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Darkiplier, Dr. Iplier had decided, was an idiot.
Wilford had told him what happened on the rooftop, that first week that they lived together Since then, the Doctor had seen Dark jump past trains, out of buildings, over cars: the list went on. It seemed that every week, the Doctor had something new to patch up. A broken arm, a cracked rib.
And those were the injuries he knew about.
Dark wasn’t the most… cooperative patient. Every week, Dr. Iplier would find him– hunt him down, really– and give him a once-over. He’d found Dark’s arm broken, bone poking through skin, the injury days old.
“Why didn’t you get this fixed?” he’d snapped, casting aside the grimy bandages that Dark had tried to hide it with. A flash of light, fast and hot and barely controlled, and Dark’s arm was healed.
Dark hadn’t even muttered a thanks, only glaring at the Doctor before storming away. If Dr. Iplier didn’t know better, he’d say that Dark was almost reluctant to be healed.
One thing always stayed the same, though, that gave him reassurance.
Above each of their heads was the counter, the counter he could see on everyone. The death counter.
Wilford’s, when they first met, had been dangerously low; as of late, it seemed he’d never die. Dr. Iplier sometimes took the time to see if his number was going up or down.
The Author, when he came to visit, had a counter that fluctuated between death in the next month and the next millennia. When Dr. Iplier brought it up in concern, the Author only smiled and winked. It was probably nothing to worry about.
Dark’s counter seemed to stay consistent with a normal human lifespan. As far as Dr. Iplier knew, it was the same as Mark’s. This was the one thing that never seemed to change, no matter what stupid thing Dark had done, and Dr. Iplier took comfort in it.
The alarm clock glowed, numbers casting red light over the side of Dr. Iplier’s pillow.
1:37am.
The apartment was tiny, but the Doctor and Wilford managed. Between the air mattress and couch, they were comfortable enough. Wilford had plans to talk Dark out of the bedroom, but Dr. Iplier didn’t like the sound of that, so in the living room they stayed.
Never mind that the bedroom was empty. Never mind that Dark had been gone for two days.
Dr. Iplier was tired, eyes heavy, but not yet asleep. The back-alley clinic he was setting up still needed a lot of work and late nights, and the comfort of the air mattress was pulling him under. It was only as he was about to drift off entirely that he heard it.
A shuffling at the door, the sound of keys turning in the lock; a pause, then labored breathing and the uneven tap of Dark’s footsteps.
First, why the hell was he coming home this late, and second, where the hell was he coming from?
Dr. Iplier heard the bedroom door click shut. He looked over at Wilford, partially covered in a blanket, draped over the couch. In the partial light, the Doctor could see Wilford’s mustache fluttering as he snored, Dark’s intrusion not nearly enough to wake him up.
Curiosity getting the better of him, all traces of sleep gone, Dr. Iplier stood and tiptoed to Dark’s door in his shirt and boxers. He stopped to listen before barging in– Dark was never the most amicable, even at the best of times– and heard nothing.
Well, here goes nothing.
Dr. Iplier opened the door, blinking a little in the lamplight. “D-Dark?”
The bedside lamp illuminated the bedroom for all of a second. The huddled form on the bed flinched, and Dr. Iplier could’ve sworn he saw the glint of Dark’s eyes, the flash of his counter above his head, before everything went black.
“Doc?” There was a knock on the door, tentative.
Dr. Iplier sat straight up, casting blankets off of him. He blinked. It was… morning? And he was in… Dark’s… bed?
He’d never felt more well-rested, but that was besides the point.
Dr. Iplier bounced carefully off the bed, noting the carefully-folded blankets, the fluffed pillow under his head. Someone had tucked him in, but that someone was nowhere in sight. Not a sign of him, actually, except… As Dr. Iplier hastily threw the covers back into place, he saw the traces of black, bloodied handprints against the sheets.
He would be worried if the counter had read anything abnormal last night, but it hadn’t. Everything was okay. Right?
The Doctor threw the door open to see Wilford, hand raised for another knock directly in front of his face. “Will?”
“Doc, why are you… where’s…” Wilford craned his neck to look past him, into the room, and Dr. Iplier suddenly felt that standing in the doorway like this was an invasion of privacy.
“I don’t know where Dark is,” he said shortly, stepping out and closing the door behind him. “But I’m about to go look.”
“Dark doesn’t want–”
“Wilford,” Dr. Iplier said, rubbing his eyes, “I don’t give a damn what Dark wants, at this point.”
Wilford stopped, eyeing the Doctor with what seemed to be grudging respect. When he spoke, it was with a note of hope. “I won’t stop you, Doc. Just, uh, be careful.”
“I’ll be fine,” Dr. Iplier said, gently brushing past him to dig for his clothes. “Thanks, though.”
It was only when the Doctor had struggled into his jeans and picked up the spare key that Wilford spoke again. “Dark’s lucky to have you, y’know.”
The sentiment was unexpected, and Dr. Iplier whirled around to see Wilford lost in thought, almost sheepish. “What?”
“He’s an idiot,” Wilford muttered, eyes on the Doctor’s face. “It’s nice to have someone around that, well,” Wilford shrugged helplessly. opening his hands to display numerous welts, all from the careless flipping of his knife, “someone that knows what they’re doing.”
Dr. Iplier stood for another moment, touched. Wilford shook himself out of his thoughts to scowl. “Dark needs all the help he can get, Doc, and you’re all the help he’ll get.” With that, Wilford wandered towards the kitchen, leaving Dr. Iplier with his hand on the doorknob and his heart in his throat.
It shouldn’t have taken this long to find Dark.
Dr. Iplier had made his way downtown, asking for his lost ‘twin brother,’ and looking for traces of black smoke. He was far away from the apartment, from Mark, and it seemed like the day had been a waste. The sun was behind him, and the Doctor was just about ready to give up.
Of course, Dark was in the last place he checked. And of course, it was the dirtiest, darkest alley he found him in.
Dr. Iplier heard the aura first, the ringing that made the hair on his neck prickle. There was a dark cloud against the glow of the streetlamps, trailing between buildings, and the Doctor, after some hesitation, followed it.
“Who da fuck do ya think ya are?!” An unfamiliar voice, rough, angry. Other unfamiliar voices, murmuring in assent.
“I think I’m the one who’s just profited off the Montagues.” Dark’s voice, undeniably. Laughing, teasing, starkly out of place.
Dr. Iplier pressed himself to the wall, stepping closer. The smell of trash was overpowering, and his eyes watered– but up ahead, he could see the silhouettes of people, counters low. In the middle of them, familiar shark-fin hair, muted ringing.
Dark.
“No,” a voice came, startlingly close to the Doctor. He froze, listening. “Yer not.”
From the shadows on the other side of the alley came the glint of a gun, the cock of a hammer, pointed at Dark’s back.
Dr. Iplier saw, heart stopping, Dark’s counter drop to zero.
Dark turned to face the gunman, smiling broadly. Dr. Iplier watched Dark bare his fangs, the set of his shoulders flinching ever so slightly. “No?” He laughed, a horribly high pitch. “Who am I, then, Ben?”
“Yer dead.” And Dr. Iplier could only watch as the man– whom Dark was on first-name terms with, apparently– pull the trigger.
It was as if he was frozen in fear. Dr. Iplier stood against the wall as Dark fell, unable to even shout for him. He stared, almost blank, as the gaggle of people circled his body, prodding him with the odd irreverent boot. The Doctor didn’t move, didn’t even draw breath, until it seemed that every last one of them had filtered out of the alleyway and back down the lamplit street, swaying towards home.
Dr. Iplier crept forward in horror, streetlight competing with moonlight overhead for control of the shadows. Dark remained a patch of black on the ground, still, silent. The counter above his head, well, nonexistent. Dr. Iplier took a knee next to the body, fighting tears, fighting the evidence of his senses, fighting the reality that Dark was dead–
With an impossible heave, and a chuckle, Dark sat up.
“Nice of you to come see me die, Doctor.”
Dr. Iplier definitely didn’t see zombies cross his vision, or scream at a higher pitch than Dark’s aura, or jump out of his skin, or run back towards the wall.
“Dark,” he caught his breath, steadying himself against the rough brick, “what the fuck?!” The counter was suddenly back, counting toward a date some sixty years in the future, as if it had never stopped at all.
“As if a bullet could stop me,” Dark scoffed a little, standing up. Dr. Iplier half expected him to spring up unharmed, a vest beneath his clothes. Instead, Dark staggered upright, blood gushing from his chest, a sickly smile still plastered across his face.
“Dark,” the Doctor repeated in a half-whisper, running forward to catch him before he fell, “what the fuck?”
“I can stand,” Dark snarled, trying weakly to break away from him.
“Obviously not,” Dr. Iplier snapped, slinging Dark’s arm over his shoulders. “We’re going home.”
“I have things to do,” Dark growled, still struggling away. “Places to… be,” he gasped.
Dr. Iplier released him, watching Dark’s knees buckle, and him fall to the ground. “What is wrong with you?” he whispered in horror, eyeing Dark as one would the grisly sight of heads on sticks.
“This is fun for me, Doctor,” Dark managed, still trying to get to his feet, blood oozing steadily from his chest, between his fingers. “Do you not have anything you do for fun?”
“I don’t try to kill myself,” Dr. Iplier snapped, suddenly more than frustrated. “Dark, you idiot, you’re going to get yourself in serious trouble–”
“And if I don’t care?” Dark had given up trying to stand, and instead slumped against the wall of the alley, chest heaving with the effort. He looked up at the Doctor with a maniac glint in his eyes, stretching his face into a grin that was more of a grimace. “If I am trying?”
“Then you’re even more of an idiot than I thought.”
Dark snorted, and Dr. Iplier watched his shoulders spasm. “As if you care, a week-old figment.”
“You’re lucky I’m here,” Dr. Iplier said, echoing Wilford. Dark really did need someone after him, someone responsible.
Dark laughed at that, a horrible wheezing, and the counter above his head shot downwards.
“I’m sorry, Dark,” the Doctor said, squinting at him critically. “You’re dying.”
“Don’t be sorry, then.”
“Shut up.”
Dark sat in silence for another moment– as silent as he could be, struggling to breathe– and Dr. Iplier shook his head. “You’re a hardass if I’ve ever seen one, Dark.”
“So leave,” Dark bared his fangs now, threatening even in a puddle and too weak to sit upright. “Leave, like they all–”
“Yeah, yeah.” Suddenly Dr. Iplier was bending over Dark, hands burning his chest with light. Suddenly, Dr. Iplier was holding Dark up with warm, firm hands, walking him home in safety.
Dark never understood it, but after that night, he never questioned it. He came to the Doctor with stubbed toes and tooth (fang) aches, never hiding an injury. In return, Dr. Iplier gave him what he’d never had before, what even Wilford couldn’t give him. To be safe, and warm, and even cared about while he was in the apartment, with them.
While he was home.