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The first time they met, it was a rainy, miserable day.
Dr. Iplier wasn’t quite sure how to drive yet, but staying at the apartment with Dark and Wilford at each others’ throats was intolerable. At this point, he’d rather fade gripping the steering wheel and stiff-armed in fear than stay in the same room as them. So, he followed Dark’s vague directions, his memory, and the faulty GPS to the middle of the woods.
He managed to park the car in a ditch, shrouded by trees. Never mind that it was covered in scratches and mud: he was as far away from Dark and Will as he could get. He locked it, shoving the keys deep in his pocket, fingers still burning where he’d snatched them out of Dark’s hands, ears still ringing from Wilford’s knife whizzing past his ear.
It had been drizzling as he’d stormed out of the apartment, both Dark and Wilford’s aura fighting to draw him back. It was really pouring now, and Dr. Iplier splashed through a puddle, finding a winding, muddy trail that led deeper into the woods. He looked up, squinting down the path. The rain was a mist all around him, obscuring everything but the shadows of tree trunks. A steady rustling of raindrops and leaves above.
Dr. Iplier looked up. He was getting soaked, coat limp around his legs. He couldn’t stay here, standing lost in the middle of the forest, water dripping down his shirt. He had to find… something.
He started walking, looking around. This would have been nice, if it wasn’t so cold and wet. The forest was alive, even in the dim light and pouring rain. Leaves not weighed down by water skittered past his feet, birds rustled overhead, and the odd bush started at his footsteps. All accompanied by the rush of raindrops, turning the world a wet, dark green.
A cabin, up ahead. A shed, really. Dr. Iplier would have walked away if it hadn’t had flickering lights in the windows, smoke curling from the chimney. Almost inviting, almost homey.
Almost.
It was as if someone had tried to build a storybook cottage, but had only the vaguest idea of what a house actually looked like.
Dr. Iplier walked closer, and he could feel it. The figment, the magic inside. They were living so far away from Mark, here, but living all the same. As he stepped onto the porch, he could feel a sense of foreboding overcome him, as if he was standing a bit too close to the speakers at a concert.
The smell of ink.
A knock, but even as his knuckles touched the wood, it gave way.
The smell of blood.
“Dark, I said to leave me… alone…” The door swung open to frame a man– not man, a figment; so much less, so much more– that looked just like him. He eyed the Doctor up and down. “Another one, eh?”
Dr. Iplier nodded mutely, shivering.
The other figment rolled his eyes, flinging the door open wide. “Come in.” He walked back into the semi-darkness, footsteps heavy against the floor.
The Doctor followed him in, letting the door click shut behind him. The house was warm, almost stuffy with the candles burning against each wall. As he stepped further in, papers rustled under his feet, water dripping off his clothes.
“Don’t get a lot of company here,” a voice called, further in. “Or, y’know, electricity.” The spilling of light up ahead.
Dr. Iplier slipped into a claustrophobic, cozy sitting room. A fireplace threw a wave of light and heat over him, the other figment stoking the logs. Books upon books lined the walls, shelves sagging under the weight. With an awkward shrug, the Doctor let his coat drop from his shoulders. “Uh… sir, where should I…” he started to stutter, uncertain, but the other figment turned towards him.
He looked exactly the same as the Doctor, of course he did. Exactly the same as Will or Dark.
But there was something… more. Something more to his face, his eyes, than the others. A flicker that Dr. Iplier was sure wasn’t a trick of the light.
“I’ll take care of it.” He took the coat, wet and cold and heavy, from Dr. Iplier’s shaking fingers. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to very warm, comfortable-looking chairs. Chairs that looked like they might fall apart at the slightest pressure. The other figment ducked out, footsteps echoing down the hall. “And please,” his voice came, light, amused, a coiled spring: “Call me the Author.”
The Doctor visited often, at first. Every moment he could get the car away from Dark and Wilford, it was to the forest, to the little cabin surrounded by trees and a sense of danger. To candlelit nights and the assurance of a friend.
They were friends, after that first meeting. Whatever Dr. Iplier saw that first day, it was mirrored back at the Author. Something more, just between the two of them. Something more human.
By burning light, Dr. Iplier found companionship. The Author was alone, after all. They didn’t have to talk to enjoy that– nights would find them on opposite sides of a room, writing with the busy scratch of a pen, reading with the crinkle of flipping pages. Peaceful, something that could never be found at the apartment these days.
Conversation started slowly. A question about a book here, an answer about a patient there. The Author wanted to make sure the things he was writing were medically possible, of course. “For research,” he said, flashing his teeth. “Purely theoretical.”
Dr. Iplier enjoyed the questions, some regard for the knowledge he’d spent so long accumulating. In return, the Author told him fantastic stories: tales of murder and kidnapping and golden-haired heroes. The Doctor always went back home with his mind buzzing, full to the brim with something more than the mundane.
He always went back.
There was a back-alley clinic that needed his attention, of course. Patients with not-so-legal incomes or not-so-legal wounds that needed help. There would always be people who needed his help.
And so he ended up every week back at the apartment, watching the walls bleed pink and black, but seeing almost none of it. Seeing instead the stories that the Author wove for him, seeing the theoretical in the practical.
It was dangerous.
The Doctor visited less and less. He had to go back to this life, couldn’t afford to spend his weekends escaping this life. His real life.
The Author didn’t question it. Every weekend, there was an extra cup of tea on the table. More and more often, the tea went cold as the Author scribbled with his back to the door. His stories were stuttering, getting lost on the way from his brain to the paper. His heart was stuttering, getting lost somewhere on the road between the forest and the city.
Dr. Iplier slowly stopped appearing.
And so did the extra cup of tea.
And so did the Author.