Chapter Text
“I’m older. I should’ve gone first. I should’ve gone a long…”
Simon trails off, frail body trembling. He drops the spoon back into his barely-touched soup and pushes it aside with a nauseated grimace. NEPTR dutifully clears the table, and Simon gives him a fond pat and a thanks, bud, before his face falls again, not focused on anything particular.
“We were always supposed to grow old together,” he sighs, like he’s tired of hearing himself say it. “But I was always supposed to have a head start.”
“It’s not fair,” says Marceline. She takes his hand with the pleading look she always gets when he starts down this way. “I know it’s not fair. But you’re here, and that’s good, okay?”
He pats her hand with his other one and smiles, warm and full of understanding. His mind is sharp, Bonnie reminds herself, watching. Much sharper than it was when she met him, or even when Marcy did. It’s just tired. Every part of him is tired.
“Yes,” he agrees. “It’s so good to be here with you, Marcy.”
She pushes forward to hug him with visible restraint in her grip, like she knows he might break. He pats her back just as gently. It’s a scene Bonnie’s witnessed too many times to count— uncomfortable, itching for some hairbrained scientific solution to their pain, quietly tidying up or making tea or helping NEPTR with his new dessert recipes, outside of the little world that is Marcy and Simon, but close enough for Marcy to reach if she needs to. As soon as the next day, it’s a scene Bonnie wishes she could see again.
/
Peppermint Wizard Princess accepts the title of acting Princess in Chief for the second time— the first being a brief trial period which was mildly disastrous, but mostly because of Bonnie’s hovering. She cringes at herself in retrospect. It was pretty hypocritical to try and set a 9:30 bedtime to keep him feeling sharp. Another magical meltdown isn’t ideal, obviously, but he always self-soothes eventually, and the candy people in proximity get some cool magic temporary tattoos to show for it.
Neddy’s warmed quite a bit to Lolly too. Of course, Bonnie also installed a secret sibling call for help button in the cave, just in case, and all the trials have been successful. It’s unlikely he’ll need anything during the break, especially given their shared immortal time blindness, but if he does, Bonnie will know, and Lolly will be there until she can be too.
But she’d rather not risk thinking about any of it, just to be safe. The urgency may be gone for now, but it left behind guilt. And no stupid, manufactured feeling like that is going to get in the way of what’s important.
Bonnie hangs sheets over all the mirrors. She answers the door when friends and fans pay their respects from every kingdom, territory, and seldom-beaten path. She smiles and nods and lights candles and accepts gifts that aren’t meant for her. Mostly, she holds Marceline.
“Don’t you have important candy stuff to do?” Marcy mutters, still in bed, on the third day without him.
“No,” Bonnie answers simply. Strange how tragedy can make or break a person’s resolve.
“Really?”
“This is what I need to be doing,” she says gently to Marcy, and more aggressively to herself in her head. This is a nebulous combination of little loving things, which right now consists of rubbing Marcy’s back, kissing her shoulder blades every so often, sometimes her lips when she cranes her neck to ask for it, and listening to her strum absentminded chords with her bass angled oddly against the bed. Guilt or no guilt, there’s nothing in this or any other universe that Bonnie would rather be doing right now.
“Oh.” Marceline nods, hesitant. “Then can you maybe do something else for me too?”
“Anything.”
She plucks out the beginning of a familiar melody, leaning back with the bass up on her ribs. “Do you remember the words?”
“Yeah, of course. You want me to sing with you?”
“Just you. I’m too tired right now.”
“Oh.” Bonnie frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Please,” Marcy whispers. She moves the bass over and rolls closer, ear pressed to Bonnie’s chest, arms limply half-circling her waist. “Sing.”
Bonnie takes a deep breath.
Let’s go in the garden…
Marceline is not a still sleeper by any means, but Bonnie’s had years of practice distinguishing wakeful fidgeting from unconscious twitches and turns.
“We’re still here,” she whispers. “I’m right here with you.”
Marceline stirs but doesn’t wake. A thousand and more years sleep quietly with her. She feels heavy, somehow, in Bonnie’s arms, even with the bed holding most of her weight— heavy like she felt when she was poisoned. Her mind or her body, or maybe both, exhausted from the effort of staying alive. And she used to float in her sleep, unanchored. Bonnie wonders, not for the first time or the second or the hundredth, if she’s being selfish.
When she wakes up, Marcy looks blank, blinking dully. She’s quieter now than when she was sleeping. Quieter, maybe, than Bonnie’s ever known her to be. She sits up, fuzzy-eyed, and Bonnie follows.
She greets her softly as usual, with a little space and a few words. The ones that get her attention are, Are you hungry?
Marcy’s head turns slowly but deliberately, like an oscillating fan, and she stares with a silent question Bonnie hears immediately.
“Here.” Bonnie pushes her hair back and extends her arms. “All yours, sweetheart.”
She wonders if the words are even getting through, but then Marcy blinks, crawls silently into her lap, and kisses her neck. It only stings a little when she bites down, the same effect of a hug that knocks the wind out of her for just a moment. Bonnie rubs Marceline’s back and rocks them both along with the flow of her veins.
/
Two and a half weeks post-Simon, Bonnie finally brings up the messages she’s seen Marceline ignoring.
“Aren’t you tired of just hanging around me yet? I’m so boring.”
She’s going for lighthearted, but Marcy’s answering glare says that was a wrong move. Okay. Logic it is.
“It just makes sense. I know about the science, but you need to talk to someone who—”
“No.”
“Marcy.”
“I don’t wanna see anyone. You get it, right? Sometimes you need to hide for, like, a year or something, right?”
Bonnie grimaces. “I’m beginning to think that wasn’t helpful, actually.”
“Well it is for me.” Marcy pulls the blanket over her head. “I don’t like people! I’m a creature of the night!”
“It’s daytime, actually,” Bonnie points out, unhelpfully.
“I don’t care.”
“Just for a few minutes. I’ll kick him out as soon as you want me to, I promise.”
“No.”
“Please, Marcy. I’m…” She takes a breath and lies down on her back, blanket-covered Marcy curled up to her side. “I’m scared, okay? And I don’t really want my feelings to matter to you right now, but if they motivate you at all, then I can’t really bring myself to care if they’re selfish.”
“What are you so scared of?” Marceline mumbles under the blanket. “Having no one to feed and worry about anymore? You have a whole kingdom for that.”
Bonnie doesn’t answer, because she doesn’t think she can without crying, and she doesn’t think that would do much good. They lie together in silence, noses runny, sheets and pillows everywhere but on the bed, until Marceline sticks a hand out from under the blanket. Bonnie kisses every knuckle, every line, every finger pad, every nail, every inch, and eventually, Marcy pulls her in. They cry each other to sleep.
/
When Marceline finally lets a visitor all the way in, he doesn’t come in empty-handed. She hasn’t even finished crying before she begs to check out his stick and poke kit. Something about the pain, or the gallons of tears it emptied, or the Hambo face smiling under the bandage on her ribcage, or maybe just the beautiful, creased Finn face in front of her, makes Marcy talk. And it sucks, but it also doesn’t.
“This is just so new,” she says, for the fourth or fifth time, both of them lying on their backs on the bedroom floor. “I’ve never known someone who grew old in the normal way. Mom and everyone else— they all left. I wasn’t waiting for it; it just happened. And I never had to watch.” She drops a hand over her eyes. “I mean I— I never got to watch, I guess. Is it a have to or a get to?”
“It can be both.”
“Yeah. I think it’s both.” She turns her head and shakes it disapprovingly at Finn’s hair, also for the fourth or fifth time. “I don’t like that you’re going gray. It’s stupid. You’re a kid.”
“I’m, like, middle-aged, dude.”
“Whatever.” She swats at it, like the streaks will disappear if she’s mean enough to them. “I don’t think I’d mind it on me, but I don’t like it on you. Is that selfish?”
“Eh, maybe. It’s okay though.” He reaches up to tousle it, one impossibly long strand falling between his fingers. “I like it on me. No offense, but I think that’s all that matters.”
“I think I’m jealous,” Marceline admits. She looks back up at the ceiling, mentally kicking herself. “But— but don’t tell Bonnie I said that.”
“Pretty sure she knows,” Finn half-laughs.
“You think?”
“Definitely. And… I’m sorry. I don’t know what it’s like, being immortal. I guess it sucks, huh?”
“Yep.”
“But this isn’t forever. You’re a survivor, Marcy. You’ve been right here before, haven’t you?”
She nods, trying not to remember. “More than once.”
“You can get out again. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Shut up!” She punches his shoulder, not quite gently but not as hard as she used to either. He is middle-aged after all. “That’s you. Glob, I can’t deal with you being all wise now. When did that happen?”
He laughs and rubs the faintly growing bruise. “Let’s say we’re both strong and wise. And we’ve both always been that way, and it didn’t take any hard work or suffering at all.”
Marceline rolls her eyes, but she can’t keep from laughing. “We can say that.”
“Good. But for real.”
He takes her hand and squeezes it, but, to her relief, he doesn’t look her in the eye. He props himself up on the opposite shoulder and stares down at his chest, bare but for one tattoo and a ton of hair. Marcy looks down to her own, and her eyes land on Bonnie’s striped sweater. She feels like crying, but she feels like smiling too.
“You’re here,” says Finn, “and that’s good. Even though Simon’s gone. It’ll still be good when I’m gone, and even when Bonnie’s gone— if that, y’know, ever happens. It’s always gonna be good that you’re still here, because you’re good, and because here is always gonna have more good left for you.”
Marceline blinks. The sweater soaks up her tears, but it’s thick enough to keep her dry. “What if I get tired of waiting for it?”
“Then I guess…” He shrugs and lies back down. “I guess you’ll just have to go to it. Find the good and follow it. It won’t always be such a grind, y’know? Sometimes it’ll just be an adventure.”
/
One month post-Simon, Bonnie opens the door to a visitor bearing no gifts but his presence. He’s ready to breeze past the entrance, a loud greeting on his lips, but she stops with an outstretched hand and a firm, “Just a minute, please.”
“Oh, hey, Bubblegum,” Hunson Abadeer greets her, eyebrows raised like he really just noticed she was there. “Just stopped by to visit my beloved daughter.”
Bonnie realizes, very late, that she’s not sure if he even knows. “Um, okay.” She rubs her temples and glances inside. “Come in, but please wait here for a minute while I let her know you’re here. She might be a-asleep. I’ll go get her.”
She doesn’t add the part about if she wants to see you. Bonnie’s tough, and she has that classic protective adrenaline on her side, but barring the door against an all-powerful demon father-in-law might be beyond her reach. She’ll cross that bridge if she comes to it. For now, she draws on a different skill.
“Sit here, please,” she says, pointing to the couch. “Help yourself to some candy.”
She gestures at the dish on the coffee table, and he grins.
“Only from the bowl. No soul-sucking today, please.”
“Oh, come—”
“No soul-sucking.” She catches his eye, pleading as she is firm. “Not today.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. He sits down cross-legged on the couch, producing a newspaper out of nowhere, and obediently pretends to read it.
“Thanks, Mr. Abadeer.”
He looks up and smiles politely. “No need for formalities, Bubblegum. We’re family.”
She braces herself, willing her eyes not to roll at the inevitable punchline.
“You can just address me as, oh…” He shrugs, like he doesn’t make the same joke-not-joke every time they interact. “Your worst nightmare.”
Bonnie smiles vaguely while he cackles and slaps his knee, nearly knocking the coffee table over. Time to alert Marcy before his voice travels any further.
Marceline looks like she just woke up in the middle of a sleep cycle. But then, that droopy-eyed, heavy look is pretty common these days.
“Hey,” she mumbles, the corner of her mouth still pressed to her pillow.
“Hey,” Bonnie says tentatively. She moves in toward the bed and sits down.
“Someone at the door?”
“Um. Marcy.” She brushes a few red velvet cake crumbs out of Marcy’s hair. “It’s your dad. Did you ever…”
Marceline shakes her head.
“Okay. Well, he’s here now, if you wanna see him, but…”
She sighs heavily, caught by a yawn halfway though. But she sits up a little, and she pulls her bass up with her, and grabs Hambo too. “Guess I’ll go say hi or whatever.”
“You don’t owe him anything, okay?” Bonnie reminds her. “This isn’t about him. If you’re not feeling up to it—”
“I know.” Marcy offers a tiny, sad smile, and slumps against her, held in a loose, lopsided hug. “I think it’s good. I wanna talk to him alone first, but will you wait in the kitchen?”
“Of course. Arpeggio triplets when you want me?”
She nods, mumbles, “Thanks,” and squeezes Bonnie tighter. Bonnie squeezes back, just shy of too tight.
“You sure you don’t want me to kick him out?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Just a tiny bit longer.”
“Take your time,” Bonnie murmurs, stroking her hair, but within the next minute, Marcy sits up straighter.
“Okay,” she says, shaking herself a little. “Okay. I’m going.”
“I’ll be out as soon as I hear you.” Bonnie cups her hands around Marcy’s face and takes it in, red-eyed and grimy and still here. “I am so, so, crazy proud of you,” she tells her, blinking hard. “Okay?”
Marcy closes her eyes, cheeks flushed and sticky with old tears. “Thanks, Peebs.”
“I might not hear if you guys are fighting or anything, but the bass comes through that speaker so I know I’ll hear it. Just make sure—”
“Yeah. You can just come out if it’s been, like, ten minutes.” She shrugs. “It’s probably not gonna be a big thing. You know how he is.”
“Right. I just— I wanted to make sure you knew.”
“You’ll hear me,” says Marceline, eyes softly open now. “I know you will.”
/
It’s been almost eight minutes, and Bonnie inches toward the door. Just checking, just making sure. Just acting on that stupid, catastrophizing, deep-set fear of the unknown like always.
“The Nightosphere isn’t safe for mortal children,” she hears, muffled through the door. “Or for their mortal mothers.”
“I know, Dad.”
Marcy sounds sad, but not the way she did a month ago. Her voice is like a smile meant for someone else, or a shrug you might give in exchange for an apology, when you can’t honestly say it’s okay. Bonnie shakes her head, heart hammering, and returns to the blender.
“You have to be really good,” she tells the frozen fruit, and herself, “for Marcy. Best behavior. Extra red.” It’s only been about fifteen minutes, but there are enough cherry-raspberry-strawberry smoothies for an army of Marcelines by the time Bonnie hears her cue.
“Hi.” Bonnie takes the open seat on Marceline’s side and touches her elbow behind the table. “How’re you—”
“Bubblegum, you’re back,” Marceline’s father interrupts. There are two piles of (inanimate) gummy bears in front of him, one untouched and one with all the heads missing. Bonnie almost laughs.
“Hello again, Mr. Abadeer,” she says politely.
“I keep telling you, please call me—”
“My worst nightmare,” she fills in. “I remember.”
“Still not funny, Dad,” Marceline groans.
“Okay, okay. But really, Bubblegum, just Your Lowness will do.”
Bonnie smiles brightly and brushes her thumb over Marcy’s arm. “Sounds good, Mr. Abadeer.”
Marceline laughs, the sweetest sound the universe has made in weeks. It feels more like centuries.
/
Six weeks post-Simon, Marceline sits on the porch for nine minutes. When the sun creeps too close, she comes inside and squints, like the light changed something in her eyes.
“Hey,” Bonnie says softly, after some strange, immeasurable time of clasped hands and silent blinking. “I’m gonna take a shower. You wanna come with? You don’t have to do any of the work if you don’t want to.”
Marceline turns and squints at her too. “Didn’t you take a shower this morning?”
Bonnie shrugs.
“Hot water?”
“Whatever you want.”
Marcy considers this, humming a low pitch. She drums her fingers on Bonnie’s wrist for a few seconds, and then nods. “Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She smirks. “Don’t sound so shocked. What, am I that gross?”
Bonnie tries to match her face, but it comes out more like a grin. “Kinda.”
“Bitch.”
“Yeah,” she says breezily, tugging on Marcy’s hand. “C’mon. I can help with that.”
/
“How’s that?”
“Warm,” Marceline sighs. “Too warm for you?”
“Nope. I’ve been around too long to get squishy; you know that.”
She leans back into Bonnie’s chest and hands her the washcloth she was about to start using. You don’t have to do any of the work if you don’t want to.
“Remind me.”
“Well...” Bonnie starts at her chin and works down. Six weeks of grime requires either an aggressive approach or a patient one, and her hands, blessedly, seem willing to cooperate with the latter. “When your skin heals,” she says, “the tissue comes back as scars and calluses. Most of them fainter than other people’s, of course, because you heal too fast to get infections or anything like that. Usually.” She runs a thumb, achingly gentle, over the spot where the Hierophant's poison entered.
“I know this part,” Marcy says, dropping her head back, cap barely still clinging to her hair. Bonnie pulls her close and kisses her neck before resting in the spot, voice a bit muffled from the contact.
“My body is kinda like that too,” she continues. “I use preservatives and enhancements and vitamins, just like all the candy people, but gum has its own defenses. It gets tougher and rougher the longer it’s exposed to the elements.”
“I noticed that after we got back together. Or I guess, the first few times I touched you after we broke up. But now…” Marceline touches the pink forearm across her ribs and considers. “It feels the same as always to me. It’s just you.”
“Yeah. Me too, sometimes.”
“What about me? Am I rough and tough? Or— or softer? Withered and wrinkly? Or just the same?”
Bonnie pokes the tiny Hambo on Marceline’s rib. “This one’s new. Was that Finn?”
“Oh, yeah. I guess you haven’t seen it.” Marceline moves Bonnie’s hand to her arm, then the other, then her face. “Do I feel old?”
“I don’t know. Do you think so?”
“My mind does. My brain, or whatever. I feel really, really, really, really old. And really tired too.”
“I’m sorry you’re so tired, mein Herz.” Bonnie kisses her cheek. “You feel like you. That’s all I know.”
“Good thing?”
“Best thing.”
She turns around and hugs Bonnie harder than she has in a long time. Bonnie holds her back, and keeps holding her as she cries, shakes, breaks.
Sometime after the water runs cold, without really meaning to, Bonnie starts to hum Marceline’s new work in progress. It still doesn’t have words, as far as she knows, but she’s heard the same refrain enough times to get it stuck in her head. It’s beautiful, like all of them, and special, and sad, and perfect. Marceline stiffens in her arms when she hears it, and Bonnie stops.
“Sorry.”
“No,” Marcy says. “Keep going.”
Bonnie does as she’s told, warily, and sways under the water, four feet firm on the wet floor of the tub. With a sigh and a tremor, out of practice and a little off-pitch, Marceline starts to sing.