Chapter Text
"Is this cannibalism?" a small, young voice asks, and it takes all of Michael's strength to not close his eyes and pray to the gods. He only manages it because he doesn't believe in gods anyway.
He turns to look at the child sitting at the table with him, face looking as innocent and wide-eyed as possible.
Which means, of course, that this little gremlin is scheming.
Michael takes the bait anyway. "Is 'what' cannibalism?" he asks, putting his fork down.
The grin that overtakes Gregory's face is bright as the boy gestures at their breakfast. "Y'know, because we're eating omelets!"
Michael lets his gaze drift slowly to the omelets on his plate. "We sure are," he says blandly. He can see where this is going now, and the smug grin on Gregory's face indicates that the punchline isn't too far away.
"And," Gregory says, "Someone called Eggs Benedict shouldn't be eating omelets! It's cannibalism!"
Despite himself, Michael lets out a snort. "Does it look like I care, kid?" he asks drily, taking another bite of his omelet. He'd cooked it earlier this morning, but it's still hot. Even if it was cannibalism - which it isn't, obviously - he wouldn't care. He enjoys the warmth, and the familiar texture of food.
Even if he can't taste it anymore, it's still a pleasant experience.
Gregory pouts. "You should give me your share, 'cause cannibalism is bad," he says, almost-stern in his words. It's made funny though by the high pitch of his voice and the soft outlines of his face.
Michael just grins, letting his expression edge into something sharp. "Cannibalism isn't bad. Disrespecting people and their rights to being alive and honoring their loved ones is what's bad."
A pause. Michael lets his grin drop and takes another bite, chewing slowly.
Eventually Gregory scrunches up his nose, frowning. "Eating people isn't bad?" And of course that's what the gremlin child picked up from his little spiel. Ah well. He's not surprised.
"It's not inherently evil," Michael agrees. "But, uh, it's also unnecessary. So I guess the action itself isn't bad, but doing it for no reason is bad. If that makes sense?"
"It doesn't make any sense," Gregory informs him.
"Ah. Well. Don't eat people, I guess," Michael says, some part of his brain reminding him to not fuck around with the morals of small children. At least not until their brains are a little more developed. "Or if you want to, at least ask me first. Food prep can be dangerous without an adult."
"Like how raw chicken and eggs have salmonella?" Gregory asks, and damn, the kid's so smart to remember that and apply it in different situations.
Michael swallows down a proud smile and just nods. "Exactly like that," he says.
His cooking must still taste good because Gregory stops talking and starts eating again, scarfing down his omelet and rice with all the intensity of a starving wolf. It's a habit Michael hasn't bothered to break, even though he's sure it's not the healthiest method of eating. But then, there's other things to worry about for now.
Michael finishes off his own omelet and grabs both his and Gregory's empty plates, walking over to the sink. "People probably don't taste good anyway," he says over his shoulder, more of an afterthought than anything else.
There's a hum of acknowledgement from the young boy. It's followed by the soft patter of footsteps; Gregory is likely heading somewhere else in the house to go play.
Michael smiles a little as he starts washing the dishes.
Only a few months ago, Gregory wouldn't have been comfortable enough to start up that kind of conversation, let alone talk so freely and poking fun. Even though this sort of easy banter is normal now, it's still a wonderful way to start the morning.
Of course, once he finishes the dishes and checks on Gregory - kid's building something incomprehensible with the Lego set, good for him - it's time to get back to work. Michael throws a mournful glance at the warm sunlight pouring through the windows. It would have been nice to sit and enjoy the natural lighting for awhile, but he's run out of excuses.
With a sigh, he opens the door to the basement and trudges down the stairs.
In contrast to the soft, cozy atmosphere in the house, the basement is cold and dark. There's no light switch, mainly because there isn't a need for one. Gregory isn't supposed to come down here - although he's sure the child has come snooping down here before, flashlight in hand - and Michael has no need for artificial lights.
Unfortunately for him, his eyes have been mechanical for a long time now. Back when he recovered his body - or rather, when it was abandoned - his eyes couldn't be salvaged. So he'd replaced them.
The fact that these allow him to see in the dark doesn't make it any better, but at least it's useful.
He enters the basement, gaze sweeping over the machines and shelves lining the walls. One of the computer monitors pulses slowly, indicating that it's only sleeping, but not fully turned off. Papers are piled on the desks, shoved into folders and organized haphazardly in little bins. One of the machines has a cloth draped over it. There's even a few cork boards lining the walls, and a whiteboard that definitely needs to be wiped clean at some point - the inked-on equations have been there for so long that he doesn't even remember what they were for anymore.
In the middle of the room is a flat, rectangular table. It's rather large, with a glass container taking up a third of the space and a plethora of tools scattered on the rest of its surface.
In one corner of the table is an open case, with scalpels and needles and other items tucked neatly in their places. There's a few books, as well, some stacked with bookmarks sticking out from their pages and others just left open, the weight of another book or a bone keeping the pages from curling and losing his place.
Michael takes a seat at the table and flips open a notebooks, spiral-bound and cheap. He writes the date on the corner with a pen, as neatly as possible.
And then he glances to the side, scanning the large container with a clinical gaze.
It's not completely made of glass. The base and the top are metal, with cords snaking away from both ends and seams where the plates were welded together. A small panel of buttons lines the side, and a slightly larger button adorns the top.
But most of it is glass; a tall cylinder that's filled with a thick, liquid substance.
Sometimes there are body parts in there - it can fit a human torso in a pinch, but it's usually holding a limb or an organ at most. Sometimes the body parts are human. Sometimes they're something else.
But for now, it's empty, and it's not what he came down here for anyway.
Michael turns his attention back to the notebook, thoughtful. It's nothing more than notes, and some pages are blank, but it's always good to keep track of the days in a way that feels tangible when nothing else is. Sometimes he write about his research. Recently, he's been writing about Gregory.
After some consideration, he writes a short note about their conversation that morning. He'll probably want to remember that Gregory asked questions about cannibalism. Kids have a tendency to act unexpectedly - mostly thanks to leaps in logic that adults have trouble following sometimes - and Gregory, no matter how smart he is, is now exception.
He's pretty sure the kid wouldn't actually try to eat someone, but it's best to remember things like this just in case.
When his phone chimes, he realizes he's been staring at the mostly-empty page for a few minutes without moving. Michael closes the notebook firmly, tucking it under an encyclopedia before reaching for his phone. The notification is for an email.
The subject line makes him grimace; already, it promises a few days of hard work and annoyance. But it's from a message from Helpy about a client, and he doesn't turn away a client without good reason. So he opens the email and reads it briefly.
Well. He was right about the hard work, at least.