can. It was a good question. She didn't know what was more disturbing: The fact he owned it in the first place, under her nose, inside her house, or the fact that there were still things about him she didn't know or couldn't predict.

“What are we going to do with her?” Meg asked, instead of answering. Herbert looked at his watch.

“We'll bury her in the cemetery, where she was supposed to be buried. That's what your deal entailed. Work. A lot of it.” She nodded, looking down.

“Freshness might be a factor,” Meg continued, finally opening her can of coke and leaving the other thought behind. “The subject was healthy.”

“She looked like it, yes.”

“What do you think we should do?” Herbert smiled, but it was a humorous one, not a real one. Meg could tell the difference now, so she dawned a little more of her can.

“Killing people.” She opened her mouth, nearly spitting the liquid, but he raised his finger. “You offered to do that once, remember? Still, it might prove too messy. I think we both know where we'll get ahead.”

“There's no war. There might be no war. We have to work with what was offered to us.” But he was right. She had to face the fact that he was right. They were silent for a moment, Meg trying to think of anything other than what had happened—when her eyes fell on his hand, the closest to her. She took it and he didn’t flinch. “You’re steady.”

“And?” He removed it from her grasp. “I’ll let you know…” “Yeah, I know. ‘I’ll let you know not to ask questions, I’ll let you know my life is none of your business,’” Meg said, giving a botched impression. “Clearly it isn't… Whatever. I give up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll leave you alone. I won’t ask anything anymore, other than…”

“...Well, it seemed too good to be true…” “...Promise me you won’t hide something like this again. Please.”

The room was silent, but the wind was still strong, banging on the window, threatening to flung it out of its frame and into the wall.

“Fine. Next time I get a gun, you’ll be the first to know.” Meg was silent to that. She drank the rest of the coke can in almost one go and politely left it by the couch, where he knew she’d come back to pick it up.

On the drive back home, Herbert and Meg were dirty, her once pristine skirt now ruined until the next wash. Their bones were sore, their limbs feeling like they were going to fall off. Still, West thought that the only thing worse than Meg asking a thousand questions was Meg being completely quiet, at most humming a song, while driving—not even a sliver of attention given to him. Even as they worked to bury the unfortunate subject—another failure—she remained resolute. Sometimes, she’d bit her lip, or her eyes would light up in a thought that was no longer available to him as usual. He feared that in his reticence he had finally torn something in their relationship, like a muscle or tendon.

It was bound to happen.

You get attached, but you don’t want others to know.

You never give yourself up.

This is good.

When she finally hates you, you can pack your bags and leave.

Go do what you need to do, alone.

You don’t need her.

You don’t need anyone.

When she parked the car, all she turned to say was: “I’ll order pizza.”

He munched and munched on the plastic consistency of the dough, the cheap sauce, the artificial cheese, while she simply looked into space or the beige wall, sometimes accompanying Felix the Cat in his eternal motions.

You wanted to know when that Meg would come back, perhaps you got it.

She wasn’t laughing, but this was worse than hysterics, this catatonic state.

“Good night,” she said, with a meek smile, and when he looked at her plate, her pizza was nearly intact.

Herbert stayed in the kitchen longer, looking at the table. No one who looked through the window would be able to decipher the expression on his face, to read the lines on his brow or the corners of his mouth—Not even Erich, his former roommate and occasional lover. But Meg got close to it without even trying.

I can’t think of you packing cutlery and plates for Erich, at the very least.

But giving himself away to her or anyone was foreign. Too foreign. His work, the utmost extension of him, a limb, was more important than any words about his past. His work was himself, his inner person, what the Christians would naively call a soul. He closed the cardboard lid, threw Meg’s pizza out, washed the plates deliberately and left for his own bed.

“Day four,” he spoke into the recorder now. Four times they had done this in the course of three weeks, four different subjects. Johnson said this was going to be the last one for a time, the rest going to the university. Meg and Herbert had been used by now to the digging, to the dirt underneath their fingernails, to the heavy lifting. It just seemed routine. “December twenty-fourth, nineteen-eighty-six.” Meg stared at the subject—an older man in his fifties, naked, with a big gut, sleek hair and white eyes staring at the ceiling—a trucker who had died during a regular job right outside the Darby property. Neither of them were there when it happened.

“How lucky,” Herbert had said, trying to get a rise out of his partner. She simply nodded, continuing to look at her own notes. Meg had taken to mapping the subjects’ times of reaction, like he did, but also the violence of their behavior, how good their vocal cords were, how preserved they sounded. She wanted to keep one alive now, to see what would happen overtime, but this man wouldn’t be it. Neither of them could trap one this big.

Herbert asked her if it wasn’t more cruel to keep one. Meg said that they had already committed the ultimate sin—they played God, they woke them back up, they should see if overtime the reagent worked, see if it was only a matter of monitoring and waiting. He had to admit she was right. They disposed of them too quickly. Still, there was a dead look on her face when she said that and he knew her cheeks were hollower than usual.

That and he started using again, which he knew she noticed.

“Halsey is administering 20 ccs, the usual dose.” With stellar aptitude, she removed the air from the syringe and pressured the back of the neck, puncturing it.

Herbert was perhaps too fascinated by the movement, he so seldom saw Meg at work, that when the subject woke back up, he wasn’t fast enough. Gripping him by the throat, it, in the usual anger, raised him high. He clawed at his hands, hearing her footsteps away from the table and in a strange, incoherent way, he thought she might be finally going away forever.

Instead, taking the gun from the bag, Meg shot the subject on the leg. When he moaned in pain, dropped West, and turned towards her, she slid the gun to Herbert in a quick move—who then finished him off. Both looked at it when it fell, but neither accompanied it.

With ragged breath, putting his hand around his throat, Herbert looked at his partner. He was aware that this show of emotion was the most he had managed to get out of Meg in several days—and it was so fleeting that she took a deep breath, recomposed and said: “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

He had to admit the house was more comfortable than he expected. They spent all their time there now, only going to their actual home to sleep, shower and, sometimes, eat. The couch was comfortable, the flooring agreeable. He never cared about aesthetics other than to keep himself clean and well groomed, to give away the best impression—the rest, as the bareness of his room at Meg’s house would attest, was inconsequential. Meg, however, delicate as she was, still paid attention to such things. He knew she liked to sit in a properly furnished room. Such is what happens when you grow up rich, he supposed.

She didn’t put her head on her hands this time: She looked at the coffee table, deep in thought.

“Failure,” Herbert said. “Not fresh enough.” “Yes…” She murmured, before staring up at him. “I have a proposition.”

“Yes?” She took her latex gloves off pointedly, dropping them on the hardwood coffee table, where they stood like bright blue spots, out of place.

“You’re using it again, you won’t stop using it. I don’t want to meddle in your life, you clearly don’t want that… I… I want to monitor it.” “Excuse me?” His tone was indignant. She remained impassive. “Remember at Old Miskatonic, when you found me? I asked you if it had any side effects on you, you dismissed me as usual.” He looked down, not wanting to be directly confronted by how his “dismissals” might have hurt Meg—he felt like the past three weeks of sole work talk had been enough. “I want to know.” “What for?” “The reagent needs work when it comes to dead tissue, clearly. What about living tissue? You don’t have to sleep as much, you are sharper. Let’s say you were sick, really sick, cancer or diabetes, something that might potentially end your life—could the reagent be used in that context as medicine?” “My reagent is not medicine...” “Our reagent,” Meg said sternly, sinking her eyes into him. He stared back. “I help you make it, I know it inside and out, I read your notes thousands of times. You said you gave me your work—it’s ours. I want to monitor the effects of this thing in your body. I want to run tests on your form now, then I want to test you on your withdrawal. I want you to stop using it for a time and if you want to, you can go back.” “So you want to make me into your guinea pig?”

“Are you opposed to it? You can say no. If you do, though, I’ll take it upon myself…” “...You’ll start using it?” “...And I’ll conduct the tests. Yes. I’ll do what I need to do. We’re not being objective enough: We’re focusing on death to get to life, but maybe we could prevent death.”

“Why, because it is less blasphemous?” Meg wasn’t having it. She sighed, getting up from the couch and going towards the kitchen, to wash her hands.

He followed, as he usually did, looking at her from the frame.

“Are you in or out, West?” She asked, the water stream only partially drowning her words. “I’ll do it anyway, I figured it’d be better if I didn’t get addicted to it. We should also test for that.” He waited until she turned the faucet off, until she looked out of the kitchen window into the cemetery gates—a beautiful view for any housewife.

With spite, he answered: “Fine.”

“Good. I’ll need to know when you use it, how you prepare it, how weak it is. I’ll take notes. All that.” Meg looked at the wall clock they kept in the kitchen, which she had recently bought batteries for. Turning around to go back to the basement, she wished him a “Merry Christmas,” before running down.

Meg was a diligent researcher. He didn’t expect any less, but he wasn’t used to being what was being researched. She took note of his habits—he injected himself whenever he felt “withdrawal” coming in, which he refused to name. It usually came at night, every two days. “Your use is not as frequent as I thought,” she said, sitting on his bed in his bedroom. Her blonde hair, now a little curlier and shaggier, fell over her shoulders, her bangs almost dominating her forehead. Her white sweater was impeccable, with a stethoscope hanging from her neck, and her notebook was balanced on her covered legs. They had just come from seeing Ace at the hospital—she’d be released soon and the Darbys planned on throwing an engagement party next week.

They were invited, of course. Meg said he didn’t have to go.

“It shows what you think of me.” She nodded.

“I suppose.” She wrote a perfectly cursive line of information. “Five ccs is all you administer, always?” “Yes.” “You never deviated? I’m not judging, I need to know.” He acquiesced.

“I deviated once, administered ten ccs, but I had… A headache.” “How strong?”

“I threw up in a trash can before class.” Meg smiled at that, thinking of the scene, before waving her head. He was grateful for that flash of normalcy, but didn’t say.

“I’m sorry.” “It was a long time ago.” “Zurich?”

“Yes.” Meg wrote it down. She wrote everything down. With the stethoscope, she got up.

“Open your shirt.” He did as he was told, trying not to think of whatever else he wished Meg did in close proximity—lest it starts showing somewhere else—when she put the cold object against his heart. When he involuntarily made a strained noise, she grimaced.

“Sorry. Rushed heartbeat. Do you feel it?” Herbert looked at her, confused. “No.” “You don’t? Huh,” she stepped back and sat down. He watched her pen.

“What did you write? ‘Subject is unable to tell when his heart is rushing?’” “No,” Meg said, not looking up. “West is unable to tell. Not ‘subject.’” She looked up. “It has an effect on your appetite, on your sleeping habits. Sex life?”

“No.” I’ll say. “However… Well. Nevermind.” “What?” He wondered if he should tell her. He didn’t really believe it mattered, but he knew that if the data was skewed, they wouldn’t get anywhere with this—and he wanted to know as well.

“I’ve been having… Dreams. They’re erratic. I never had vivid dreams, so this is new.” He buttoned himself back up. “I have correlated it to the reagent’s effect on my body before. I’m not sure that is the case now, but there’s no way to verify, is there?”

“No,” Meg said, making a small note. “Did you notice any difference in the brief time you were not using it?” Herbert waved his head. “What’s the longest you went without it?”

“Two weeks.” “In two years?” He knew how that sounded.

“Without it I can’t work, can’t concentrate. People drink coffee, it enhances their senses and you don’t see that being discriminated against.’

“Coffee doesn’t raise people from the dead.” “You haven’t met the people I’ve met, clearly.” Another smile.

“Coffee was discriminated against,” she said, instead of dwelling. “It was considered to be a drug for a time.”

“Aren’t you the know-it-all?”

“Glad to be of service.”

Meg monitored when Herbert injected the reagent at the end of the two days, documenting the initial reaction—the jolt, the even more rushed movements and heartbeat—before withdrawing to her room. It was around that time when his erratic dreams became solely about Meg, as opposed to Meg being only a prominent character.

They had breakfast together, then made their way to the Darby property to tidy up their lab. They spoke about work, Meg spoke about her plans and where she’d keep their subject for monitoring and he brought up Peru, but she dismissed him.

“Soon enough we’ll be able to sleep in this place,” he remarked, sitting at the kitchen table. It was clean, they made sure—or Meg made sure and he followed.

“Yeah, maybe. I still want to buy it.”

“You do?” She hummed.

“In any case, Johnson will have a new subject for us eventually, maybe it would be best if we slept here…”

Never a word of anything else. It suited him fine, usually. They had done all they could, they focused on the right things, but unfortunately his longing and obsession for Meg had evolved into something deeper. Her coldness, once desired, now seeped inside of his skin and nested.

At home, she opened his shirt and felt his heartbeat.

“Bigger rate than when I monitored before, which is expected considering how fresh the reagent is inside of you. Do you feel tired now?” “No.”

Two days later, she came back.

“It’s the same as it was on the day I tested you first. Seems regular. I’ll test it one more time, but then you’ll have to stop.” Herbert wondered if this wasn’t a secret ploy to keep him clean. In any case, he nodded, closing his buttons up.

“There’s something else I need to do.” She raised a scalpel, which he kept on his desk. “We need to know if your tissue is regenerating at a more rapid rate.”

So he cut his finger and bled, dripping on the carpet.

Herbert observed her just as much as she did him, lost in her work. When he met Meg, she had been a regular college student, with a bright future. Now, it was as if she had been sucked dry.

On the day of the Darby party, she looked fresh again. He had never seen her dressed up for such an occasion, which was supposedly formal. She had a black dress and her hair up—earrings and a necklace, discreet, but pleasant. He was trying not to stare.

“Are you coming?” She asked.

“I was under the impression you didn’t want me to.” “I didn’t say that. Ace told me to bring you.”

Ace told her. Did you hear that?

He closed the book and smiled, sardonic.

“I’m not sure I’d be the best company.” Meg nodded.

“Alright. Good night, West.”

He made some coffee and watched television while studying the frankly dizzying and uninspired material they were supposed to brush up on for the next year. He couldn’t wait to go back to the hospital, to get out of the house and perhaps recover himself—even if he thought there might not be a way to do it, not easily. In a childish way, he wished he had taken his chances and gone to another European institution. He wished he had never met her, Meg who used him as a guinea pig and who he wished kept using him and using him.

Distracted, something he despised, he flipped the channels and tried to focus on his own notes, a new formula he had been working on for the reagent, and a ridiculous exercise in boring academics.

Your little Meg problem is worse than you thought.

But he knew—he knew it the moment she opened the door of that very house and said no to his face. He knew that when he went back for her. They had gone over this, over and over…

He noticed it was around three am when the door of the house opened again and a giggling Meg walked in.

That’s new.

“Oh, you’re still… Of course,” she said, tossing her handbag on the couch beside him, on top of his books, burying herself in the chair. “God, I haven’t been to a party like that…”

She stopped dead in her tracks, looking at the wall. Herbert observed her lip tremble, her face flush red, her breathing become labored, all before noticing she was starting to cry. It was as fast as it had ever been––laughing in one second, tears in the other—streaming down her face as freely as anything else.

So Meg is a cry-baby drunk.

Are you really surprised?

“Meg…” “Don’t.” She said, her stern tone back. She dried her tears with her hands. “You don’t have to pretend you care, it’s fine. That part of our contract was rescinded.” “Meg, you’re drunk,” he said, mimicking her tone. She laughed.

“God Herbert, you are a genius.” “Meg. Go. To. Bed.” She scoffed. “No, why should I? What if I want to watch TV? You’re not my…”

“...Clearly I’m not anything to you...”

“...Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What I wanted?” “Obviously!” She said, altered, then closed her eyes, pressing her palms against them to ward any oncoming headaches. “Whatever. I’m sorry for intruding into your studies.” “Meg, look at me.” “No.” “Meg, look at me.” She did as she was thought, mercifully. Her eyes were bloodshot and her lips were swollen. She didn’t look pretty, but it was Meg. “I don’t care about you? Is that what you think?” “Yes.” “So you speculate about my love life, make assumptions about my affairs, make assumptions about my “addiction,” then about my feelings for you...” “...Which are none.” He clenched his jaw. How to tell Meg that wasn’t true? It had been easier with everyone else he had been with—sex spoke its own language. His half feelings for Erich notwithstanding, Meg was the closest thing he ever had to something that seemed real.

Don’t say anything.

“Go to bed,” he repeated. “If you want to talk about this in the morning, we can. Not while you are in this state.” “You just don’t want to talk about it, period. Herbert, I…” She stopped herself. He looked at her sharply.

“Yes?”

A silence.

Tick, tock, tick, tock… “Sorry. Nothing. I’m going.” Meg got up and walked, tenuously, her high heels in one hand, handbag forgotten, to her door. Inside, he could still hear the muffled sounds of tears for a few minutes, enduring it as much as he could, debating whether to stay there, to go where she was, what to do in general.

He closed his books afterwards and retired.

Inside of his dream, Meg had a bob cut. She looked fresher than current Meg, whose eye bags and worrisome gestures—shakes and trembles she didn’t notice—were overcoming her.

This is Meg before I got to her.

She had a violin when she sat back with him. They were in Zurich, he recognized the walls, but not that this was a dream—even if the black outside of the windows that sucked up the trees would have been almost painfully obvious.

“Your ex-boyfriend knew how to play this?” She asked, playful. Herbert had a smile on his lips despite himself.

“Yes. Quite well.” “Really? Did he teach you?” Herbert waved his head. Meg looked down at the violin, observing the beauty of it, running her hand through the shiny wood, the polished sleek look of the neck, the peg box, the pegs one by one, the scroll… “It’s a nice instrument,” she said and he could have coughed at the observation, had he not been better at controlling himself.

“Yes,” he agreed, almost lamely.

She put her face to the chin rest, the melody she played was the same Ace was listening to when they were driving to Miskatonic, so long ago. He could almost not bear to hear it, and before she could get to any of the beautiful parts—the parts Erich would stress, the parts he’d study the most—he took it out from her hands and put it on the bed. Empty handed, Meg looked at him, and he placed himself onto her, kissing her with abandon.

In his dorm room it didn’t feel foreign to do something like that—even before he and his ex-boyfriend, as Meg put it, had an agreement they were engaged in such a relationship, he had others, men and women. Meg was different—soft, satisfying to touch, as if she were warmer than most. He let his hands roam her body, touching her blue cashmere sweater, her breasts, her jeans, her thighs… Meg lifted her own hands to his tie and to his neck—before kindly and gently squeezing it. She did it with only one at first, but her second hand joined over the other, tightly, until he needed to gasp for air, leaving her lips with regret.

Meg lowered him to the bed and landed on his growing erection, not being made better by the choking sensation she alternated between tight and soft. With her legs on either side of him, he was surrounded. When Herbert looked up, he saw that it was his current Meg, with her longer hair, though not as soft, with her bags under her eyes… So instead of moving her hands away, he held them in place with his own.

“Do you think I’d be happier without you?” She asked. He nodded and she pressed down. The sound he made was quite literally strangled, similar to the one he made in his own bed, in real life. “I don’t,” she kissed him, pushing his hands away to hold his shirt’s collar with fury. He gripped her wherever he could, moaning into her mouth. In reality, he'd find after he woke up, he was doing it against his pillow, the wet spot of drool forming on the case, the desperation visible on his limbs as he shook and convulsed in lonely, broken pleasure.

Meg listened to it in muffled sounds, but falling into a drunken sleep of her own she at first couldn't identify it for what it was, couldn't put the pieces together. Before their conversation in her room, she had figured that Herbert, if not gay, was nearly asexual. Even then, she’d probably be shocked to know how much it all hurt. By the time she realized what he was doing, she was too overwhelmed with sleep to think about it any further. It was a mercy, as Herbert only got louder.

When he woke up he was sure he had seen some semblance of whatever religion had promised him in the shape of his dream partner's body, as she had her way with him thoroughly and absolutely. Of course he took care of himself right after, and felt an unpleasant wave fall over him. He had never dreamt of something like that. His Meg dreams were usually tame.

Nonetheless, it seemed that daylight was coming through the window. Time to work.

When college resumed, everyone assumed Herbert and Meg were in a relationship. It made sense with their cover story, their living arrangements, and with their time spent together. They made no mention of correcting them. They also never spoke about their night after the Darby party.

The next subject came two weeks later, in the form of a twenty six year old man. He had brown hair, an olive, tanned complexion and brown eyes. In another life, Meg thought she might have gone for him. Herbert thought the same, observing his bone structure.

She spoke into the recorder and when he woke up, Herbert waited before he shot him. Too big to keep inside a cage.

“It’ll most likely have to be a woman,” Meg said. He nodded, taking his gloves off.

“Still. We’re wasting our time, clearly.” “Yes… I agree.” A truce. They both put their hands on the table, side by side, looking at the dead man among them. “What now? There’s no war.” “Yet. Do you agree I was right all along?” She sighed, rolling her eyes, but with a smile on the corner of her lips.

“Yes. Sure. I do.” “Do you still feel like living here?” Meg pondered.

“Yes… I do. It’s nice, nicer than our other place.”

“Yes. I agree.” It was as if the air had been cleared a little. Herbert’s hands shook as he gripped the wooden table.

“Open your shirt,” she said, and took the stethoscope from a nearby spot, feeling him, hearing his heart, which beat for her at that very moment. “Your heart rate is surprisingly normal. It only rushes when you’re under the effect of the thing. Your wound did heal fast, but we won’t be able to tell unless we do it again.” The reagent did have side effects on living tissue. They’d need a bigger place, more people, a controlled environment to really be able to tell—so Meg said she’d do it next, at least to have someone else go through it.

“If it’s not dangerous to you, then I should be fine, right?” Herbert couldn’t oppose the idea directly, but he didn’t like it, no. “I’ll do it next week. I need you to keep yourself clean so you can monitor me. Can you do that?” Herbert adjusted his cuffs, tidying his tie next.

“Yes, of course.” “Good.”

He slept like a log when he wasn’t under the effect of the reagent. He almost wished he still had it just for the dreams, which ceased. In the kitchen, with a cup of coffee, he went over that day’s lecture. He and Meg hadn’t found the time to be together lately—her hours at the hospital were swapped and she had nightly duties. He hated to admit that he waited for her to come back to sleep, his classes being in the afternoon.

Her own tests started in the morning of that day.

“This thing is making my head hurt,” Meg said when Herbert handed her her tea.

“I forgot about that.” “For how long did you have headaches?” He didn’t remember right away. “Two, maybe three weeks.”

“Fantastic.” Then she was off.

He wouldn’t see her again until two am, when her key turned and she opened the door.

“Hi,” she said, putting them in the bowl.

“Hi. How was…” He gestured, vaguely.

“Pleasant, as usual,” she said, breezy. He exhaled. It was nice to have a semblance of old Meg back, though he feared it might be short lived.

“You’re working..”

“I was looking over the… Whatever this is,” he said, indicating his books. Meg sat with him. He looked at her, examining her features. “Tired?” “Not at all, not yet” she said. “I should be worried, but I’m not. Another side effect, maybe?” “Maybe,” he said. He didn’t know if it had an effect on his emotions, made him more confident, more aggressive, more assertive. It had been too long. “Maybe we should monitor that.”

“Yes.” She didn’t seem to know what to do: Go to the living room or sit with him. Things were better, but nothing was officially patched up. “Did you leave some coffee for me?” “No. Do you want some?” She waved her head.

“No. Not really.” Herbert stared at her for a few seconds more, before hanging his head back down, writing a sentence.

“Hm. You haven’t eaten either.” “That’s my line.” Meg tentatively sat on the chair. “I doubt I’ll need food for a while. Or I won’t feel like I need it. The headache is still here and I… I had the strangest dream last night, when I did sleep.” “I thought you didn’t remember your dreams,” he said, but his interest was piqued, even if his eyes remained on the paper.

“I know, but I remember this one. We were in Zurich. We were in a dorm room, but it looked like my dorm room in my old school. It was kind of beige. I was sitting on the bed, listening to you talk in a language I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t even hear it properly, like it was muffled, so I was looking out of the window into this dark, black patio, and outside there were our corpses, walking towards the school. I tried to warn you, but you weren’t listening. The music inside the room was really loud, but I could still hear their moans, our moans. Like the dead.” She shivered. “I think after I started crying out of fear, you came towards me from behind and hugged me. We stared at them as if we knew they were coming towards us to kill us for what we’ve done, what we had become, but you still held me and I held you. Something like that.” Herbert held his books tightly.

“Consider seeing an analyst about that,” was what he said, forgetting the delicate nature of their unspoken peace arrangement. Meg took a deep breath.

“Yeah maybe, or, I’ll take note. It could be the reagent. I remember the dream, which is not usual. Anyway, I have to study…”

“I dreamt of you as well.” Meg looked at him—something he hated when she was this expressive. It was like being stabbed over and over again—or what he felt that would probably be like.

“Oh…” She sat back down. “What was the dream about?” West pondered for a few seconds what he would say.

Lie.

Don’t lie.

Nothing changes what happened.

What you feel, as ridiculous and base as it is.

Tell her and let her run away. You’ll be free.

“You and I were in my dorm room, in Zurich.” The Felix clock tick tocked, back and forth. Herbert refused to look up, closing one of his notebooks and casually picking up another.

“In Zurich?” Meg repeated. He sighed. “Yes.”

“Strange. Was it similar, the dream?” He wished he hadn’t said anything now.

“Not… Quite.” “How was it different?” Meg asked, interested.

“The events were different. There were no corpses. You had a violin, like my roommate at the time. You were admiring it. You played it.” “I never played the violin,” Meg said. “Well, except one time when I was little. My dad took me to a teacher and he only ever taught me one song, the girl with the flaxen hair. Debussy, right? I trained for so many weeks to play for my parents, but then they lost interest and so did I.” Herbert was stunned. Meg looked at him. “What?”

“Erich played Debussy, it was all he played. He played even after we…” He trailed off. Meg looked down, with a smile.

“I see.” “We had an arrangement at the time, which wasn’t exclusive. I brought other men… Other women.” She looked up.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

“Well, I thought…” “You thought wrong. You assumed, which is what you do.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, raising her hands in defeat. “Anyway, I know how difficult it is for you to talk…” But it was like a stream of incessant water now, pooling under him, gripping. “We were having sex, in the dream I had,” he continued and she stopped, statue-like, listening. “You played the song, la fille aux chaveux de lin. The same song. I stopped you from doing it, God knows how incessant Erich was, and I kissed you instead. You choked me, you put me down on the bed. The rest you can imagine.”

“We…” Meg trailed off. She swallowed, but he felt strangely light. Another book was opened in the beat it took her to complete the sentence. “Why were we having sex?” Herbert lost patience, looking at the clock,

“Why do people have sex Megan, hm? For pleasure. For fun. Because they want to.”

“You…” “Yes,” he said, a strangled whisper, so similar to the one he gave her in the cursed room so long ago. The weather was nearly warm again, pleasant. His eyes held the same expression they held when they buried Rufus and when she injected him with the reagent. The begging to be understood.

“I heard you,” she said. “You… I… I dreamt of something similar. I can’t remember everything, but I’ve been dreaming about you for months, I can remember that.”

“You murmured my name. You asked me if I had braces as a teenager.” “Yes. I did. I think I dreamt of you as my prom date, or something.”

Out in the open, it all seemed at once banal and urgent, small and gigantic—as if it was obvious to everyone but them.

She laughed, pathetic and strained. “I was obsessed with you.” “I was obsessed with you.” He repeated.

“You came back for me.” “You came back for me.”

It was all there.

“I thought you didn’t want me...” “Meg,” Herbert said, hunching his body over the table. She did the same. “I gave you everything.”

“I… I know.” He wasn’t convinced. “Do you? Because it doesn’t seem like it…” Getting up from her chair, the fastest of them considering the green liquid flowing in her veins, she made a short way to his chair and pulled his tie up, kissing him. Herbert got up and grabbed her waist, pressing her against the table. There was no dream. The hardness of the material against Meg’s back, the desperation, the lack of space between them, it was all real. Herbert’s hand went under her blouse, feeling the skin of her waist. She made a strangled sound and he panted against her as she touched him where he most wanted her to: Closing her hands over his throat and squeezing.

They were laid on top of each other, naked in the morning light, her lamp bathing them in yellow. Her bed was comfortable and warm with the hours they had been together there.

“You’ll bring me back if I die, even if I made you promise not to.” It was a statement.

“Yes.” Meg smiled instead of flinching. She buried her face on his neck and kissed it.

“Me too,” she murmured against his skin. There was a silence while he let that information sink in. “Maybe we can’t promise that.”

“Maybe not.”

She got up gracefully, light—lighter than he had even seen her—and he looked up at her, sure he was staring as if she were some otherworldly waif.

When she turned around to face him, she couldn’t help but think of the last time she had looked upon him without glasses on, so this was a rare moment of vulnerability. In fact, she felt like sleeping with him might be that—considering he didn’t do it often, and if he went back to using it…

She didn’t want to think about it, the thing going through her, doing God knows what.

Instead, she smiled at Herbert, nude, observing every single one of his features.

West opened the door, looking at his watch. They were about to walk out of the house when the phone rang, imposing, drowning all else. Meg, eyeing him, went back to get it.

The Halsey property had been sold.

“Congratulations, Ms. Halsey, you are rich,” he said when she gave him the happy news.

“I was rich before.”

“Well, you’re richer.”

A week later they acquired the property at six-six-six. It wasn’t half as expensive as Meg’s parents’ house had been—and it couldn’t have, considering the cemetery. Meg and West spent their time studying, practicing and fixing everything they could on their own—not only cleaning as they had before.

After that, Meg hired help—men who built and banged away at her request.

“Are you living your suburban fantasies now?” Herbert asked from the porch, where he was banned to. She sat beside him, feeling the withdrawal from the reagent, her test finally over. Neither of them were using it now, but she wondered if it was just a matter of time. The studies had concluded similar results. The differences were the dreams and the rate at which she healed up—West was faster. Prolonged usage and all that.

“Not really,” she answered. We’d have to be married for that.” Herbert picked another book from the stack and hummed, opening the large volume up. She continued. “If we get married, I’ll go with you. To the warzone.”

Herbert looked up at her.

“You’re serious?” She nodded.

“It’s easier if we are married. No separation.”

A beat, but only a small one, went by. “That can be arranged,” West agreed. Then he snickered. “A wonderful honeymoon in Peru. I’m sure little Meg dreamt of this all her life.” “What did you dream of?” He waved his head. “I never dreamt I’d get married. It wasn’t one of my priorities, as you must know. I didn’t grow up like you. I’d work, I’d be a doctor, I’d get a prize…”

“...No girlfriend, no boyfriend, no wife.” “No.”

“No children,” Meg said.

“I’m not really the fatherly type.” “Me neither,” she said, finally admitting it out loud, her biggest sin as a woman, the thing she never even told her mother. Herbert didn’t care, he simply stared back down at his books.

“Good. At least we won’t argue about that.”

When the hammering got too close he flinched away from the door. She laughed under her breath.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be done soon.” “Sure, we all know how reliable construction crews are.”

“We can go home,” Meg suggested, but Herbert waved his head.

“We are home.” Meg smiled at that and kissed him. He held onto her and she fought the urge to climb on his lap, no matter how much she wanted the proximity they had in the dark of their room where they panted and moaned with no fear of being heard—especially in such a secluded place, and especially with Herbert around—Herbert whom she was learning the language of, and who was so good at picking up her cues she couldn’t believe it.

“I’m a doctor,” he told her the other night, gently caressing her body up and down under the light of their new master bedroom, looking at her breasts, her clavicle, her neck…

“That doesn’t mean anything, trust me,” she said, burying her fingers in his hair and pulling him up to her, kissing and kissing, his naked body flush against her own. He was loud, he was sometimes submissive, sometimes controlling.

She didn’t mind it, she was the same.

“It’s getting warmer,” he remarked. “I heard we might have a new subject soon.” “Good. It was getting stale.”

“Really?” She smiled.

“A woman can’t live without a little bit of work.”

“Yes, I’m sure a woman can’t.”

“Ms. Halsey,” a man said from the door. She turned. “We’re going away for the day. Mr. West,” Herbert nodded at him.

“Good, thank you.” They watched as one by one the men who fixed up their house retired their tools, got into the cars and left.

“Shall we?” Herbert asked, getting up before her, looking down. She smiled.

“Yes. Let’s go to bed. We need some rest.”

That night, on the news, the war broke in Peru.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

END NOTES:

Cool! I don't consider the ending to be a cliffhanger, you can imagine more or less something similar to bride happened to them, though I have plans I might execute between now and 2026. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Meg and Herbert really became comfort characters for me to write about---as different and unique as a made them, barely fanfic at this point---and I'm glad to come back to them when I'm feeling overwhelmed by life™ Thanks for reading <3

AO3 Work Notes:

Hi! I'm back. So, the characters are kids in this story, so don't expect MUCH because, y'know, I'm 26 and I'm not a television writer. Originally this story was going to be very different---basically Re-Animator in High School, OR something that would go from Herbert being transferred, all the way up to senior Prom. I'm still on my Meg/Herbert thing, but I liked to have written abt Dan, finally. Trying to get some affection for his character like other people have. If I write a second chapter of this, I might continue on this path, but as it is, it is a one-shot. I'm also aware that HS for these characters would be in the 70s, but I decided to bump it up to the 80s because I watched more 80s HS movies than 70s. Cause that wasn't a thing that much. It made more sense in my head.

It’s 1986, Meg is sixteen years old and Herbert West has just transferred from God knows where to sit in front of her in class. He is a small, slender, pimply, soft-spoken—barely spoken—bespectacled boy who does his work quietly apart from the snickering she sometimes hears when—she presumes—the teacher says something he thinks is stupid. He is stellar, does amazing in everything except for humanities, and flees the scene almost before the bell rings.

Dan doesn't understand why this is such a big deal. She closes the locker with a louder sound than she means to.

“He's weird Danny, is what I'm saying.”

“I don't know, Maggie…” he says back. Danny is a beautiful boy. He has the tan, he has the height, he's just as stellar as West, including humanities and sports, and he's the perfect boy. They navigated school together and everyone assumed. They allowed that. He was a common childhood comfort. They've always been close. Someday they'd probably be closer. It was the natural order.

“Maybe you're suffering from classic high school popular girl syndrome.” 

He was half joking. She resented the half.

“What?!” 

Now she was walking. The hallowed halls of Miskatonic high are a shroud, shapes and colors zipping by… West was one of these shapes. “Look! There!”

“Yeah, I saw him, Meg. I'm not blind. Listen, Herbert is a quiet kid, but he's nice...”

“Did you talk to him?” She asked. Dan started with a non-committal noise, which then escalated up to a shrug.

“More or less? He asked me where history class was, I pointed.”

“Dan, I'm sorry to say but I don't think a five second conversation is enough to make sure someone is nice.”

“And sitting behind him thinking he's weird because he's quiet is? Have you tried talking to him?”

No, she hadn't. It hadn't occurred to her to do anything so simple.

Meg fixed her bag.

“No one knows anything about him. I didn't ask around or anything, but the girls and I were talking. He's just… Silent.”

“The girls being your cheerleading friends or your debate team friends? Cause you know which group is nicer.”

“The debate girls can be a little rough, but they mean well.”

“Maybe Herbert does too. Maybe you should just talk to him.” They were reaching the doors by this point and Meg hadn't noticed. She let the light bathe her, like a metaphor for the enlightenment Dan had just given her—but she wasn't willing to let him count his victories yet.

“OK, fine. I'll try to get him alone. If I try it with a group he might claw at me like Rufus.”

Meg was always involved in school activities. The place was her father's Alma Mater—her mother's too, but she cared less about it. Her dad had been involved in extra curriculars, she was involved in them too, and sometimes the teacher, Ms. Dillon would let her stay back to practice the flute. 

The only instrument Meg ever got the hang of was the flute, more or less. Sometimes she wondered if it was because she thought she'd look prettier playing the flute—and played a little harder whenever that thought came through her synapses, to get better at it. 

The truth was probably much simpler: She had taken her parents’ old vinyl records and played the classical ones when she was little and it was time to pick an instrument to play. She liked Prelude to The Afternoon of a Fawn by Debussy too much and the beginning was the part she liked the most. Meg was playing that very piece, to get it just right.

She never thought she'd actually do anything with her playing other than to just exist in something that wasn't a grueling study for a long career as—who knows. She didn't want to think about it. College seemed daunting right now, the future a scary thing made up of juggling a career and a baby, just like her mother had. Just as it was expected of her. The music room was quiet after hours and the peaceful atmosphere of the silence that engulfed her made her want to fill it with music.

When Meg was done, she put her instrument in the case and bent down to get it, same routine as ever. Her footsteps always shocked her for their noise when she stepped out of the attuned room, so she was still adjusting when she absently turned her head to the side and saw West inside the study room.

He didn't look up at her. There must have been thirty books beside him. Meg was a bolt of lighting hiding away from his view and he didn't even notice it from his spot. She just breathed in and out against the coldness of the lockers, which went in an infinite row.

Meg had spied over his shoulder in the classes they had that day—not to cheat off of him, she was alright on that front… Could be better in History which West wouldn't help her with anyway—to see if he, I don't know, doodled on the paper, wrote on the margins, looked a little more human. Like he had something in there other than just studying. His handwriting was bad, which she counted as a personal victory, but there was nothing else. He didn't even glance elsewhere, just forward. 

Just down.

Just at her from the door, with an eyebrow raised. 

“Yes?” He said, as if she had knocked on his office and he had answered. When she looked back at him, she must have had a bad expression, because he looked away.

“The room is available, if you want it.” Softly spoken, but with an edge to his voice. This was the first time they exchanged words, Meg noted in her head. Usually she was part of the group of society people who welcomed others, made them more comfortable—but before she could get to West she was warned against him. He wasn't impolite. He was just… Snarky. People usually let him be. With his grades, they actually regarded him as a mad genius of sorts. 

She had grades that were just as good, but her extroverted personality denied the genius part. 

“No… No. Sorry I interrupted you.” She smiled and extended her hand. “I'm Meg. Halsey.”

“I know.” He went past her, ignoring the gesture. She just stared.

Nice? Dan thinks he is nice? This is unbelievable.

She followed. 

“You're Herbert, right? I think we have class together.”

“You think correctly. You sit behind me in Algebra, and you look over my shoulder a lot.” He didn't turn when he talked to her, keeping his eye on the doors. “Having troubles, hm?”

“I'll have you know I haven't had trouble in algebra since I was twelve. Even less.” She knew her tone was chilly. He just hummed in response. 

“Then stop looking over my shoulder, Meg. Halsey.” 

He opened the doors and left without another word.

“He said that?” Dan asked. They were in his car, outside of a fast food joint. She had a small soda cup in hands.

“Yes, he did. So much for ‘nice’, Danny.”

“Look he seemed OK,” Dan said, throwing his empty cup on the trashcan, missing the hole. “Great.”

“You know I hate when you do that,” Meg nagged as he opened the door and did his little walk of shame. She sucked the last of the soda from the straw plucked through the hole in the plastic lid and wished it were Herbert's heart instead. And that it'd hurt to stab it.

When Dan came back, he closed the door and she rolled her eyes.

“Listen, I'm sorry, ok? He was nice every time I talked to him.” She looked up. “Ok, maybe nice is a strong word…”

“Every time?” Meg asked, putting her empty cup in the cup holder with some force. “What other times did you talk to him?”

“Well… We have chemistry together and the teacher assigned us as partners.”

“When?”

“Recently!” 

Meg couldn't believe this.

“And you were holding out on me?”

“I thought you two would patch up in time, you'd find Herbert is fine, it'd be OK. I had no idea he'd be such a dick.”

“Well, he was.” They were silent, the words fading in time. She looked at the happy couple coming out of the restaurant and wondered why she couldn't be like that with Dan. 

Dan looked at the floor. 

The car was warm with the pleasant, incoming summer air. It was unusual for the warmth to be there so soon. Maybe she felt it because she was so angry. She looked down at the straw inside her cup.

“Do you want me to talk to him tomorrow?” He asked. Meg waved her head after a second of thinking.

“No. I just won't talk to him again, or look over his shoulder or even breathe in his direction. He can go die somewhere.” 

She put her seatbelt on and Dan drove her home. 

Megan smiled for the photo. The newspaper photographed her for a story, considering she had just been elected sophomore sweetheart, or something. The flash made her eyes sting. She left to go to the music room to play the flute. She played for more than forty five minutes and when she left, she ignored Herbert inside the study room.

During the summer, she and Dan finally became a thing. Everyone thought it was happening already, so the announcement was met with sweet confusion. When she kissed him for the first time, it was under a tree—a tree they had in the park which had been there for a hundred years. She vaguely wished for their love to last just as long. The sun was shining down on them, the people around were far enough away that she could fancy it was just them and there was warmth emanating from his body. She thought she must have been happy by the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach. 

She also felt like throwing up.

Hooray for first boyfriends!

That night she relived the kiss in her dreams, but it was at night time. There were fireflies, the two of them were alone in the park and the crickets made their gentle noise. The breeze ruffled the dress she was wearing back and forth. She smiled against Dan's lips, wondering why he was so short all of a sudden and when they separated, Herbert West was in front of her, sporting a rueful smile. 

Then he started coughing up blood. He covered his mouth to stop it from spilling and staining her dress, and it made it worse, because there were drops everywhere now—on his blue dress shirt, on her pink shoes. He kneeled down, clutching his heart and she didn't know what to do other than wake up staring at a poster of Olivia Newton John.

On the next day, Dan drove Meg to the library to deliver some books her dad had forgotten to give back. She hopped onto the car, checked herself in the mirror, and they drove off. 

“Meg? Are you alright?” The thought of Herbert bleeding out on the floor with a hole in his heart was a powerful visual. She smiled. 

“I'm fine.”

When they arrived, they went straight to the desk. The lady behind it was writing names in the book. Meg took out the volumes and the money her dad gave her while Dan gently brushed her arm. She was on the way to put it all on the table and smile at her perfect, shiny boyfriend, when she saw Herbert, alive, coming down the stairs to the second floor.

She put the books down. The woman didn't look up. Herbert made his way in measured steps to a nearby bookshelf. Meg turned around.

“Don't look now,” she began, in a lower tone than was necessary. Dan looked down. “West is right there.”

Obviously he looked right away. 

“Are you kidding me?” She said, in a panicked voice. Dan turned towards the woman who still wrote names. Herbert's was right there, actually. Both of them looked at it, expressions falling in unison.

“Well… Now we know he doesn't just appear outside of the school everyday and disappears right after class is done like you predicted.” 

“Great. This is wonderful, he's gonna think I followed him here.” 

“What? No he won't. He might be a dick, but he's not unreasonable, Meggie.” 

She didn't realize she had said the irrational thought out loud. Meg had forgotten, for a second, that she hadn't talked to West since their little social altercation at the beginning of the year.

The woman took her money, the books, and left the front of the desk to arrange everything in a pile. 

When the couple turned around, Herbert was looking straight at them. He had a stony glance, even when so small and far away, a sovereign look that Meg hated, but that Dan took in stride—the difference being that Dan was a follower and Meg wasn't. She just looked like one. 

She started walking before Dan could hold her back, leaving the library first. 

The rest of the summer got away from their hands fast. Meg and Dan went out with friends to a cabin in the woods where they had sex for the first time. She felt they were simultaneously closer and further after that experience, as it was so different from things they used to do before. 

Almost a world away. 

“Are you alright?” He asked her afterwards. She looked up at him, her hair hitching against the skin of his chest and smiled.

“I'm fine.”

Herbert stayed in his room most of the summer. It was dark on the corners and illuminated only by the lamplight that bathed his notes in cold, white light. He had no date, no girlfriend, not even a friend other than the persistent neighborhood dog that chased him around. He tried not to feed into its obsession, but when the house got too quiet he went down there to sit with it—not that he'd admit it. 

Herbert wasn't usually fond of animals: Messy, unnecessary companions that humans fancied themselves in need of. He knew from an early age that he was special in that regard: He needed no one, much less a flea bag that drooled when it was happy and demanded constant attention. Still, the dog wagged his tail and he wrote on the porch, sitting on the swing. His house was removed from the rest of the world to him. His uncle was often absent, a traveling salesman. His aunt was inside sewing. He wanted to be away from those ordinary people with no plans for the future, with nothing to look forward to

They were good people, sure. He was lucky, he wasn't ungrateful. 

He had just gotten a letter from Dr. Gruber in Switzerland. He had sent him a theory and gotten enthusiastic encouragement in return. He couldn't wait to get out of that house. He also couldn't wait to go back to school and study after school while Meg played the flute. He felt her judgmental eyes on him all the time, even after he told her to leave him alone, so he didn't like Meg and loved to see her being uncomfortable—put into a social situation she couldn't get out of with just a smile and a hair toss. 

Still, it seemed like it was when she was playing that he studied best. He had snuck out of the room the first time he heard her, to see who it was that played Debussy after hours. He wasn't shocked or underwhelmed when he found her long, permed blonde hair. It seemed natural to him it'd be her. So he quietly went back to his work.

He had to say that the dog was a less serviceable companion, but at the same time, at least the dog could stand to be in the same room as him. Dan seemed nice, however. He was sort of shocked when he found out they were dating, but honestly, what did he expect? It made sense. In retrospect he felt stupid for thinking otherwise.

Herbert re-read the letter Gruber sent him. He had folded and unfolded it a number of times and the creases on the paper were deepening with each movement, but he needed to know it was real. He'd get a scholarship and get out of there. No more Miskatonic high school, Meg Halseys or Dan Cains or neighborhood dogs. Just him. And his practice. 

Meg resumed her flute playing when the year started. Junior year of high school was looking a lot like sophomore, but she kept in high spirits. She began practicing with Debussy, then she played some of Mozart's concerto, then Francis Poulenc, which she wasn't the greatest at. Herbert, in the other room, wrote his notes fast, absently listening to the music and humming. 

The cogs of Miskatonic high were turning as usual.

“We're lab partners again,” Dan told Meg at the cafeteria. She had cut her hair into a more practical cut. Less fussing and upkeeping. She decided she liked the idea of practicality, and it might get people off her back for once. 

“You and West?” Dan nodded. “And how is he?” 

“West? He's the same, I guess.” Meg hummed. 

When she turned around her eyes fell on him. He ate mostly alone at the empty tables the school was never full enough to fill. People who sat beside him told her in passing that he was alright. Quiet. Didn't move much other than to eat. He did no work while in the cafeteria and she vaguely wondered what he was thinking again.

“Still an asshole?” Meg asked finally, uncharacteristically crass. Dan smiled.

“Something like that.”

They had avoided the subject as long as they could, but Dan knew Meg was still thinking of West. Sometimes, during the summer, he would mention that a random teacher was grilling him, or that a teacher was nice, and Meg would say something along the lines of “West didn't like them, he wrote in his notebook the whole time” or “West laughed at a joke X, Y, Z teacher made.” He didn't know how to feel about it. 

Dan liked West: He was bright, helped him in chemistry when he couldn't get certain formulas right and saved his ass more than once when he made certain miscalculations. He couldn't really tell Meg that, though. 

Sometimes he'd catch her staring at him and wondered. Sometimes he caught Herbert looking at him for a time, and he'd stop when he turned his head. He wondered about that too. 

When he was running track and Meg was inside practicing the flute, he kept thinking about this weird dynamic they had that no one knew about. No one could tell that popular Meg and Dan were so close to the school loner. Practically no one cared about West, and those who did were afraid of him. Meg was slightly obsessed, he wasn't indifferent to him, and it seemed like West wasn't either. Still, they didn't exchange any words together, only apart.

Dan wondered if in another life they could have been friends, or if it was always an impossibility—not that he liked to waste too much time with theories and probabilities. 

He preferred facts. 

A few days later, when he went to pick Meg up, he saw West watching her from the door to the music room.

“Herbert?” Dan asked, startling him. His voice might have been too loud. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said, too fast. The music had stopped and Meg's footsteps met them at the door. By then, he had recomposed. “I was simply listening to Meg playing, that's all.”

“Well, she didn't give you permission,” Dan said. Herbert turned to him and Meg intervened with a smile, putting her hand on his arm.

“It's fine, Dan, I don’t mind,” she said and he didn’t believe her. “Herbert is often here in the afternoon. I told you that, remember?”

“You did?” Meg nodded. The worst part is that maybe she did, and he just tuned out.

“Well, he was watching you from the door. It was weird.”

“I'm sorry,” Herbert's tone was soft, but it still had the edge of when he spoke out loud or when he corrected one of his chemistry answers. Dan had no idea why he had gotten so mad. Herbert was… Odd, but he wasn't a pervert. He didn't even look like he could conceivably care about such things. 

“It's late for you, isn't it?” Meg asked, realizing the time. Her eyes were examining his face, and she kept herself strategically tied to Dan, her arm inside of his own. Her original, fake breezy tone was gone.

“You're keeping time for me now?” Herbert asked before he could stop himself. He seemed ashamed the moment the words left his lips. Dan piped up, but Meg's delicate fingers pressed down.

“You're usually still here when I leave, but it's way past. I was waiting for Danny. Where are your parents?” Dan watched as her usual kindness and concern kicked in—even for Herbert. He straightened up.

“Somewhere,” he said, non-committally. Then, after looking away: “They're dead. My uncle is away and my aunt seems to have forgotten me.”

“Oh,” Dan said. 

Meg completed “I'm sorry, I had no idea.” 

They stood there in the middle of the empty, white hallway, with a huge “Go Stingrays!” Poster behind them, on top of the row of bright blue lockers. Herbert looked to the left, Dan looked down, and when a voice started again, it was Meg. “Do you need a ride?”

“I'm perfectly capable of walking.”

“It's OK, we can drive you,” Dan reassured. 

Eyeing them suspiciously, Herbert nodded—curtly and in such a small way that both wondered if it happened at all until he followed them.

The car ride was silent apart from the radio, which played Papa Don't Preach by Madonna and filled the small space with a loud, colorful sound no one welcomed or wanted. Meg, in the front seat, wondered why in the world she offered a ride to a boy she disliked so much, she could feel his presence prickle her skin—and why he listened to her playing the flute. No one did that, not even Dan, she did it for herself. It was one of the few things she thought were not interesting enough for people to be invested in. She wasn't very good, for starters. Not even her teacher had any hope for her.

Dan looked forward and forgot he hadn't gotten directions from Herbert for a few minutes while he pondered his rage, which he thought might be jealousy. Meg was beautiful, popular, and frequently pursued, but she had never seemed interested in anyone apart from himself in his entire life, until Herbert.

Herbert looked out of the window at seemingly nothing, until he said:

“Turn left.” Madonna screamed as the car turned. 

Boston was saying goodbye to the summer, and the leaves were beginning to rot and decay. Herbert observed the turning of life to death with rapt interest, forgetting his moving surroundings. Meg looked at him through the rear-view mirror and Dan looked at her, before also looking at Herbert.

“Where exactly do you live, West?” West, as if in a trance, blinked to come out.

“Nearby. Another left, then keep driving in a straight line. I'll let you know when.”

‘When’ ended up being a small, but proud little blue suburban house. 

“Is that your aunt's car?” Meg, ever observant, asked and pointed. Herbert followed her finger.

“The same.” Another small silence filled by music before he shuffled around on the seat and opened the door. “Well, this was… Nice. Thank you.” He had the tone of voice of someone who never had to show gratitude for a kind gesture before. It was a contrast from the arrogant way Meg and Dan knew he dealt with most things, and she thought he looked adrift for a second—lost at sea.

“Well, don't mention it,” said Dan, with a half smile. “If you ever need a ride again…”

“That won't be necessary.” With that, he swung his legs out, pressed his feet firmly on the sidewalk, pushed up and left the vehicle, closing the door. 

Both Meg and Dan observed as Herbert walked towards the door fast, his bag crushed onto his chest. He took the keys out of his pants’ pocket, put one inside the lock and then turned around to look at the couple still in the car. 

For a brief second in time, they understood one another. 

Meg was the first to look down. She didn't see when Herbert opened the door and walked in. After that, Dan turned the car back on and took her home.