Archive of Our Own

The range hood fan provides solid white noise to distract from his awkward silences, and for a while within this rented and renovated kitchen, they’ve set down Henchman 21 and Dr. Orpheus to be Gary and Byron.

“Would you care for tomatoes or peppers?” Orpheus asks, taking an onion down from where they’re hanging near the stove. “Perhaps both?”

“Peppers yes, tomatoes no.” Gary admires the brick backsplash and offers a shrug. “Tomatoes don’t always sit right.”

Orpheus nods and performs knifework to rival Brock Samson, albeit for a drastically different purpose. “They say one must crack several eggs in order to prepare an omelette, but there’s no need to insist upon an experience more unpleasant than is strictly necessary.”

“You should write that down.” Gary cracks a smile without meaning to. “Dr. Orpheus’ Masterful Necromancing Guide to Life, Death, and Everything Betwixt.”

Orpheus shakes his head, and flicks several drops of water into a copper frying pan. “I could never purport to opine on the deepest secrets of our existence. I’ve only yet begun merely to scratch the uppermost crust of the surface of that, er… existential pie.”

“Ghostwrite it, then.”

The droplets steam up from the heated surface and dissipate, ambient, dispersed. “Speaking of.”

Gary rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the table for support, and considers the craft of cabinetmaking. “Yeah.”

“To answer your question, no, truly I can’t bring him back as such.” Oil and garlic and onions into the pan, stirred with a real spatula instead of a pancake turner, kept moving to keep from burning out. “Within the southern wall of my daughter’s closet I have affixed a portal to the necropolis; however, it seems there is some doubt as to whether your friend has indeed passed from this world. If he is a spectre as you say he may yet be haunting something aside from his skull.” Orpheus gestures with the spatula, circling it in the air as if searching the ether for evidence. “Some other item akin to his mortal remains, possibly significant to the moment of his death.”

The peppers join the assorted allium to char just slightly.

Gary sniffs and smells the faintest hint of smoke.

“I could conjure an illusion of him for you to speak with, but I would not make a habit of this, as it can be...” Orpheus trails off, lost in thought as much as the ritual of stirring. “Addictive."

“You know what you should get?”

Orpheus briskly whisks parsley, tarragon, and salt into eggs in a second bowl, set beside a prep dish housing their previously emptied shells and a small plate with a halved lemon. “Hm?”

“You should get a tamagoyaki pan.” Gary points towards the range to punctuate his statement. “They’re copper, too, but rectangular.”

Orpheus pours the eggs atop the sautéed filling, and sets about disrupting the mixture as it coagulates into small curds. “It’s quite a skill to master, isn’t it?”

“Well hey, if anyone could learn it, it’s probably you. Egg dishes are tricky in general.” He watches Orpheus cooking, wrist busy with tending to the burner, silicone mitt steadily gripping the pan handle. “So yeah, it takes practice to get right, but it’s not, y’know. Brain surgery.”

Orpheus glances over his shoulder, not to Gary but to the table itself, then returns his attention to the pan. He sprinkles finely shredded cheese to finalize the meal, and gauges its progress as it melts.

When he’s satisfied with the direction it’s heading, he turns off the burner and the range hood fan, lifts the pan away from the residual heat, and smooths the surface of the omelette. “Here’s another albumen anecdote for your book, then. Egg dishes are much like the oft-overlooked game of backgammon: easy to learn but difficult to master.”

“Intimidating at first glance, but not so bad once you’re confident moving the pieces around?”

“Quite. One must know both when to hold ‘em and subsequently when to fold ‘em, just like folding eggs,” he enunciates.

Gary cracks a smile despite himself. “It’s not a card game, though.”

“Yes, of course, but risk management strategies still apply.” Orpheus tilts the pan to ease the angle as gravity aids the effort to enclose the eggs atop themselves. “Timing is everything, else we are trapped within the throes of chance or fate. You must assess when you are likely to lose, and move accordingly, whether introducing ingredients to a dish just before it would burn or returning pieces to active play.”

Gary follows the sounds of the omelette as it’s plated: the spatula upon the spoonrest, the glide of the utensil drawer, the clink of a fork on ceramic and the cautious impact of ceramic upon wood. When the rising steam hits his face it finally hits him that he’s tuned out the obvious indicators that the food is ready.

“Thanks,” he says, belatedly, but no less genuine.

“Bon appétit,” Orpheus adds, as the plate is swiftly joined by a glass of water and two bottles of hot sauce with labels in Spanish and Thai respectively. He hesitates for a brief moment before pulling out a chair for himself, seated adjacent but allowing enough table space for his guest to comfortably eat. “You know, when events take their course in opposing directions—say, sunwise and widdershins—we find ourselves frantic to salvage the state of things as we knew it.”

Gary separates the omelette in two with the side of his fork and adds both types of hot sauce, one to each half.

Orpheus folds his hands and studies the salt and pepper shakers. “We feel stymied by ill luck and wanting for loaded dice, that we cannot proceed until we have addressed the checkers waiting on the bar between boards.”

Gary cuts off a piece of the omelette, and even with as expertly as it was cooked, he has trouble chewing.

“What would you say to this spirit were he to be summoned here?” Orpheus rests his elbows on the table, steeples his fingers, and speaks against the sides of his hands. “Provide the strongest association you have.”

Gary swallows, sets the fork back down, and focuses on the sting of sriracha, as if it could bear full responsibility for the tension in his sinuses.

“Please.” Orpheus’ expression softens from academic to advisory. “That is, if you like.”

“Uh, I dunno. Probably just driving around in his Nissan Stanza and shooting the shit about movies and stuff.” Gary shrugs, palms open and upturned, uncertain. “That's really all I wanted, when I think about it.”

And Orpheus has been both mentor and student, at once learned and learning, increasingly uncertain himself with every additional piece of knowledge to approximate the scope of all that is unknowable. The lone certainty he holds to is kindness. “To say it to him, you must say it first to yourself.”

With his waking companionable nightmares now so inconsistent, he can guarantee it behind his eyelids, where 24’s always waiting for him. 21 presses the heels of his palms over his eyes until he sees shitty shapes like a defunct laser show, like ash-stained bowling alley carpet, like flickering Windows 95 screensavers. When there’s no telling if he’s hallucinating, greeted by a ghost, or subject to magical visions, he’s able to tell him.

“You know what I want to do, dude? I want to go get a time machine so you never lose your manufacturing job. That way I’d never get kidnapped, and we’d never meet, and you’d never be in that car in the first place.” Gary tightens his fingertips against his own scalp, his thumbs at his temples. “This is the worst timeline, man. It’s gotta be. Maybe the whole thing’s playing by Donnie Darko rules, like I gotta take myself out of the equation to make things right. Or—and it figures, the title, I know—or The Butterfly Effect, but like, the director’s cut and not the theatrical version. You saw that, right? Wouldn’t that be fucked up?”

Gary takes a deep breath, smells the faint hint of sulfur and smoke, and can’t pinpoint how much of it he’s imagined.

“I’d go into the underworld to get you, dude. You know I would, but if he can’t, then what chance do I have?”

Orpheus notices he’s been acknowledged but makes no motion to disrupt anything; he waits and listens to near-tearful one-sided conversation, inferring from context the absent responses.

“No, I don’t think it’d be a time loop. It’d branch off. I’ll never… I’d never have you in my life again but at least you’d be alive. Henching for life is a dance of death, right?” Gary smiles to himself, and slides his hands down to cover his face completely, speaking into his palms. “A hero would save you.”

He’s rebreathing his own breath against clammy hands, his face hot, everything permeated by the presence of the eggs as the omelette loses its heat and the steam subsides.

“You remember that Radiohead song? Where I end and you begin, but without the cannibalism. Maybe thematically. I dunno.”

The moment lingers, and although the gaze on him is anything but harsh, it’s still tough to ignore for much longer. Gary opens his eyes and peers through his fingers before folding his arms to rest on the table. “I feel stupid. Am I stupid?”

Orpheus shakes his head firmly. “It's cathartic to fantasize about ways to resolve past trauma, but do not guilt yourself endlessly or you will be stuck in your own strange loop of eternally recurring grief.”

“Is that what you want?” Gary asks, and it’s unclear to whom it’s directed. “To cut it out with the guilt trips?”

“It's not fair to blame yourself for structural problems.” Orpheus watches with relief as Gary takes a sip of water, then looks back to the table instead of staring. “One cannot hope to fix distress of that magnitude in isolation.”

“I know some people who can. Starting with like, worker protections.” Gary picks his fork back up to try again, and the omelette is still warm, perfectly prepared and no longer unpalatable due to emotional circumstances outside its control.

Orpheus nods and speaks sincerely. “Take heart that you shall always have these memories which bind and bond you.”

“That's a broad statement, dude.” Gary gestures with the fork towards a nonspecific out there. “They've got memory-wiping machines and shit, so there's no guarantee of that. I could’ve lost them already for all I know.”

“Well.” Orpheus frowns. “In that case, no, perhaps you wouldn't, but it does not diminish the bond you shared. These events occurred whether the human mind maintains them or not.”

“It's a nice thought, though.” Gary shrugs a reassurance, a what can you do? “I still appreciate the sentiment.”

“Of course. It is not only my duty to the mortal world to forge a path to that which lies beyond, but it is an honor to assist in times of such grief.” Orpheus takes an abridged bow, the movement restricted by the table.

Gary smiles.

“I would be glad to box that up for you if you don’t wish to finish it at the moment.” Orpheus settles into less studious posture, more relaxed for simpler chatting instead of difficult but necessary conversation. “I trust that you would return my household’s Tupperware.”

“Plus you know where I live, or uh... camp, so it’s not like I could get far.” He alternates sections of the omelette to balance the taste of the two hot sauces. “I think I can finish it, though. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I think I forgot to eat today?”

“Fortunate, then, that you’ve stopped by.” Orpheus stands to wash out the pan now that it’s cooled. He presses the lemon half into salt until it sticks, and uses it to meticulously clean the cooking surface of the unlacquered copper. After another rinse, he dries it off with the utmost care. “Ever since my daughter moved out, I’ve rarely had cause to cook for anyone aside from myself.”

“Right after 24 died,” Gary starts, pausing only briefly on the sentence before continuing, “I remember thinking you’d be a really cool neighbor to have. I guess we are neighbors now, huh?”

“For the breakfasts?” Orpheus beams at him. He pours a glass of water for himself from the tap before sitting back at the table again. “You’re welcome over whenever you'd like, so long as the place is still standing.”

“That and the totally badass magic powers but yeah, the breakfasts are a factor.” Gary smiles back and scrapes the plate carefully, to retrieve all of the eggs without damaging the dish. “Could I, uh, maybe use your washing machine sometime? Since they blew up the S.P.H.I.N.X. headquarters it’s been hard to keep a change of clean clothes while camping in the yard.”

“Absolutely, you may. I suspect you will find that many of these problems all come out in the wash.” Orpheus gives him a theatrical wink.

“Lame.”

Orpheus laughs. “Now then, with the matter somewhat settled, would you care to view my fish tank?”

“Oh hell yeah, man. I didn’t know you had fish.” Gary chugs the rest of his water and stands to set the glass on the counter and rinse his plate in the sink. “This is what I’m talking about. Coolest neighbor, right here.”

“I'm particularly fond of cichlids. Their intelligence so often goes unappreciated.” Orpheus lifts his hand next to his cheek to frame a stage whisper. “Those oscars can get Wilde. Some may even become convicts.”

“Permabanned.” Gary snorts and dries his hands on a dishtowel before looking up. “And hey, thank you. Seriously.”

Orpheus smiles both with warmth and sympathy. “Any time.”

Gary gives him a quick thumbs-up before changing the subject. “So, yeah. I’d love to see the fish. Where are they at?”

“Their tank is in another room so as not to let Simba bother them.” Orpheus leads the way down the hall. “An aquarium could well be considered something of a cat television, but it’s best not to leave them unsupervised.”

“Good call. My dog at my mom’s house is clumsy as hell, she’d probably knock it all over or something like that.” He follows in his footsteps, fascinated by every decorative and potentially magical curiosity they pass. “I’m gonna get you a tamagoyaki pan, for real. I bet you’d kick ass at those. It’s like a party trick, but for breakfast.”

“Please do not feel obligated by any means, but that is very kind of you. I swear to you that I would commit myself to refining that skill should such a pan ever come into my possession.” Orpheus gives him his own thumbs up. “One should never tire of learning new things in life.”

“That’s going in the book, too.”

Orpheus holds open the door for Gary to step through, and raises his eyebrows. “My upcoming Masterful Necromancing Guide to Life, Death, and Everything Breakfast?”

“I’m gonna ghostwrite it if you won’t.” Gary points at him, deadpan, a faux threat as he’s temporarily backlit by the LED glow of the fishtank. “Don’t test me. I’ve done it before. You’re talking to an ex-henchman, here.”

“Very well, then.” Orpheus grins and switches on the light. “I look forward to it.”