Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The police came twice already. The first time, the officer was inquiring about something that wasn’t even remotely related to them, and when Dan heard him ask the receptionist about some simple theft, the relief was so overwhelming he started laughing like a maniac the moment he was out of the earshot. No missing body parts or entire people, no sinkhole in the middle of a cemetery. Just someone being a scourge of gas stations, which must have been a pretty big deal for the local community, but Dan couldn’t care less about the gasoline, or-or liquor, or whatever it was. Candy bars, maybe. Probably not.

Admittedly, that first instance of a cop’s appearance, combined with a hasty haircut that was supposed to make Dan look a decade younger and failed, lulled him into a false sense of security. He was caught off-guard when three days later, another cop came by, this time inquiring about two white males. The descriptions were vague, they always are, but still. Sounded too much like him and Herbert for Dan to feel comfortable. Thankfully, he didn’t give their actual names, the car with its damning license plate was still in repairs, and the nervous girl at the desk — pretty little thing with shapely lips, huge eyes, and nice other things, not that he was looking — wasn’t the one who checked them in on the first night. She’s never seen Herbert. Only Dan leaves the room, though not as often as he’d like to. He’ll do it for good, and it’s going to be soon. He has an entire scenario prepared. He’s been rehearsing, it’s going to be glorious and serve Herbert right, but he has to do it properly, and now’s not exactly the best time.

Ever since he found a condom wrapping behind the chair, he's been worried about finding the discarded thing itself under the sofa or by the wall. Someone must have had fun in here. Good for them, but Dan can only pray it was the people who occupied the room right before him and Herbert, and that normally, the carpet would at least get vacuumed after someone moved out. It doesn’t seem like that’s the case, though. Not with the dust bunnies populating every corner and breeding whenever he’s not looking.

But screw the dust, dust’s not an issue. It’s stinking in here, that’s the real problem. It’s vicious, no, fucking pungent, as if roadkill and hydrochloric acid had a child together, and it died. Of dysentery, most likely. It stinks to high heaven, is Dan’s point. Reeks more than anything has ever reeked, but that’s not really true, is it. It was reeking in here a couple days ago, but by now, the vile smell has solidified into something Dan suspects he’ll never be able to get out of his nostrils. He distantly recollects hearing stories about people running away from the bombed parts of their city via the sewers, sometimes getting lost in there for days. They would still try to scrub themselves clean and free of the smell decades later, the very model PTSD victims.

Dan wonders whether that’s going to happen to him as well. He doubts there will ever come a day when he doesn’t feel this stench that, somehow, has penetrated every item in their bags. It clings to his clothes, his body and hair, and he feels embarrassed to leave their hideout and expose other humans to this atrocity. He still does, though. It’s for his own survival. So far, nobody’s commented. There’s been no nose wrinkling in his presence, which either means it’s all in his head, or that the good people of New Hampshire are exceptionally courteous. It’s probably the second thing.

There’s a window and an elderly air unit in it, but it mostly grinds the stale air, and doesn’t accomplish anything besides making noise. It’s not that it’s hot in here. It’s just weird. Given his line of work, Dan’s no stranger to unpleasant smells. Embarrassed patients with diarrhea, gassy unconscious people, wounds that have been left open just a tad too long, most often on homeless men; and that’s not mentioning what happens at the morgue. Or in their basement. Well, used to happen in what used to be their basement.

The bathroom is yet another problem. It’s damp and it smells like mold, among other things, though the disinfectant Dan used almost covers that. It also adds something extra, giving the smell the unmistakable edge of a public toilet. The shower curtain is spotty, and apparently, they both decided not to wonder aloud about that. The towels never seem to dry, even after Dan’s started to hang them on the chairs. So far, he’s managed to successfully make the room more dingy, so that’s something. They’re going through the towels at an alarming rate, by the way, and you can ask for new ones only so often before someone starts finding it odd. Hand-washing them in a sink with a bar of soap leaves them clammy and unappealing. The blood stains become pale and brownish, but they certainly don’t vanish. Maybe they’ll get lucky and someone will think it’s just shit?

It’s disgusting, is what it is, and they’ll probably need to pay for ruining the towels.

In the bathroom, there’s no window, which, yeah, alright, might explain half of the dampness and some of the smell. Not all of it. Herbert claims it’s unpleasant, yet barely noticeable, but then again, he’s part of the problem. Either way, he’s been way too busy complaining about the strategic disadvantage posed by lack of a bathroom window to take note of such minutiae. On the first night, he actually claimed a window could be an additional escape route if shit went south. Not his exact words, obviously. Dan didn’t have the patience to refrain from laughing out loud at that point. As if West were able to climb up and escape through any window, now that he needs assistance getting to the bathroom for normal purposes.

To which Herbert replied with an offended scoff and going to the bathroom all by himself an hour later. He was very brave about it and pointedly ignored Dan’s offer to help, and then, by the sound of it, proceeded to lose his balance and land on the floor, tangled up in the dreaded shower curtain. Perhaps suffering from some black mold poisoning, but that’s just wishful thinking. Since he locked himself in, and insisted through the door he was perfectly fine, Dan decided it was Herbert’s very own problem.

But it wasn’t, not really, not when it turned out Dan needed to reset the bones in his wrist all over again. And then the asshole had the nerve to just nod tersely and say, “Yes, thank you, that will suffice.” His voice was curt, probably the only way to cover up the pained sobs that threatened to escape his throat, and he lied, of course. Nothing Dan did sufficed. It rarely did, but this time, it was the fever that made sure of that.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, honestly. He’s a doctor, he knows what are the consequences of the injuries they’re dealing with. Herbert’s clearly brought it on himself, and by “it,” Dan means both the ceiling and the wrath of whatever … things had been occupying the crypt. He really hopes they were things, and carefully ignores the memory of them reacting to Herbert’s orders like sentient beings might have. There was nothing sentient in there, and there’s no actual need to dwell on it. Or any other events of that night, for that matter.

So.

Herbert’s injuries. Not as severe as the man would deserve, but some sensible part of Dan’s is grateful that he doesn’t have to deal with anything more serious. Said part is sensible enough to ask why he assumes he needs to deal with any of it at all, but it asks only once. He's a doctor, that’s his job. He helps people who are hurt, and Herbert West happened to be among those. Dan had to come back and check after he got Francesca to the ER with her bruised ribcage and a sprained ankle. That’s what he’s supposed to do, and also what he does for a living. It’s not that complicated, none of this is.

To be fair, he probably should have started looking for Herbert immediately, as soon as he had established that Francesca’s injuries were not lethal. Instead, he drove her to the hospital, though, admittedly, missed the turning that would have led him to Miskatonic, and had to waste some more time driving to another hospital. Could have turned around and gone back to Miskatonic, and yet he didn’t. He was pretty shaken up.  Still, he helped Francesca out of the car, and he even held her hand in the waiting area, like a perfect gentleman hoping for a kiss by the end of the night. Maybe he was doing exactly that. But he was already doing Francesca, so maybe not. Taking his sweet time definitely heightened the probability of the second damsel in distress asphyxiating under all that rock and plaster, and that is clearly not something Herbert is ever going to let go. Dan would normally say he can’t blame him for that, but it’s been increasingly easy to blame Herbert for pretty much everything.

The point is, by the time Dan got back, Herbert was bleeding and in peril, and in cases like these, you don’t overanalyze stuff. You start with getting the patient out of immediate danger, and if it’s the refusal of investigating the danger any further that helps you achieve your objective, then there’s no need to look into the other shrieks coming from under the rubble. That would have only slowed Dan down, and time was of the essence. It’s all perfectly logical, even in hindsight. There was only one noise he should have been concerned with, and it was Herbert’s pathetic wailing from under a particularly large piece of the ceiling.

He might or might not have been repeating Dan’s name. Hard to say, really, it was muffled, and Herbert only scoffed in disdain when asked about it later on. Dan assumes it was supposed to serve as an answer, though it did not actually answer anything. Herbert is quite adamant about not needing Dan’s pity, except for the times when Dan’s pity turns out to be quite convenient.

It’s also entirely possible that West just didn’t remember what was happening back then. He was barely lucid by the time Dan got him out, talking incoherently, with his pupils dilated and eyelids droopy. The arm he instinctively covered himself with took most of the damage, and so the face wasn’t in such a bad shape. A split lip, a bruise here and there. Most injuries to that area came from the broken glasses, but Dan had the time to look for the tweezers to take out the shards only after having dealt with a broken wrist, a leg that miraculously wasn’t broken (but wasn’t exactly not broken, judging by Herbert’s reaction to the touch), and also twenty three stitches. All the while Herbert was altering between being unresponsive and screaming obscenities Dan never suspected him to know.

They shouldn’t have entered the building. It was obviously no longer structurally stable (was it ever, now that Dan thinks about it), but Herbert was too spaced out to pay attention to his surroundings, and Dan, well. Herbert hadn’t told Dan what to do. He had to do something, and the front of the house remained standing and inviting, with all that running water, soap, and a first-aid kit inside. It looked fine. Perhaps sometimes looking fine is enough, because nothing more caved in that night.

The cracked rib had to be pointed out to Dan only after the sedatives and painkillers started working and Herbert was back to forming actual sentences. Dan’s pretty sure the little prick wanted to deal with his ribcage all by himself, just like with changing out of the blood-stained clothes. Fortunately, tasks like these require both hands — Dan’s hands — and thus West managed to avoid self-inflicted injuries. Uh, more of those. The amount of blood was alarming, but all in all, it seemed like the greatest blow Herbert suffered was not to his head or any of the limbs but to his ego. In case of any other person, it would not be considered something serious.

“Dan,” he rasped, trying and failing to focus his eyes in order to give his stare its usual intensity, and for a moment, Dan really thought that he was going to hear Herbert West admit a mistake. It had taken a ceiling falling right onto his head after a siege that was brief but included horrors that no siree, Dan is never going to contemplate, thank you very much, he’s fine, suffice it to say it had taken a lot, but, but Herbert was clearly getting ready to confront his own fallibility.

There was something profound about that moment, like watching a baby take their first steps or, rather, someone finally go through a rite of passage that most people experience before they turn sixteen. It felt sort of obscene to watch it. Things like that are a bigger deal and hurt much more if you delay them, and Herbert’s been long overdue for the humiliation of not being omnipotent.

Still, Dan actually felt sorry for the bastard for a minute there. His sweaty hair was still covered in dust and chips of plaster. There was also some vaguely organic liquid that Dan didn’t want to examine after having made sure it wasn’t Herbert’s. Despite all that happened, despite whatever it was in that God-forsaken crypt he had to go through with Francesca, Dan found himself unable to relish the sight of Herbert West defeated. He was just a small man, crumpled on the floor and cradling his injured hand as if that was supposed to help, dirty, sniffling, and with cheeks covered in salty tear streaks that must have been turning the minute cuts into something much more painful. His lower lip was slightly trembling, and his gaze was fixed on a spot just above Dan’s ear. Was it the lack of glasses? Concussion? The inability to look his lab partner in the eye? Dan couldn’t tell.

“Dan,” Herbert repeated insistently, and his breath hitched as he reached up and curled his uninjured fist in Daniel’s shirt. It was ruined either way, and even if it weren’t, it was a small price for hearing Herbert West apologize. “Don’t forget the toothbrushes.”

“… toothbrushes?” Dan echoed.

Herbert gave him a solemn nod.

“Toothbrushes, Dan,” he explained in a tone usually reserved for very dense children. “We’ll need them. And my old glasses as well, they’re in my nightstand. Second drawer from the top.” He let Dan’s shirt go. “The staircase and the upper floor should be undamaged. Just thread lightly. My bag is in the wardrobe, packed, but I haven’t packed the glasses.”

“What.”

Herbert gave him a one-armed shrug. “Regrettably, I didn’t plan that far ahead. You could call it lack of foresight.” He gave a small chuckle, and then squinted at Dan’s expression. Whatever he found there, it clearly disappointed him. “I take it, you don’t have a bag of your own prepared in advance,” he deadpanned and fell silent for a minute, as if deeming Dan unworthy of a reprimand. His entire body radiated disapproval nonetheless. Then, suddenly, his mouth stretched in a forced smile that caused the scab on his lower lip to tear in two. “Well then,” he said briskly. “You need to pack. Chop-chop, we don’t have all day.”

Dan spent the entire next week coming up with brilliant quips and eloquent answers to this statement. Every time he went back to that moment, his words got better: more assertive, sarcastic, and they always served the asshole right. It didn’t have to be a “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” even though it never hurts to go with a classic. Dan's not sure Herbert is aware of movie references as a concept. He could have said something along the lines of, “yeah, we don’t have all day because it’s the middle of the night,” or, or something. Anything. Better yet, could have turned on his heel without a word and left Herbert on the couch, now that he was stable. Could have called an ambulance from a payphone on his way back to Francesca.

But in reality, what Dan said back then was, “Herbert, what the fuck are you talking about,” even though he already knew the answer to that question.

And to add insult to injury, in retrospect, he must admit it didn’t even sound very angry. Yes, he managed to become livid by the time it was dawning, and he was finished with hastily throwing random pieces of clothing into a gym bag and looking for cash, but he channeled his ire into slamming the front door on his way to the car. Sure, it wasn’t a fully intentional slam. More like a door suddenly closing on its own accord while he had his hands full, trying to get everything that might be of any use out before he runs out of luck and the building catches up with the damage done to its foundations. Still, the slam was loud, and it must have given the devil his due.

So yes, Dan could have said something, he should have said something, but Herbert was unconscious again, injured leg swung over the side of the couch. Maybe he was just sleeping, maybe just pretending to if it served his purposes at the moment. Whatever it was that he was doing, Dan for some reason shrank away from confrontation. He locked the door to the basement and hid most of the bloodied clothes, as if that was going to change anything when the police came here to investigate half of a graveyard and one entire cop that went missing. Then, huffing and puffing, he carried Herbert to the car, laid him in the backseat as carefully as possible, and, as the man gave no reaction, checked his vitals with mounting panic. They were stable, so Dan went to the front sit and turned on the engine without a word. There was no way in hell Herbert didn’t wake up at any point during Dan’s ministrations, especially when Dan tripped while carrying him, but he still kept his eyes screwed shut. Didn’t say anything, either.

They spent the next three hours of the drive in silence, and when Herbert finally broke it, it wasn’t to express gratitude, apologize, or even to ask whether Dan was coming with him. Yeah, the answer to that one seemed pretty obvious since Dan was the one driving, but it would have been decent to, you know. At least ask. But no, Herbert just wanted to inquire whether Dan remembered to pack the toothbrushes.

Dan hadn’t remembered the goddamn toothbrushes.

By the time he pulled over, they made it across the state border. For the last couple miles, he was so out of it, he could have fallen asleep behind the wheel at any moment. The prospect did hold some allure. The car had been making ungodly noises for at least an hour by then, and it was already dark. An entire day passed since it all started, though even a week later, Dan’s not ready to analyze what the word “all” actually entails. Herbert’s failed experiments, though West is never going to acknowledge them as such. They were moving, after all, which means they were alive, and the rest was probably inconsequential. There was something gasping for air and walking around with the clumsiness of a newborn calf and covered in blood like one, always on tiptoes, unaware the heel might touch the ground. There was also Megan’s heart, and it was beating, first in a chest, then, then the ceiling caved in while West’s abominations got free. Because West is an irresponsible asshole. There’s no mystery to that. It’s quite simple, really.

What the hell was he thinking, anyways? What kind of idiocy a man needs to possess in order to stitch together a head and a foot? And no, Dan doesn’t mean insanity. Insanity is a word Herbert seems to expect. Anticipate, even. He’d wear it like a badge of honor, it would place him among movie villains. It’s romantic, gives the person a certain flair. The actual word should be idiocy. Nothing Herbert did in that basement when Dan wasn’t around was science, it wasn’t even pushing the boundaries of what’s imaginable. All of it was very much imaginable, that’s something a four-year-old might do to their toys. Dan did glue a plastic dinosaur’s head to a doll’s body on one occasion, actually. He was bored that day. Didn’t proclaim himself master of life of death because of that. All he achieved was just ruining two perfectly good toys and making the new one unlovable.

Perhaps the question Dan should have been asking was a very different one. What kind of idiocy a man needed to possess to believe Herbert West of all people that the noise in the walls had been caused by rats? Rats, for fuck’s sake! Rats. Herbert could have at least attempted to come up with something better, and yet he decided not to overestimate his partner. Rightly so, since it never occurred to Dan to pursue the subject for five seconds. Just five seconds, and he could have moved out and away from the other man. He was ready to do that before, he’s fully intending to do it now. He would certainly have done that after seeing the insides of the crypt. Before bringing Francesca there. Before— stuff.

Some part of him keeps wondering how long it took Francesca to realize he was not going to deliver on his promise. Maybe she was already talking to the police by the time Dan was frantically feeling for Herbert’s pulse while Herbert was stubbornly refusing to move. She should have contacted them even before that. But maybe she trusted Dan enough to wait for him for hours, days, even, worried out of her mind instead of getting angry. That would be so much worse.

Herbert remained there in the back of the car, first in the exact position Dan placed him in, then curled up on himself, but with his injured limbs rigid and extended at awkward angles, mouth slightly agape. It was preferable to him backseat driving, but he looked… silly, for lack of a better word. It was undignified, out of character, and alarming. Herbert would have never allowed himself to be seen like that.

Logically, Dan knew he had to sleep sometime. That’s one of the things that come with owning a body. Perhaps he’s even seen it with his very own eyes back in Peru, and was just too tired to notice and marvel at the fact that his partner was human. He knew Herbert owned a bed and retreated to the bedroom sometimes. Probably owned pajamas, though that might be a stretch. Whenever Dan attempted to imagine Herbert sleeping, he saw his roommate fully clothed, laid out stiffly like a corpse on a catafalque, shoes shiny and spotless. That, however, would be unhygienic, and it would cause the clothes to wrinkle. Herbert West is nothing if not pragmatic, and so he would have never gone to sleep wearing a suit. Probably. Except he just did.

The smaller man’s skin was clammy to the touch, and in the artificial light, it had an unhealthy pallor. Well, more unhealthy than normally, and that was saying something. After stopping a couple miles off the main road, basically by the first motel he saw, Dan spent precious five minutes savoring the silence while furiously rubbing at his own eyes. But the quiet was actually unnerving, and before he knew what he was doing, he was shaking Herbert awake. Much more gently than he really wanted to, by the way, and yet he came to regret his actions very soon. Roused from sleep, Herbert decided to cover the embarrassment with a stunning — and unnaturally loud — display of eloquence that lasted for minutes until he attempted to get out of the car, and immediately emptied his stomach all over his own dress shoes.

“New Hampshire?” he choked out while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “New fucking Hampshire, Dan?” Another heave didn’t stop him for long. “There’s nothing here.” Another, but a dry one this time. “They probably don’t even have corpses of their own, and have to import them!”

Dan just shrugged. By the time he started wondering where were they driving, he was way past Malden. All he knew was that they ought to leave the state. That’s what people do in the movies when they’re on the run, New Hampshire was close, and Herbert was unconscious.

Herbert swayed slightly when Dan was checking in at the motel, but thankfully, he was lucid enough to keep quiet as the girl’s gaze lingered on his most noticeable bruises. The vomit was actually a nice touch, made it much easier for him to pass for someone who’s just had a bit too much to drink. He nodded along while Dan was talking to the receptionist, his lips curled into a snarl, but whatever biting remark on the decor of the lobby he was coming up with, he miraculously kept it to himself.

“Lightweight,” Dan muttered apologetically to the receptionist as Herbert stumbled after taking literally one step. Technically, not a lie. Dan gave her the most charming smile he could muster, and she pursed her lips in disapproval but went back to her book. Herbert glared at both of them accusingly, drawing himself back upright, but he remained quiet nonetheless. A good sign. Must have at least partially acknowledged what Dan was telling him about the concussion.

As if anybody needed to hear Herbert’s poor volume control to make that diagnosis anyway. He lurched for the bin and was retching the second the door closed behind them, even though by that point it was mostly just bile. He might have avoided landing on his injured knee, but of course he leaned on the broken wrist. Why the hell not. His hand gave out immediately, and he landed on the floor, knocking over the bin and spilling its contents. Then he dry heaved some more while Dan had to clean up the mess.

There was only one bed. A large one, yes, but only one. They must have given the receptionist a profoundly wrong impression (that would explain her disapproval, wouldn’t it), but since this room was already covered in Herbert’s vomit, they couldn’t just ask to switch. Or could they? Perhaps they could, Dan mused. They could just pay extra for the cleaning, right? It wasn’t an issue, West informed him, throwing one of the pillows onto the floor. Plenty of room there, he explained, and given Dan’s — his lips twitched in distaste — romantic history, he was probably quite used to sleeping in odd places.

It wasn’t a jab that actually made any sense. If Herbert wanted to insult Dan by suggesting he had numerous sexual encounters (a perfectly heathy amount, by the way, not that it was any concern of Dan’s lab partner), he should have referred to numerous beds he’s slept in. But Dan didn’t say anything, and Herbert magnanimously added a blanket to that sad single pillow. Dan could live with that, it was just for one night.

But that had been on Friday. Now it’s Tuesday, they’re still here, and Dan’s back hurts in ways he never deemed possible. Lying on the floor is supposed to be healthy and do miracles for the spine, but maybe this specific floor is crooked in some way. Dan’s neck certainly is. Turned out that the noises the car was making meant the engine, once stopped, refused to start, so Dan needed to take care of that. Because he didn’t know how, he just left it with someone who might. It was supposed to take the guy a couple hours.

At first, Herbert insists they should buy a new car, or at least get a doctored license plate. Still, none of them know how to afford the former and how to go about the latter, just like none of them is sure how to actually obtain false IDs they could really, really use right now. After just one day, Herbert proposes they steal somebody else’s vehicle, and he seems absolutely serious. Dan asks him whether he knows how to jump-start an engine, and Herbert blinks owlishly. They know how to jump-start a corpse, he says after a moment. It shouldn’t be much different.

It is, Dan has learned the hard way on the first morning here while in his own car. He proposes they put a pin in it. Driving in a vehicle reported as stolen hardly counts as inconspicuous anyways, and also Herbert’s back to being nauseous and can’t argue with his mouth full.

It’s not all that bad, Dan reasons, they’ve left Arkham far behind, and an additional day of lying down wouldn’t hurt Herbert. But the day quickly turns into two, and then three, which, let’s face it, Dan should have seen coming. For some reason he just assumed Herbert West’s body didn’t work like those of mere mortals. It wasn’t supposed to get a fever just because some bones were broken, wasn’t supposed to shiver and chatter its teeth, get stubble or require sustenance, all the more get rid of it and keep dry heaving for minutes afterwards. It shouldn’t have kept Dan up at night by snoring or, worse, demanding he half-carries it to the bathroom because all that water Dan forced into it with an IV had to leave it one way or another. It ought to be free of such mundane things as spit and snot mixed with bile running from its nose when it’s sobbing, choking, doubled over a toilet bowl or, if they’re particularly unlucky, the carpet. It certainly was not supposed to be the source of an odor. Dan is used to Herbert’s body being surrounded by it, yes, but it usually originates from the other, half-decomposed ones, and the smell of formaldehyde covers the rot anyway.

Truth be told, there’s nothing unusual about this specific stench, it’s just old sweat and breath sour with bile, but the perfect normalcy makes it even more inappropriate. Doctor West, as expected, finds the humiliation of being forced to occupy a physical body unbearable, but rarely has a chance to comment on that between the migraine, bouts of nausea, and — mercifully for both of them — passing out from exhaustion. Three of the stitches on his shoulder blade had been torn when the bony frame was tugged and wracked with the retching, and so Dan had to deal with that again.

Herbert refused to shower after the first night, deeming the water too cold. It wasn’t that cold, honestly, merely lukewarm. It must have been the fever talking, but when Herbert West made up his mind about anything, it was quite difficult to convince him to change it. He did change his clothes, though, and that was mostly comical in its futility. The source of the problem wasn’t the clothes themselves but the man underneath them. It was not only unhygienic — they’ve both had their fair share of unhygienic every now and then, given that they used to dabble in body parts — but untidy. Undignified and embarrassing, like leaving one’s fly open. West doesn’t do that. Yes, Dan has seen him squeak in surprise when an experiment went wrong, has manhandled the smaller man to pull him out of his hyperfocus like one does with a cat that got onto the kitchen counter and is trying to lick the batter off the blender’s blades. He’s seen West scared and pushed around, and to be fair, Dan’s done quite of lot of said pushing himself, but Herbert never allowed any of that by choice and never did any of that to himself.

On Wednesday, Dan finally confronts the simple truth. Herbert has chosen to become insufferable in order to punish him for something. For Francesca, perhaps. For not going back for him immediately? For something that happened before the cave-in? Maybe there was something, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe failing another messed-up test Herbert came up with, whatever its point might have been? Dan can’t recall anything that could have served as such a test. Nothing of any importance.

Still, it all makes sense now, Dan supposes. He’s being punished, there’s no other explanation, and every piece of this hell is just another part of his sentence. That’s why Herbert doesn’t allow him to turn on the radio (distasteful gibberish, below any criticism, he explains with a snarl), and TV is absolutely out of the question (national broadcasting? Televangelists and soap operas? Do I really need to spell it out for you, Dan?).

That night, they have a heated wordless argument fought solely with the light switch; every time Dan flips it, Herbert pointedly limps towards it and turns the light back on. Dan angrily untangles from the heap of blankets on the floor and turns the light off again, and by the time he’s back in his nest, Herbert manages to get back to the switch. Honestly, there’s no point to it. Light doesn’t do Herbert’s migraine any favors, while Dan could just cover his head with a blanket and ignore the brightness. Doctors know how to fall asleep whenever there’s a chance to do that and no matter the circumstances. There’s absolutely nothing in it for any of them, but, as per usual, it’s Dan who finally yields. Should have done it an hour earlier, given that Herbert gets bored after a few minutes, and just turns the light off himself.

Dan’s been stuck in hell, and he can’t even claim it’s not of his own making. He brought them here. He actively looked for the man he currently wants to strangle. If he wasn’t required to go outside to bring food (pizza, Dan? Could you get a little bit more pedestrian, please?) and medication from the town he needs to walk to for almost an hour, he would have gone insane within the first two days, especially after having seen what pizza can do to a person on its way back. Dan could have sworn some of that undigested corn didn’t spill out of Herbert’s mouth, but out of his nose. That would explain the nosebleed that followed. He does feel guilty about that; shouldn’t have pressured Herbert into eating anything but crackers, and even getting him to eat those was a success of sorts. Dan just wanted some normalcy, and while there was no way they would ever have a beer and watch sports together, eating pizza while giving the TV longing looks is as close as it gets when Herbert’s involved.

Dan’s a social creature. He requires people to talk to, voices to hear, and while ordinarily he does fine during extended periods of … just Herbert, now the man is not much of a conversationalist. Never has been, actually. He’s more of a monologist, but that’s okay. At least there’s someone talking, and half the things he says, even the nasty ones, are so absurd, they’re at least entertaining. The other half are, well, brilliant (obviously, Herbert sneered when Dan got carried away and pointed it out. Hand me that beaker, no, Dan, the other one). During the first three days in this hellhole, Dan found himself flooded with relief every time Herbert decided to make a nasty quip at him. Technically,  Dan’s always been aware Herbert West is mean, but it was something he did to other people. With Dan, it was weird comments that were most probably intended as compliments, it was silent scowls instead of invectives when something went wrong. When something went right, it wasn’t cold indifference but “Danny” and a smile that seemed almost genuine. Now, now when Herbert decides to speak, he treats Dan like the rest of the people he interacts with, and the saddest part is, Dan’s actually happy to hear insults hurled at him, because it’s a form of human interaction. It’s not retching, and it’s far better than the pained grunts Herbert still gives from time to time, holding up a hand to his temple (odd, the concussion didn’t seem that serious, and the symptoms should have started abating by now). Cruel remarks are certainly better than the dead silence when his body shivers uncontrollably under a pile of blankets, or the miserable whimpers and keening sounds that escape him at random. Quiet unhappiness, despite what one might assume, is far worse than the loud one because — and yes, Dan knows how it sounds, it sounds like he’s an absolutely terrible human being, and maybe he is — because the thing is, loud unhappiness is less tedious. Dan misses Herbert being mean. That at least required articulated speech.

On day six, there’s a change, though. Herbert emerges from the bathroom looking marginally better. Alive. First of all, he walks out of there all by himself, and doesn’t stumble on his way to the chair. He’s still pale, his lips are colorless, and the dehydrated sallow skin clings to his bones in a manner Dan would call creepy if he weren’t a doctor, but since he is one, he’s not going to use that word. He might call it concerning. That’s a perfectly adequate expression. But Herbert’s clearly taken a shower (oh Lord, finally), and made an attempt to shave himself, as evidenced by the fact that he’s bleeding from entirely new cuts on his jaw. It figures, he can use only his left hand now, though the realization that Herbert’s not ambidextrous still comes as a surprise. He’s supposed to be good at everything. Sure acts like he is.

“Have you disinfected that?” Dan just asks, pointing to the most obvious cut.

West gives him a disoriented look before slowly bringing his hand to the welt and examining the blood on his fingers carefully, his mouth forming a surprised little O.

“I have not,” he says hesitantly, but before Dan can do anything about it, Herbert’s expression morphs into a sharp smile, and the topic is dropped immediately. “So,” he adds, suddenly all jovial, as if approaching the conclusion of a conversation. He certainly did not have it with Dan. “We need to move. This makes a terrible base of operations.”

What operations, Dan wants to ask, because so far it’s mostly been figuring out how to move a man passed out with his forehead on a toilet sit without waking him up so that the man in question doesn’t witness Dan peeing. At first, Dan tried to carry Herbert out of the bathroom every time, but it’s not worth it. Herbert might not be heavy in comparison to most corpses of adult males, but he’s still heavy. Half the time, he wakes up and runs back into the bathroom to get sick before Dan manages to undo his damn belt. It’s much simpler to use the sink and just let Herbert sleep on the tiles. And if he wakes up, well, it’s nothing Herbert hasn't seen in Peru. Still, Dan has already figured out that taking a dump, which is a task more time consuming and, so to say, rarely performed in a sink, is much easier at the gas station on his way to town. Plus, it's five to seven more minutes spent somewhere that is not here.

“It’s inconspicuous enough, I’ll give you that, Dan,” West carries on, ignoring Dan’s expression. “But the home decor leaves much to be desired. We need space.”

Oh, that they do.

“For what?” Dan asks helplessly.

Herbert flashes him a smile that should not include that many teeth, but he’s brushed them, so it could have been worse. “Experiments, what else? Do keep up. We should be able to go back home when things settle down a bit—”

“You mean the sinkhole?”

Herbert’s mouth twitches in annoyance, but he doesn’t waste his time on a proper scowl, just ignores Dan and carries on. “It’s a shame you haven’t thought about retrieving the equipment though. We’ll need to make do with what we can afford.”

“Haven’t thought?” Dan snaps. “Haven’t thought? Half of the basement collapsed, Herb! It’s a miracle I was able to retrieve you, you absolute—”

“And what a valiant rescue it was indeed,” Herbert agrees wryly, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Last minute and truly in the nick of time.”

That shuts Dan up for a second, as if the breath had been knocked out of him, even though the jab has lost its freshness and novelty at least two days ago. If pressed, Dan wouldn't be able to say why he feels that guilty. He came back, didn’t he? He didn’t have to, and yet he did. Besides, he had another person to save, one that wasn’t responsible for that mess.

“Not a moment too soon,” Herbert continues, apparently deciding to drive the knife in, and doing it with all the subtlety of a butcher. Dan doesn’t think Herbert is actually able to operate in a different manner.

“Herbert,” Dan protests, but it ends up sounding more like a whine. “I fucking dug you out with my bare hands.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you should have used a shovel.”

Maybe Herbert pays enough attention to Dan’s face to notice he’s crossed the line, because after a second, he does add “Still, what’s done is done.” His bony shoulders move in a semblance of a shrug, and it would be so nice if it were truly the end of that discussion. “Now we need to make plans on how to proceed, starting with finding a suitable space for our work.”

“We should have no trouble finding a graveyard,” Dan deadpans. “They rarely disappear overnight. With some exceptions, of course, but those require extra effort on part of the neighbors. Or, you know. One neighbor. One is enough.”

Herbert shoots him a dirty look, but all in all, seems unfazed. He sits in the chair with his ankles crossed, his entire posture rigid, and it looks really uncomfortable, but his expression remains serene. He has his hands folded neatly in his lap and makes almost no gesture, probably because it’s impossible with the bracing and all the bandages. “We’re not going to start with re-animation immediately, Dan. Especially of entire subjects. First, we need to brew the reagent. When the time comes to tinker with the formula, some tests will be required, though we’d start out with smaller mammals, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Dan echoes. Herbert is insane, he suddenly realizes. On top of other things, yes, but he’s batshit crazy. Frankly, it’s embarrassing how long it took Dan to notice. "Smaller mammals, that's your takeway?"

“But first things first,” West continues, tilting his head in the most minuscule of ways. “Before we can do anything with the reagent, we need to have the reagent. We should start with replicating the formula we’ve settled on. I believe the expression people use is ‘if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.’”

Suddenly, the room begins to feel more claustrophobic than before, and Dan finds himself pacing from wall to wall like a caged animal. He doesn’t remember getting up. Or was he already standing when Herbert left the bathroom? That would make more sense, but, on the other hand, why would he be standing up for that?

“Herb,” he starts, and correct himself immediately, aware how to pick his battles. “Herbert. Look. It is broken.”

West’s eyes follow his movements as he turns around and starts to cross the unimpressive length of the room back.

“We’re not doing any of that,” Dan says, and he doesn’t understand why it sounds more like a plea than a statement. “We agreed. We need to stop it, it keeps ending up in— in massive fuckups. We’ve talked about it.”

Herbert’s fingers twitch minutely, but that’s all the reaction Dan manages to get out of him.

“You talked about this, Daniel. We, however, never agreed to do anything. In the past days, I was—” A wince. “Indisposed. And you, in turn, were highly emotional, and in no shape to make any decisions.”

Dan reaches the wall and turns around again. Herbert never calls him Daniel.

“We’ve made a breakthrough, Dan” Herbert adds, and his good hand clenches in the fabric of his slacks and bunches it up almost convulsively. “We’ve done it.”

None of them address what it is that they’ve done. Dan sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, and stares everywhere but in Herbert’s direction. They fall silent for a minute, and somehow it’s much worse than the silence that stretched to no end when Herbert lay unconscious.

“I packed a vial,” Dan finally says in order to say anything. “We don’t need to worry about that.”

Why did he do that, by the way? What the hell was he thinking? Yes, the reagent is an absolute scientific breakthrough, yes, it is precious, yes, it should never fall into the wrong hands. Like the ones of Herbert West.

It should have been destroyed, every trace of it should have disappeared from the face of the earth along with the notes on how to make it. Notes which Dan, for some unfathomable reason, remembered to pack, even though he forgot the fucking toothbrushes.

“It’s half-full,” he adds hopelessly.

Herbert gives him a curt nod and makes a weird expression at the last part of the sentence. “I’m aware of its existence, Dan,” he says. “Though I wouldn’t call it half-full.”

Dan rolls his eyes, of course, but it’s a relief to go back to this kind of a discussion. “Yeah, yeah, it’s half-empty.”

Herbert examines the tacky painting hanging above Dan’s head carefully, and it seems like he’s addressing the kitten and the butterfly on its nose, not the other man when he says, “No, my issue is with the ‘half-’ part. I would estimate it’s more like thirty five percent full.”

It might be. Dan didn’t have that much time to look, trying to gather up all of their belongings without making the rest of the house collapse.

“Well then. It’s settled,” Herbert resumes with a confident and unnervingly wide smile, even though nothing is settled. If he were able to, he’d probably be rubbing his hands together. “We need to make more reagent, and very soon. For that, we need lab space. Obtaining the ingredients might prove more difficult, especially in case of iguanas, but” — a disdained twitch of the mouth — “I’m sure amphetamine is not going to be that difficult to find in any city with a night club in it. Worst case scenario, we get MDMA. Not perfect, but with that, we can work.”

Dan has no idea why he doesn’t confront Herbert immediately and right there. Perhaps it’s just the relief of seeing his roommate going back to normal. His version of normal, that is. Maybe it’s guilt, even though he has plenty to feel guilty about, but none of it concerns his approach to Herbert West specifically. As in, you know. Herbert West of all people.

Still, he humors the maniac, just for a moment. Eventually, they will have the talk. He’ll tell Herbert he’s done, and then he’ll be on his way, but it’s not like he can do it right now.

He even manages to convince Herbert to stay here one more day, until they have some clear plan laid out in front of them, and though he really hopes the planning phase is going to take much longer, he’s fully aware that’s just delaying the inevitable. God, he could have sworn he wanted to leave this pit as soon as possible.

He could have also sworn he found the silence uncomfortable; that he actually wanted Herbert up and about, talking. He catches himself wondering what could he give Herbert to worsen his migraine or to just make him drowsy and force him to remain here for another day, though he quickly stops this train of thought. He’s a doctor. Do no harm and so on, and so on, he knows that, of course he does. He would never. It’s just funny, what tricks an idle mind can play on you, that’s all. And it’s just one more day, a week perhaps. The decision has already been made, so a couple months, tops, and it’s not like it can change that much.

Chapter Text

At 6:14 PM, Dan finally snaps, snatching the recorder out of Herbert’s hand. He throws it against the wall, and it makes a sad little thump that is not even half as satisfying as he expected it to be.

Around seven, maybe a bit later, Dan starts to sorely regret his irrational behavior. It was petty, and close quarters must be getting to him more than he realized. He should have been happy Herbert felt well enough to spend an entire day recording his hypotheses, rambling about change of solvent and its impact on the re-animation rate, even if he was shaking more violently with every passing hour, kept sniffing in a way that didn’t seem deliberate, and the stains under his armpits merged with the ones on his back. A busy Herbert West is a dangerous thing, but in a short term, much better than the alternatives. The little nut was so focused on running his chemical equations, he forgot all about the morning musings on more hands-on experiments. He also didn’t throw up, not even once.

Dan should have let him ramble to the recorder, it’s as simple as that. Should have let him talk. Herbert was content, and, as it turns out, Dan was far less miserable. Now that both Herbert’s wrist and the recorder are broken, Dan is the one who has to write everything down. He barely keeps up with the stream of numbers and formulas. He never learned how to take notes during the lectures. Back in med school, all he needed was to smile at any girl who possessed that ability. His hand begins to hurt, and his fingers are already cramping. Every now and then, he manages to smear the ink with his palm, though, as far as he knows, this is not the kind of ink that is even possible to get smeared.

At 9:37 PM, Herbert stops talking for a second in order to draw a shuddering breath, which gives Dan enough time to steal a glance at the clock, and also to finally notice that most of the notes are complete and utter gibberish. That’s not on him. He kept dutifully jotting down everything he heard, at least he’s pretty sure that’s what he did. It’s just that, apparently, he’s spent over two hours basically keeping somebody else’s dream journal. He proposes Herbert rests for a while. Herbert declines with a sniff, and Dan is forced to write down some more nonsense, cringing at the pain in his neck and his wrist. Herbert sniffs again, then dictates something that, if Dan understands correctly, could have many useful applications, provided that people had two livers and their blood was copper-based. Having no skeleton would also probably help, otherwise the muscle tension would break most of the bones within minutes. Dan proposes they resume tomorrow. Herbert again turns down the offer, even though by now, he looks ready to pass out. He does make the small concession of going to the bathroom, however, and even though Dan hears a muffled scream and some clatter, as if West once again tripped over something and slammed into the wall, freshening up must have helped. He looks much better when he finally reemerges. He’s even changed his shirt, and how did he manage to button it up one-handedly is an absolute mystery. Although the pained squeals coming from behind the door might have been a clue.

Dan doesn’t know what was the exact time he fell asleep bent over the desk, but at that point, it was probably him who was responsible for half of the gibberish in the notebook. Herbert didn’t wake him up to force him back into taking notes, but also didn’t wake him up to make him lie down. Didn’t wrap him in a blanket, bring him a pillow, or do anything a decent person would, either. It couldn’t have been more than an hour, so perhaps he was just busy. You know how he is when he gets in the zone.

Nonetheless, when Dan opens his eyes, it’s to a delightful mixture of shivers going down his spine and his muscles screaming out in agony. Trying to unbend himself doesn’t bring much relief. Of course it doesn’t, he’s been sleeping on the floor for days, hasn’t worked out, and he’s still bruised from when. He’s still bruised from before.

Herbert, conversely, is scribbling furiously with his left hand, hunched over the table, his nose basically touching the notepad. These old glasses of his are far from perfect, though at first Dan supposed their main disadvantage was being even more comically large than the ones Herbert used to wear prior to. Prior. Apparently, they also don’t help that much with the entire seeing part, and Dan feels a pang of guilt at only now piecing together scraps of some very obvious information. Herbert’s eyes squinting, brows perpetually furrowed. Herbert not picking up any books, even in those short moments when he wasn’t unconscious or throwing up. Herbert not being interested in television or the newspapers Dan brought over, which is actually nothing new, but now they should be looking for any mentions of— why the hell is his brain doing that? It keeps stuttering, fumbling over words that are not even there, like a teenager put on stage. Of them. Mentions of them.

“We need to get you new prescription glasses,” Dan says, stifling something that turns out to be more of a groan than a yawn.

Herbert grunts in acknowledgement but doesn’t even bother looking at him.

“You should get some sleep,” Dan tries again, and receives a perfunctory nod. “When have you last eaten?”

Herbert once again makes a distracted sound of affirmation, and now it’s becoming quite clear he’s not listening to a word Dan’s saying.

“You know, Herbert, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should move to outer space?”

Nothing.

“In vacuum, we could save some of the money we spend on keeping the fridges running.”

“Yes, Danny.” It’s kind of incredible.

“The specimens would be always fresh there. You know. In space.”

“Mhm.”

“I have a small cabin on Mars. It’s nothing special, really, but it’s quiet and in the middle of nowhere. Has a nice garden. A friendly Martian comes by and waters the plants when I’m not around. Nice fella.”

Still no reaction except for a distracted nod and the sound of pen making its way across paper.

“We could spend our vacations there,” Dan adds, and the use of word ‘vacation’ finally wins him an annoyed huff. It’s always nice to know that your interlocutor has, in fact, been listening.

Herbert doesn’t look so good, by the way. Granted, he hasn’t for quite some time, but in the morning, he looked better. Earlier this evening, too. Now, his skin is back to looking like paper, thin, dry, and white. The fresh but already drenched shirt clings to his bony shoulders in a way that tells Dan Herbert’s probably stinking again. He can only guess based on visual cues, though. The room is too fetid at this point for one sweaty person to make any difference. Dan’s probably just as gross as Herbert is. It’s him who fell asleep fully clothed, after all.

He gets up and takes a shower. He’d like to take care of some of that anger and pent up frustration, but Herbert’s right, the water is cold. Dan’s muscles tense in protest at the thought of standing in it a minute longer than it’s necessary. He could perhaps take care of the problem without being in the shower specifically, yes, but now Herbert’s awake, and what if he hears it? It’s bad enough that they already hear other things going on in the bathroom, the doors here are paper-thin. Still, Dan finds himself unable to leave the space, and so he brushes his teeth. Tries to wring the towel dry to no avail. Stares into the mirror. It’s not fogged up, an ultimate testament to the water’s temperature being scandalously low. Squeezes out a pimple he finds on his jaw. Changes his clothes and is reminded once again that he’ll soon be out of clean T-shirts. He’s packed quite a lot of sweaters, though. Might prove useful in a couple months. He stares into the mirror some more, now looking for wrinkles and grey hairs. There are none so far, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find yet another, smaller pimple, probably caused by an ingrown hair. Delighted, he turns the barely noticeable thing into a bleeding open wound like he used to back when he was sixteen. Goes really well with that sexual frustration.

There’s absolutely no reason for him to remain here. He should go out and talk some sense into Herbert, so he examines his gums in the mirror. One of them is bleeding because of the cheap replacement toothbrush he got at the gas station. He prods at the tissue with his tongue, and then with his finger. He rinses his mouth and spits out the water. It’s pink, so he repeats the procedure a couple more times. There’s no dental floss, and he’s running out of things to do. He rearranges the utensils on the shelf, and straightens the disgusting bathroom rug, though he refuses to touch it with his hands, and performs the challenging task with his foot. He makes a fun little game of it that’s guaranteed to give him skin infection. He picks up the bag lying on the floor and tries to rearrange its contents. The numbers of underpants dwindle, and there’s also a book he really thought he would finally get around to reading, but it’s still there, in the bag. It could probably serve as a metaphor for something, though Dan’s not entirely certain what would that be. He fishes out the reagent. The container’s not half-full indeed, but it’s not one third full either, even if one were to also count the amount of liquid in the syringe next to it.

He opens the door with such a force that the doorknob slams into the wall. They’ll probably need to pay for that, just like for all the ruined towels.

“Herbert,” he says, and he’s surprised himself by how collected he sounds.

“Hmm?”

“What have you been doing in the bathroom?”

Herbert removes his eyes from the pad and cocks his head slightly, squinting at him.

“What does one do in the bathroom, Daniel?” he says in a clipped voice, the unnatural full name once again making its appearance, and a proper scowl slowly setting into his features. “What kind of question is that? You’re a doctor, I assumed you’re familiar with the basic human biology and bodily functions.”

“What were you doing in there,” Dan repeats stubbornly, and this time, there’s no question mark at the end of the sentence.

Herbert’s gaze finally drifts to the hypodermic in Dan’s hand, and he juts out his jaw in a pathetic challenge. “And what were you doing in there, Dan?” he deflects. “Took you awfully long. A stomach bug perhaps? Or do you miss female companionship that much already?”

‘Hiding from you’ is not an answer Dan really wants to give, especially if it’s not true. And it’s not. The only way is forward, so he charges on. “Show me your arm,” he demands.

Herbert raises a very unimpressed eyebrow at him, though something akin to panic flashes through his features for a split second. Maybe it’s just Dan seeing what he wanted to see there.

“I’m busy, Daniel,” West says with a dismissive wave of his good hand, and he would probably shove his nose back into the infernal notebook, had Dan not caught his wrist and yanked at it.

For now, the other man merely glares at his hand. “Good thing it wasn’t the injured one,” he states, eerily calm, as if commenting on an experiment botched by an undergrad. He cocks his head to the side, looks at the offending limb from another angle, and only then tries to snatch his hand back.

Dan realizes in terror Herbert’s right. He could have caused some serious damage just because he refused to stop and think for a second. But now that he is thinking, he knows he actually does need to grab the injured hand in order to confirm his suspicion. If Herbert can hold a syringe with his good one, it’s the opposite arm he needs to examine.

He’s not sure what was the exact chain of events from there. He might have yanked at Herbert’s elbow a tad forcefully, trying to avoid the wrist and roll up his sleeve at the same time, even though the cuffs were still buttoned. They shouldn’t have been; if Herbert was sweaty, which he was, he should have at least folded the ends of his sleeves, and Dan should have noticed that little detail a while ago. How exactly did Herbert manage to even fasten the cuffs with one hand is beyond understanding, but should have raised some suspicion as well. The smaller man’s uncooperative in the manner only Herbert West can be, and thus a chair’s been knocked over. A pencil got broken, some notes landed on the floor, a certain Dan Cain’s been kicked in the shin and then an ankle, and as he instinctively leaned to grab at the hurting leg, someone’s knee collided with a chin that was, in turn, definitely his, and now, now he’s apparently sprawled on the floor, eyes watering.

When he looks up, he sees a blurry image of Herbert just standing there. He’s staring transfixed, and his face is contorted in genuine anguish and regret. Frankly, it’s a pleasant surprise to learn that West even has such emotions in his repertoire.

“I’m fine,” Dan wheezes out before he realizes West isn’t actually looking at him but at the shattered syringe next to him. Shit. It was glass? Why was it glass? Are those even still in production? Herbert’s professed his love for the plastic ones on a number occasions, so how did Dan manage to grab the one that was taken right out of the previous century when packing the bag?

It’s a prop, too unreal to actually exist. Why was it even in their house? Did Herbert find it when going through the stuff left by the previous residents? Did he grin triumphantly upon encountering the object, did he run to the mirror to make faces and examine his reflection, feeling like a supervillain?

Has Herbert ever read a comic book? The actual question here is, was he ever a child, or was he always like this? It’s difficult to imagine him with anything that’s not a handbook or a scientific paper, leaving all those angry notes on the margins of Mighty Thor, Lord of the Rings or, or Winnie the Pooh, or anything, really. On the other hand, his flair for the dramatic and his vocabulary must have originated from something. Cartoons? Gothic novels? Either that, or he really was he like this from the very beginning. Did he surprise the entire delivery room by getting born in a suit, giving the midwife a lecture on what she did wrong instead of screaming with the first breath?

He's certainly not screaming now, working his jaw silently, unblinking eyes not leaving the green liquid that slowly seeps into the carpet. Dan gulps, and realizes he did so only after he’s heard the unnaturally loud noise. Now, there’s also the hopeless hum of the ventilator. It must have been there this whole time, only now it’s gotten so deafening. An insect is buzzing just outside the window, which is odd because at this time of the year, they should all be hibernating. The vending machine in the hallway is consuming electricity, the flickering sign outside buzzes in yet another way, and Herbert West is just standing there, motionless.

It goes for days, months even, this nonsensical noise. It’s been twenty, maybe thirty seconds, and children got born and grew up, trees were planted and collapsed of old age. There’s something about unstoppable forces and, uh, moveable, apparently, very movable objects that Dan’s brain supplies ever so helpfully. Tectonic plates are just in the middle of a shift and a whole new mountain range emerges as he finally says, “There’s still some left. You know. In the plastic container.”

Herbert blinks, broken out of his stupor, and finally looks at him, lips skinned back over his teeth. There’s barely contained fury in the set of his eyebrows and the taut muscles on his jaw. It’s a look Dan always presumed was reserved for Dr. Hill.

“Yes, Dan. Two doses, if I’m correct.” Of course he is. “Three, if I were to water it down even more.”

Now, the insect is banging against the window. Dan isn’t sure why he remains on the floor, but it feels like if he were to make any movement, the ceiling would surely collapse on them all over again.

“Perhaps you can wait a bit longer between the doses?” he mumbles, and for a second, Herbert looks as if he were to launch himself at Dan and claw his eyes out despite the bandages and bracing. He’d manage, he always manages.

It passes quickly, however, and then there’s just pure contempt in his features.

“What a novel idea,” he spits. Then he makes a miserable one-handed attempt at straightening his tie. Why is he even wearing it, Dan wonders? They’re in a motel room, and the only place Herbert goes to is a fucking bathroom. “Certainly wouldn’t have come up with it myself days ago,” West adds, and now all that nausea and excessive sweating suddenly make much more sense.

But they weren’t supposed to. That’s not right, because that would entail other things that are certainly not true. Otherwise, Dan would have noticed them. If they were true. Which they’re not. He’s a doctor, a pretty good one, he cares about his patients, and he knows what to look for.

“You said you were off it,” he mutters, and it’s supposed to be an accusation, but somehow ends up sounding like excuse. He tries again. “You told me you were no longer using it on yourself.” Better. Angrier. That’s what he was going for in the first place, that is why he stormed into the room and damaged the wall in his haste to confront the infernal little man.

The lip of the man in question curls in something that might be a smile, but might as well be a pained spasm.

“Willful ignorance is an odd quality in a doctor,” he says. “And in a scientist—” A pause, and then a really ugly smirk. “Well, a doctor. That other part of the sentence doesn’t really concern you, Dan.”

It’s a simple gibe, and not one Dan’s unfamiliar with. Herbert too often slips and says things like ‘assistant,’ or ‘my research,’ or ‘my work.’ Dan’s his lab partner, and it’s their research and their work only when Herbert wants something from him, even though Dan almost never knows what that is.

“Wilful ignorance,” he echoes, finally furious enough to get rid of the irrational sense of guilt. That’s not on him. Nothing’s on him here. “That’s what you call being actively lied to?”

“I wasn’t lying back then, Danny,” Herbert protests, not even attempting to make his wounded expression look sincere. “I just had a change of heart at some point later on.”

“What heart?” Dan snipes because reaching the aforementioned point must have taken Herbert less than twenty minutes. Herbert just rolls his eyes, and then turns around, refusing to dignify Dan’s comment with an acknowledgement.

And how exactly was Dan supposed to know? Yes, Herbert might have slept a bit, well, alright, not at all, but he’s Herbert. Maybe Dan did keep finding him engrossed in his work (their work, damn it, Herbert’s phrasing is contagious) whenever he himself woke up, or came back from the hospital, or a date, or anything really, yes. Still, that’s Herbert’s normal as far as Dan knows. He doesn’t have a frame of reference.

Admittedly, if what he grew to consider Herbert’s normal remained the same after the overdose and their subsequent confrontation — “I refuse to enable you,” Dan said back then; enable, he took great care to use that word specifically. He did his homework prior to the argument, he’s a caring and responsible person. So if it didn’t change then, okay. Fine. Perhaps Dan should have stopped to think for a moment what that might entail. But he was busy with a full-time job at the clinic and the … other one, not to mention keeping up appearances for both of them, which is another full-time job on its own. God knows he had to labour to remain that bright young man, friendly fella you can always count on when you need help moving the furniture or attending your sister’s wedding. It takes time, Herbert knows it does, he’s remarked on it on numerous occasions. Time is a limited resource, not to be wasted on frivolities. You should be in the lab, Dan. You ought to at least pretend like you’re helping. I need a second pair of hands, Dan, though — hah! — I happen to have one in the freezer. (That statement was so obviously true, Dan didn’t even bother to check.) I can’t do this alone, Danny. Yes, of course it’s bleeding. It wouldn’t have been if only you were here to hold down the corpse when it started smashing its fist into my nose. (Probably true, but also, hey, wild idea: perhaps Herbert could have waited for half an hour.) No, it’s not broken. (It was.) I don’t need painkillers, I need my brain sharp. (He did need them.)

But now Herbert’s nose is alright, even if a bit runny. He’s been sniffing in indignation for days. A classic withdrawal symptom, in fact, now that Dan knows what to look for. But it’s also a symptom of great many other things: cold, allergies, refusal to communicate like a normal person, and it’s not like Dan’s to blame for not figuring it out quickly enough.

Besides, what could he have done with that knowledge? Confront Herbert? Destroy the reagent? He’s done quite a decent job at that, hasn’t he.

“We need to make more,” Herbert states, as if reading his mind, even though he’s apparently addressing the wall.

“Here?” Dan croaks, and it sounds just pathetic.

“Obviously not here. Don’t be an idiot.” Herbert is already back to scribbling furiously in the wretched notebook. “That is why we need to move immediately. We have half of the” — he makes a disgusted grimace — “New Hampshire to cross, but after that, it’s just a couple hours through Vermont, and we’ll be almost somewhere. Albany, we can deal with.”

Dan can’t help but ask, “And what in Albany?”

“It should be much easier to get us some amphetamine,” the lunatic explains like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He must realize how ridiculous he sounds, there’s no way he doesn’t. “Phosphorus and epinephrine, we can get anywhere. The rest also shouldn’t prove problematic, provided we get ourselves lab equipment. We have much work to do.”

Dan finally scrambles to his feet, unsure whether it’s by the force of sheer disbelief or perhaps just one of habit. He’s gotten used to disbelief, he’s grown to associate the sentiment with his roommate.

“Herbert,” he hears himself say. “There’s no more work to do. We’re done, we’re so fucking done.” At least he is, and that really should suffice. “We need to lie low and hope to God they don’t go looking for us. There’s a cop missing!”

“Yes, and what of it?” the other man asks, his eyes still on the pad.

“For fuck’s sake, you. Murdered. A cop.”

West pauses writing, and gives him an affronted look that, this time, seems absolutely candid.

“I didn’t murder him, Dan. It was self-defence. And before you say anything — so was Hill. And you may recall, I re-animated both of them immediately afterwards, so it doesn’t even count. There was no harm done.”

“Jesus, you re-animated a severed head!”

“Yes, that’s what I said. I’m not a murderer.”

The short and eruptive snort apparently originated at the back of Dan’s very own throat.

“I don’t have the constitution for it,” Herbert continues, deadly serious, and Dan can hear a hysterical note enter the titters that just keep coming. There’s not much he can do about them.

“You’re — committed — to the bit, I’ll— I’ll give you that,” he rattles out. Herbert’s incredulous look makes sure he spends almost a full minute laughing. His already sore muscles start to protest.

“Are you done?” Herbert asks flatly when the giggling recedes enough to allow Dan to catch a breath. “Can you please be done? We have work to do.”

Dan shakes his head, and just like that, nothing seems funny anymore. Actually, it wasn’t before. The laughter didn’t exactly originate from anything being funny, that’s definitely not the word.

“Yeah. We’re done,” he says, and here it goes. Not the way he rehearsed it or imagined it, but here it goes nonetheless. “We’re not doing this anymore, Herbert.”

Then something weird happens. He’s not certain what it is, maybe neuronal firing, maybe a simple slip of the tongue, but instead of making sure he’s understood properly, he hears himself backtracking and it’s like he has absolutely no control over his own mouth: “We’ll get you something so you don’t need to quit cold turkey. You’re not the first person to experience withdrawal, there are drugs for that.”

Now, Dan hesitates, and God, couldn’t he have hesitated literally two seconds ago? You know, back when he still hadn’t committed himself to helping the lunatic again?

“Not drugs drugs,” he adds, annoyance tugging at the corners of his mouth because the least Herbert could do is appreciate Dan’s offer instead of clicking the pen repeatedly. “You know what I mean. Mirtazapine. Hell, you can take Adderall for a couple weeks. The point is, we’ll get you through it.” That was not the point he was making, not at all. “It’s going to suck, and you’re going to feel like shit for a while, but you’ll be fine.”

“And then what?” Herbert asks, though he sounds absent-minded, his nose already buried back in the notebook. The man must be blind as a bat if he needs to lean in like that. “We’ll find a job at some second-rate clinic? A nice house with some nice neighbours to barbecue with? A nice girl, and a dog to go along with those?” He wrinkles his nose. “An Alsatian? Perhaps a pug whose eyes keep falling out? They tend to do that, you know. A morbid—” The pause is so short it wouldn’t be noticeable if not for the snicker that follows it. “Labradoodle? No, I forgot you don’t like those. A golden retriever, most likely.” Herbert stops writing for a second, and gives Dan an appraising look, tapping the pen against the paper. “You’ve always struck me as a retriever kind of man, Danny.”

Dan can feel his blood boiling, and he can imagine himself striking Herbert in many other ways and with many objects.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” he asks, his voice carefully even, though of course it was supposed to be an insult. He knows that already.

The smaller man opens his mouth, and Dan half-expects him to confirm his suspicion, praise him mockingly for a job well done, and then call him a good boy. His fists clench instinctively at the thought, but somehow, Herbert always knows when to stop right before crossing the line, even though the line itself seems to be moving a bit further every time.

“Just an observation,” the scientist informs him wryly, and Dan finds himself a bit disappointed. It seems he actually wanted an argument, can’t even tell why. It’s silly. Not worth it. It’s just Herbert being Herbert, nothing new or surprising, and Dan’s mind’s made up anyway. If he ever gets a stomach ulcer (and he knows he will), he’ll name it Herbert, and he’ll deal with it using the long-established routine. You take a deep breath — or two, or three, if required — change your habits a bit, make a small concession here and there, ignore the unpleasantness and carry on because that’s just how things are.

“As a matter of fact, Herbert,” he says, and he can’t smile properly, but that’s alright. The infernal man is not watching him anymore either way. “I do miss normalcy. Pretty sure you’d benefit from some as well.”

Herbert doesn’t grace him with an answer, ostensibly engrossed in his work.

“Just imagine: not getting a heart attack at the sound of a doorbell,” Dan carries on, nonetheless. “Not having to worry about getting rid of the stains. You buy a shirt, and it lasts for years. Like two, or three. Five, even. That’s how normal people’s shirts work, you know. Hearing an odd sound in the middle of the night and being able to just shrug and go back to sleep? As opposed to, you know.” Herbert raises an eyebrow at him, very clearly and willingly not knowing, so Dan finishes clumsily, “Having our brains bashed in by a reanimate. Wouldn’t that. Wouldn’t that be nice?“

“My brains,” Herbert protests sourly as he turns a page in the notebook, “are perfectly alright. Though I am beginning to wonder about yours.”

“Actually getting a good night’s sleep once in a while,” Dan continues stubbornly. “Seeing the sun from time to time. Hanging out with people who are still alive.” The last sentence earns him an annoyed sniff, but those have lost their power the moment Dan understood their actual cause. “Stealing pens from the hospital, or paper clips, or— or whatever. Things that won’t get you arrested if you’re caught. You get it.” By now, he’s pleading, he has no idea why and what for because Herbert sure as shit is not getting or ever going to get it . “Can you imagine not fearing for our lives?”

West tries to close the notebook with a snap, but the attempt is unsuccessful since there’s a pen in the way. He glares at Dan.

“Yes.” He sounds nasal. There’s a bit of tremor to his hands, now that Dan knows it should be there. “I can imagine not fearing for our lives. Ever. I can imagine not fearing for anyone’s life, for that matter, Dan. That’s my goal, and I was foolish enough to delude myself into thinking it was yours as well.”

Dan has never been able to fully figure it out. At one point, he assumed pompous speeches were a way in which Herbert dealt with feeling uneasy, whenever the need for some courage was getting dire. Normal people would have looked for said courage in a bottle, and perhaps, after a couple drinks, they would start a rant. It would probably concern very different matters, though. But Herbert makes grandiose speeches sober, and not only when nervous, but also when triumphant. Or annoyed. He just makes those. Can’t help himself.

Thus, “I thought you realized what was at stake here,” he carries on, frowning in distaste, but now there’s also an all too familiar manic gleam to his eyes. “Not a head, though that would be a very fitting end for Hill. We’re fighting against death himself! For eons, he’s been winning. Just because nobody dared to oppose him. The billions that have died needlessly, Dan! The tens of thousands every day!”

Dan’s heard that one already, so he focuses on studying a crack in the wall that he didn’t pay any attention before. It’s a small fissure, and the building doesn’t seem structurally unstable.

Then again, neither did their house.

“It’s high time somebody pushed back, corrected that faulty design with its, hah! Fatal flaw.”

Suddenly, Herbert’s right there, feverish, invading Dan’s personal space, gripping Dan’s arm a bit too close to the side of painful. His breath is sour.

“A mistake of evolution, Danny,” he says insistently. “But evolution also gave us means to correct those!” Herbert lets go of Dan’s arm and gestures impatiently to his own head, and if he could, he’d probably show Dan his own neural pathways to drive the point home.

The crack is slowly expanding, crawling towards the ceiling. But it’s not. There’s no rumbling, no harbinger of a catastrophe, with the exception of Herbert’s jabber. And yet, the crack seems to grow larger with every second Herbert’s cheeks get more flushed with excitement at hearing his own voice.

“So far, we’ve merely halted death’s armies, Dan.” Once again, there are fingernails digging into Dan’s shoulder. “They’ll march on, they’re already marching on. We need to destroy them, put a stop to his reign, and every minute of our delay means his another triumph. It’s a race, and we can’t afford to lose it. We’re on a deadline here. A deadline, Danny!”

Oh, seriously.

Herbert takes two steps back and gives him an affronted look. Dan must have said that out loud.

“Is there something you want to share with the class?” the smaller man asks with a scorn.

Fine. Yes. It’s time Dan said something anyways.

“So far, it’s been us responsible for people dying,” he points out. “In your case, more directly. But it’s not some abstract … concept that is making them stop living, Herbert. There’s no evil, uh, looming around just for you to stop it. Shit, you know death is a— death’s a thing that happens for various reasons. Cessation of brain activity. A process, you said so yourself. People stop living because their organs fail, or they, like. Catch a virus. Or, you know. They get killed.” Dan sighs heavily because he doesn’t want it said out loud, not really, but he ought to say it. “So, in some cases, we were the reason. You did that, Herbert. Not death. There’s no fucking death, not like that. You.”

Herbert’s index finger travels to the comically large frames and pushes them up his nose. The man looks more confused than affronted for a second, but he quickly settles for the much more familiar of these two.

“You lose the sight of what’s our end goal, Dan. No more death. Ever. For thousands, millions! That makes up for a life or two lost to” — an unkind contortion of the mouth — “unfortunate circumstances.”

“Jesus, that’s not how any of it works!” Dan tosses his hands into the air, but Herbert doesn’t even give him the satisfaction of flinching at the sudden movement. “It’s not a trade! Do you really think if you take two lives but save another two, you’re even?”

Herbert blinks owlishly.

“Well, am I not?” he asks, now genuinely surprised, and that’s probably the worst part. “Besides,” he adds, swiftly brightening up, because ignoring ethical conundrums seems to be his default mode, “you’re working under very false assumptions. It wouldn’t be giving life to just two people but so many more. It’s a bargain, Dan!” Herbert pauses. “Though yes, we should start with the two of us, so that the work might continue uninterrupted.”

Dan heaves a sigh, suddenly reminded of how hopeless this cause really is. “Haven’t you had enough?” he asks quietly for the thousandth time, but then starts scrambling for the words to follow. “We lost, Herbert. We keep losing. How many more failures before you accept what’s right in front of your eyes?”

“Failures?” the smaller man echoes, stilted. The sickly sheen is back, must have been back for some time by now. His hair sticks to his sweaty forehead while his breathing sounds laboured. “Failures?” he hisses, because repeating the word once wouldn’t do justice to his indignation.

Only way’s forward, right?

“What else would you call—” Dan starts, but then wavers, suddenly at loss. It’s not that he can’t remember, oh, he wishes that were the issue, it’s just that he can’t say. It would make it even more real, even though it was real, he can still feel— a leg wrapped around him, despite really not wishing to be reminded of— it. It. But putting it into words would make it worse, and perhaps Herbert was right, perhaps Dan isn’t really a scientist, he’s not that dedicated to facts and truth and all that bullshit. But Herbert hasn’t talked about— any of it as well.

Dan settles on, “What we left in Arkham?” There. Perfect way to put it. All better.

Herbert momentarily looks struck, but then he pouts, and his glare somehow grows more intense. “I didn’t fail back there,” he says. “And neither did,” he adds, and there must have been some pronoun in there, but for the love of God, Dan has no idea what it might have been. “Was perfect,” Herbert claims with absolute conviction, a pronoun once again somewhere in there, and oh joy, so they are having that conversation after all.

Or perhaps they’re not, since Herbert sticks his nose back in the notebook, and starts scribbling furiously. It’s unlikely any of that writing could be legible even to the most understanding pharmacist. Dan doubts even Herbert will be able to decipher it tomorrow.

They should talk about it. Dan doesn’t want to, but they should. Herbert’s done, no, made something so monumentally fucked up, it needs to be addressed. Requires an intervention of sorts, and the vision of banners used for such an occasion is certainly something. It doesn’t mean they necessarily have to do that tonight, though, just like he doesn’t have to break the news this very minute. They have enough on their plate as it is. It can wait. One night is not going to change anything.

“So what do we do now?” he asks, even though he stormed out of the bathroom holding all the answers in the world.

“We work,” Herbert informs him flatly, his squinting eyes not leaving the page. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

Why “we”? Herbert was the one doing nothing except for, well, alright, suffering. Dan at least spent this time taking care of him, though some might indeed argue that it should also be considered a waste of time. He’s still not sure whether he counts himself among them. But why “we,” without any doubt and any question, as if Dan following the delusional imp was a given? He said he was moving out before the entire… thing. They haven’t had another talk yet, but now he has all the more reason to leave. Even Herbert should see that.

“And the reagent?”

“We make more,” Herbert says around the pen he holds in his teeth while turning a page. “I’ll be taking considerably smaller doses for the time being.” He winces, his eyes shooting towards the stain on the carpeting. “Even smaller. Mixed with other substances, the withdrawal should be more severe than it is now, but … manageable.”

Dan finds himself not wanting to ask what other substances West might be considering. Could be anything, from a generous amount of painkillers and nicotine, through cocaine, to— let’s face it, could be lead. Dan wouldn’t be shocked if Herbert rolled up his sleeve and pumped himself full of lead just to see what would happen. He’d know what would happen, sure, but he’d still like to see it for himself.

“I meant meth,” Herbert supplies, knowing Dan well enough to follow his thought process. He ignores Dan’s flat “what,” and decides to sprinkle this wonderful news with some of his signature humour, adding, “I’ve heard it does wonders for one’s teeth. We need to move first thing in the morning.”

Again with the ‘we.’ West isn’t always so generous with the pronouns when talking about accomplishments. Now, that he wants something, it’s not him wanting it, it’s suddenly them. He’s like a five year old who considers himself a master of manipulation. It’s sad, truly, and yet, given the course of the last days, it’s not even close to how pathetic Herbert can get.

“The car’s not working, and there’s no rental here,” Dan says instead of voicing any objection, but that’s okay. That’s still an objection, and it’s a practical matter. Herbert takes those into consideration from time to time. “The guy told me he needed some, um. Part that would arrive by the end of the week.”

“The guy?” Herbert barks out with something that is probably supposed to be a chuckle.

“The guy,” Dan repeats stubbornly, trying to appeal to an outside authority. Of the guy. “We’ll have the car back by Friday. Saturday, tops.”

The smaller man makes an indiscernible sound and turns the page back, examining some past equation.

“Then we need to steal ourselves a car,” he informs Dan dryly.

Oh, for God’s sake. And here Dan was, afraid that perhaps they wouldn’t get arrested after all.

“Herbert.” He finds himself speaking very slowly and deliberately, like when he talks to a spouse of a deceased patient. “Listen to me. I told you already. We are not. Stealing. A car.”

West resumes writing.

“You’re right,” he concurs, his gaze focused on the page. “The dosage was so small it’s already wearing down. I’ll be in no condition do such a thing within a couple hours. You’re stealing a car, Danny.”

That’s it, that’s fucking it, and Dan says as much. He’s putting his foot down, he should have done it long ago. There have to be some limits to lunacy, and this is not only crazy, it’s— it’s inconsiderate. Rude. After this entire week, after these entire years and all he’s sacrificed, all he’s lost, Herbert could at least look at him when making such demands.

And what exactly has he sacrificed, he’s asked with a clearly derisive snort, and for a moment, he’s at loss for words. If Herbert actually doesn’t remember Meg, if he really thought her that inconsequential, it’s not like there’s any point bringing her up. The question should be what the hell is Dan doing here, taking care of someone who doesn’t have enough decency to even pretend he cares. But Dan’d throat contorts around that question, he’s not sure how to parse the syllables into a movement of the tongue, and, in effect, what comes out is a demand to know what is so important that Herbert needs to write it down immediately. That’s a perfectly reasonable question. Why won’t he spare Dan a glance, and what the actual fuck is he making notes on?

Herbert smiles awfully brightly. He huffs a laugh that is as loud as it is fake, and then inhales sharply. All of a sudden, Dan knows what the other man is going to say before the sound leaves his mouth.

“Tissue rejection,” Herbert snarls, managing to accentuate both words separately, as if they held some meaning Dan ought to know. Then he puts the notebook down and does look up, and now Dan wishes he didn’t. Maybe Dan could offer his insight, he proposes with a grimace that was probably supposed to be a thin-lipped smile. Dan does seem to be an expert on the matter, at least on its practical aspects.

On the rejection, Herbert clarifies after a pause.

Dan doesn’t offer his insight. He could ask what the hell was that supposed to mean, but some part of him already knows very well how the conversation would play out, starting with “you know very well what it means,” ending with some quip along the lines of “so many girls have been dying to meet you, Dan,” though none of this makes sense or explains anything. Yes, he’s already decided they need to address the it, the what happened back home someday, but he storms into the bathroom, grabs the half-unpacked bag, then grabs a coat from the rack without a word and leaves into the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. And you know what? Fuck it, Herbert’s aghast expression is absolutely worth it.

That small “Danny?”, more a panicked whimper than a proper question, is a memory to be cherished on rainy days because Dan did it. He did it. He managed to scare Herbert West, and grabbing that stupid bag on a way out was all it took. He tried so many times before, he stormed out of the cellar, out of the house, he shook the imp, punched him in the face, once actually grabbed him by the throat (“God, Herbert, why did you let me do it?” he kept asking later on, mortified; “I wanted to see what would happen,” came an answer, and the voice sounded hoarse, but thoroughly unimpressed). All he was able to get out of Herbert was a surprised yelp, hands raised protectively in a way that screamed insincerity. A bag. He should have just grabbed a bag to make it look like he meant business.

It’s heavy and full of very random objects that remained there while the more useful ones have been taken out, but it doesn’t matter. The air outside smells like gasoline and wet concrete. Must have rained. It’s sweet and crisp, and there’s also a whiff of some plants. There are fields in the vicinity, so perhaps it’s the crops. Or the weeds, or maybe there’s an orchard nearby. Do orchards bloom at this time of the year? Do crops do anything? Dan’s never been much of a botanist, but he can sure tell that whatever he smells, it’s thousands times better than the room, and it’s all out there, all for him. A foretaste of what awaits.

He takes a stroll along the roadside, and he gets almost ran over three times and splashed with the mud twice before he notices that the coat he’s wearing is actually Herbert’s. Herbert’s not going to be happy about it. Seems the only stains he accepts come from ichor, though he accepts those quite enthusiastically. Dan’s pretty sure he can wash it with soap and there will be no trace of the mud left, but drying the item is going to pose a problem. There’s no way Herbert will allow him to wring it out or use the hair dryer, the fabric’s far too delicate for that. But, judging by the state of the towels, it will sooner moulder than dry otherwise. It’s a conundrum, and Herbert ought to be the one to make the tough call. He always is.

And so, lacking purpose and a plan on how to deal with the stains, Dan turns around. He walks back, his hands, unprotected by the way too short sleeves, stuffed into pockets. It’s a miracle he doesn’t find a spare finger or an eyeball in those. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Chapter Text

By the time he reaches the motel, it’s closer to dawn than midnight. It’s still pitch dark, and this time of the year, it’s going to remain like that for another couple hours. Dan must have spent some forty minutes walking around like an idiot. Maybe it was sixty, but now that he thinks of it, he really doubts that. It just felt like much longer because the bag was heavy, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He vaguely expects to find Herbert dissecting a rat just to do away with the boredom, and he really hopes it’s a rat, not a raccoon. Those are cute and smart, and happen to be surprisingly clean. Perhaps at least one of these qualities has kept them away from the motel so far. Dan envies the critters a bit.

The lights in the room are off, and for a second there, Dan’s absolutely convinced that his nightmare’s wandered off somewhere while he was gone. He’s not sure how he feels about the notion. If the withdrawal caught up with Herbert, he might be throwing up in a ditch at this very moment. Might have broken another limb because sure. Why the hell not. Though he couldn’t get that far with the ones already injured, so there’s silver lining. There’s always silver lining. For instance, Herbert wandering off would mean he’s not here.

Still, for some reason, Dan tries to close the door as quietly as possible, and makes no noise when placing the stupid, stupid bag on the floor. He steps lightly and avoids the creaking spots on the floor until he reaches the bathroom. When he turns on the light there, it spills into the room, and only then he can see Herbert’s stiff form on the bed. Oh. So he’s still here. That’s a … relief, for lack of a better word. Yeah. That’s a relief. Period.

The man’s not curled up in a foetal position like he was for the majority of the past week, so that must be a good sign. He’s lying on his back, still fully dressed, every limb taut, hands crossed on his abdomen and the tips of his shoes pointing towards the ceiling. The sheet underneath him looks neat and undisturbed by even the slightest movement. It wasn’t like that; last time Dan saw it, it was an absolute mess. While he was gone, Herbert must have fixed it instead of cutting some poor animal open, but somehow this is also very much fitting because the point is. The point is. The point is yes, this is exactly how Dan imagined Herbert West might sleep.

But then Dan meets a glare, and realizes Herbert’s wide awake. For some reason, that makes him look even more like a corpse, just one whose eyes nobody bothered to close. Instead of saying anything, Dan shuts the bathroom door behind him. He turns on the tap in order to make it sound like he’s doing something, and that something is normal and productive.

He stands there, feeling all the energy rapidly drain from him, and stares at the running water. It has a brownish tint to it. He wonders whether that’s a trick of the light, or a pipe burst somewhere. He’s not sore, not per se, but every muscle feels too heavy to move, and all of a sudden, every task sounds too taxing to be worth it. Maybe he could just sit on the floor here? Going through all the ablutions is an entire ordeal, one that requires moving a lot, reaching for things, taking off his clothes, being cold as a result. And all of that for what? To do even more stuff, because then he’d need to put on his pyjamas, and he has no idea where those might be. Probably back in the room, so he would need to go there, and then come back here, and then, but only then, he could undress. That’s a lot of steps compared to just standing there, staring, and the rewards seem meagre at best.

By the time he leaves the bathroom, he’s managed to brush his teeth in the rusty water, and sort of undress. That took a lot of convincing, and feels like enough of an accomplishment to earn him some rest. He very carefully turns off the light before opening the door, simply to avoid waking Herbert up. Poor guy’s brought it all on himself, yes, but he’s going to be much grumpier if he doesn’t get any sleep, Dan reasons. Because Herbert’s asleep by now, why wouldn’t he be. What else could he be doing, staring into the ceiling? No point doing that, this ceiling is stable and safe. There are no cracks in it. No body parts in the walls, the two of them haven’t been here for that long. There’s no need to check, Dan would only wake him up.

And so, he takes off his socks in the darkness as quietly as he can, and leaves them on the floor at the foot of the makeshift bed, hoping he won’t be able to smell them from over there. He lies down on the blanket spread on the floor, only now noticing that the pillow’s dingy. Everything here’s dingy, and probably so is the blanket, but that, he can’t feel through the fabric of the t-shirt. The garment’s dingy as well, though that’s most likely Dan’s own perspiration. The room certainly smells of someone’s perspiration. He should have showered after all. All that the fleeting reprieve of fresh air has achieved was making the stench more unbearable. The fabric now clings to him like a scab that ought to fall off an old wound long ago but still hasn’t, and the smell of two bodies, one them unwell, crowded in a poorly ventilated room is getting worse with every second instead of becoming less noticeable. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. You get used to the smell, you build some sort of an immunity, and the olfactory cells’ response becomes less and less violent over time.

Dan should just get up and go out again. There’s nothing stopping him, except for already being undressed. There’s also the matter of his limbs being far too heavy to lift, and now that he’s already horizontal, moving would require so much more energy. His eyelids, on the other hand, refuse to remain closed.

Perfect. Sleeplessness was exactly what he needed in order to make this good night even better.

He forces his eyes shut, and starts cataloguing the bones in a human hand. Distal, middle, and proximal phalanges don’t fend off the insomnia, but they never do. Metacarpal, and then carpal get a bit more complicated because some seemed like they were protruding, but they weren’t; those were just bare muscles and the scaffolding around the hand Herbert placed in Dan’s. No, wait. The other way around. There’s hamulus of hamate and the hamate, pisiform, triquetrum, lunate. Trapezoid, trapezium, what else? Capitate. Scaphoid, obviously. They did move in perfect unison, even though the nerves ordering the muscles around came from many different homes. Then, he passes styloid process of radius, styloid process of ulna, distal radioulnar joint, head of ulna, ulnar notch of the radius, all quite beautiful, a shame they remained covered by the already decaying tissue, and moves on to the forearm, which is embarrassingly simple. By the time he’s around the elbow — radial tuberosity, neck of radius, head of radius, radial notch of the ulna, proximal radioulnar joint, Herbert did an amazing job attaching all those little elements and making them fall into place — he’s almost there, and by the time he gets to the shoulder, he’ll probably be asleep. Except now there are soft noises, some ruffling, and suddenly next to his, there’s another body. One that is way too hot for it to be healthy, by the way, the part of his brain that’s remained awake notes.

Perhaps it’s Herbert’s weird form of apologizing, lying down on the floor next to him. It doesn’t make any sense, but very few behaviours of West’s do. He would probably call it stooping, or better, lowering himself to Dan’s level. Then he’d smile triumphantly, as if that were actually clever, though it wouldn’t disguise the simple fact that he’s either cold or desperate for attention.

Dan’s had his fair share of odd interactions with Herbert, but the man’s never done anything like this before. There was holding him down during an overdose once, though, and it was on the floor, so perhaps that counts. Dan got kicked in the stomach and the balls for his efforts back then, and now, he tries really hard to abstain from any sudden movement. His body parts are not perfect, their best years are probably behind them, but he’s grown quite fond of them anyway. He avoids jerking upright even as he feels a head nuzzling into his shoulder, and that, that is definitely something new.

He wants nothing more but to sleep. Is that so much to ask? He’s been good, really, a good deed at least once a day. On Monday, when he was running errands in town, he helped an old lady across the street. He always tips the waiters, and he never leaves shopping carts in the middle of the parking lot. He’s been putting up with Herbert West, taking care of him, and by now, he’s practically a saint. They’re going to have paintings of him at some church, maybe hold small pilgrimages to his remains. Patron saint of patience and forbearance. They’ll be naming schools and hospitals after him, the least he deserves is to be allowed to sleep for a couple hours.

Nevertheless, tired and angry or not, he is a doctor. Fatigue and anger come with the job. “You okay?” he murmurs, hoping against all odds that Herbert doesn’t hear him. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s a big question, isn’t it,” comes Herbert’s voice from around his navel. It does sound perfectly lucid, but there’s also another nudge of a feverish forehead, now against Dan’s chin, and next comes a— is that a leg? It would certainly seem so — yep, a fucking leg draped over his middle.

“Alright,” Dan sleepily rephrases, and tries not to sigh audibly. “Are you cold? I’m not giving you my blanket, you already took the good one.”

He’s probably going to end up without the blanket anyway, he realizes in resignation. Again.

“I’m not cold.”

“Good. Because you have both the blanket and the duvet.” Dan pauses. What now? If it’s not warmth Herbert’s seeking, then attention? Or maybe he genuinely needs medical help?

“Something hurts?” he decides to ask, and that earns him a scoff.

He wishes that was all. Alas, Herbert starts speaking, and it’s awfully similar to what Dan’s been doing just a minute ago to stave off the sleeplessness.

“The temples, obviously, and the occiput,” Herbert says tonelessly. “The entire left globe, frankly. Probably related to blood pressure, but might as well be because of the left upper molar. I had some problems with it before, and bile certainly didn’t help the enamel.”

There’s no way he’s not using a voice that droning deliberately. It’s worse than any of the lectures Dan’s suffered through, even the ones on administrative difficulties. Besides, normally, Herbert’s quite expressive. Even though the doctor in Dan has resigned himself into paying attention and cataloguing the symptoms, the rest of him is finally drowning in the pleasant warmth. The blanket alone might not have done the job at first, but aided by heat of another body, it manages. Herbert’s voice can’t stop his eyes from falling shut. Rather, it accelerates the process.

“I think I spat out some of the filling,” Herbert informs him. “Cervical vertebrae aches, of course, but that’s a given, considering how low I have to hang my head in order to see the writing.”

“We really need to get you new glasses,” Dan slurs just so that Herbert feels acknowledged in some way.

“Yes, clearly so. Then, there’s the rib and the wrist, but I’m sure you’re aware of those. The shin as well.”

“Tylenol?” Dan says automatically, unsure at this point whether he’s inquiring or offering.

“You fed me it already tonight. Not enough to stop feeling like shit, but approaching overdose either way.”

“Mhm,” Dan responds, though the perspective of an overdose rarely stopped Herbert from doing whatever the hell he wanted before. Then he adds, “That must suck,” because he ought to say something.

“There’s also the fever, which means every inch of my skin feels taut and hurts,” Herbert adds conversationally. “Like it’s stretched too thin. My muscles are sore, and also, I can’t sleep.”

Yes, and thus so can’t Dan. It doesn’t matter that he would really, really love to. “All pretty typical withdrawal effects,” he notes, as if Herbert didn’t already know that.

Then there’s another nudge, the kind Rufus used to give when he tried to make you pay attention to him, though now it’s no longer with the forehead but with a nose that is runny and surprisingly cold. It certainly doesn’t make Dan stop thinking about a cat, especially given that what follows the movement is a series of pained hisses that are the only logical consequence of doing something like this when one third of your body’s either broken or badly bruised.

Perhaps Herbert’s just feeling vulnerable and lost, won’t say it out loud, and came here to reluctantly ask for some grounding without using the proper words. Herbert rarely admits anything. Dan didn’t pay much attention to information on how to deal with PTSD and panic attacks, but the basics, the basics he knows. Breathing deeply or savouring the scent might not be the best exercises to perform in this room, but there are memory games, there’s reciting stuff, running through a times table, what else. Putting one’s hands in water and making them focus on the temperature. Herbert already has a lot of opinions on the temperature of water in here. Anchoring statements. Five things you can see might prove problematic in the darkness, taking a short walk is out of the question in Herbert’s condition, but solving math problems is probably the way to go. Or listing the bones, they can do that together, and maybe, just maybe Herbert will fall asleep, and, as a bonus, so will Dan. That would be nice.

Herbert needing this kind of help is a very weird notion, but trauma changes people. They’ve both been through a lot, and Dan at least didn’t get buried alive. For an extended period of time, that is. It stands to reason that with the injuries and the lowered doses of the reagent, Herbert would suddenly find himself human after all. Dan’s not sure how to proceed with a revelation of this kind. He’s really, truly tired, sue him. He’s slept maybe an hour or so tonight, if you can even call it sleeping. He just wraps an arm around Herbert awkwardly, trying to avoid the injured rib. He even pats Herbert twice on the shoulder. He’s debating saying “there, there” instead of outright asking what is eight times six when the leg draped over his middle starts moving jerkily.

At this point, it’s becoming clear what exactly the other man is trying to achieve.

There probably are numerous better responses to the situation than Dan’s panicked and oddly shrill, “What the shit, Herbert?”

The leg stops, slightly twitching with chills that make Herbert’s entire frame shake every couple seconds. Dan gulps, blinks twice, and tries again, this time with a bit more consideration for the clearly delirious patient: “Herbert, what exactly are you doing?”

“I’d imagine I made my intentions abundantly clear,” Herbert grouses, and then, just to drive the point home, his good hand finds its way under Dan’s T-shirt. Despite the fever, it’s cold. A bit sweaty, but mostly cold, just like the tip of Herbert’s nose. If whatever weird acrobatics the smaller man was performing with his injured leg were to fail at waking Dan up, the sensation of having a block of ice pressed against his belly would have certainly succeeded.

He jerks upright abruptly. His back protests against the sudden movement, but certainly not as loud as Herbert does. Right. Shit, right. Numerous injuries. Shit, some doctor he is.

“You’re sick,” Dan says around the lump in his throat.

“Well, that’s rather harsh,” he hears the other man quip from somewhere on the floor. His breath stinks even from over there.

“No, you know I didn’t mean it like … that,” Dan protest weakly, and he really didn’t, even though the statement would be very much true if he did. “You’re running a high fever.”

“Not infectious, I assure you,” comes Herbert’s prim voice.

This time, Dan doesn’t attempt to hide the loud and exasperated sigh. He shuffles in the darkness awkwardly, trying to put some distance between him and the insane little man without accidentally kicking him, and, in the process, he bumps his elbow against the wall. All the air is sucked from his lungs as the pain that started with a jolt takes its sweet time, spreading through the nerves inch by excruciating inch, not lessening even a bit.

And then, there’s an unmistakable cold, clammy hand on his knee.

“You don’t really want this,” Dan states decidedly, and tries to squirm away. Given the limited space and being unable to see almost anything, somehow he ends up with more Herbert in his vicinity than before. Now all he can do is go rigid and refuse to make any movement, hoping the problem will disappear if he just ignores it. The pain has receded back into the elbow, so there’s that. He can feel the heat radiating from the other body, and there really shouldn’t be that much of it, and it certainly shouldn’t affect Dan in this manner. It’s not healthy. The fever, that is. It’s too high, and he was an idiot for trying to break it with just paracetamol.

“How considerate of you to know what I want so well,” Herbert mutters into his ear, trying and failing to stick his tongue in it in the darkness, and now the only thing Dan can do is bring his knees closer to his chest and try to hide his body’s natural reaction. It’s useless. He’s pretty sure Herbert already knows what’s happening down there, that’s why he’s doing what he’s doing. At this point, it’s mostly about retaining a shred of dignity.

They did some things back in Peru, yes, though Dan’s certain the thought of enjoying it never occurred to Herbert. He seemed to approach it like a procedure performed on Dan, clinical and detached. Alright, yeah, before it started, Dan did wonder at times what would Herbert be like. Stern and demanding, most probably, he thought back then, but maybe bashful like some of the coeds? Inexperienced, given his, well, personality, trying to cover up his uneasiness with false bravado and cutting remarks? Fidgety or, rather, unmoving like a dead fish? Dan doesn’t really know why he even thought about it. Morbid curiosity. And because it was just curiosity, it wasn’t disappointing to learn Herbert was precise and very much uninterested.

It was nothing serious, really, just hand stuff. He expected Herbert’s hands to be cold; they ought to be, and now, Dan feels vindicated, as if the world finally decided to conform to his predictions. They weren’t cold back then, though it's not like Dan would know with the surgical gloves. As far as he could tell, Herbert’s hands weren’t anything but professional. He was an expert at anatomy, after all, knew when to flick his wrist and how to make it quick and efficient, even with Dan burrowing his head in the crook of his neck or biting into his shoulder through the fabric, miserable little gasps spilling along the saliva. Lots of saliva. It was surprisingly considerate of West to never complain about that, though his lips did tend to form a tight line that suggested distaste.

Herbert didn’t squirm away, but never let him do anything else, despite some of the most awkward offers Dan has ever made in his life. It was clinical and necessary, like a mildly unpleasant procedure when the bad tooth really starts driving you crazy, but the dentist knows how to deal with it deftly and fast. It happened just a couple times, anyway. They were exhausted, stressed out of their minds and isolated, and they stopped after that one time when Dan cried out Meg’s name. It was stupid, a heat of the moment thing, unfair to both Meg and the other party. He still vividly remembers how Herbert coiled up, as if preparing to strike, and then how something in the set of his jaw changed. He decided to carry on with a scowl while Dan was too mortified to say anything. When they were done, Herbert made no comment, just threw the gloves into the trash and washed his hands for a bit longer than he usually did, disdain clear in every little movement.

“Herbert—” Dan tried to say back then, but everything was so fucked up he had no idea what statement could follow that whine. The word just hung there in the air, completely useless.

“Ah yes, that is indeed my name,” the smaller man remarked breezily before reaching for the towel.

And that was, basically, it.

But that was Peru. Desperate times. Dan, after all, is a healthy young — fine, okay, youngish — man who likes healthy young women. And Herbert is, well, Herbert is Herbert. There’s no way to tell what or whom he likes, at least, uh, like that. It sure didn’t seem like it was Dan or anything Dan did (tried to do, really) during the procedures. On the other hand, Herbert’s open disdain for Meg suggested otherwise.

Still, Herbert holds almost everyone in disdain, so it doesn’t mean jack shit.

Of course Dan’s noticed Herbert’s very distinct lack of interest in healthy young women. It’s difficult not to notice that, and even if he hadn’t, people at the hospital talk. He certainly does look at Dan a lot, and at one point, Dan did flatter himself and wonder whether he was being ogled. Herbert likes to invade his personal space, grabbing him, standing so close their noses almost touch. Sure likes to insert himself between Dan and any pretty girl Dan’s talking to, and for a moment, Dan thought he might understand what was Herbert’s end goal. He did all those things himself so many times, he knows why guys do them. But Peru made it clear that sex was not what Herbert had in mind, and if it wasn’t that, then Dan couldn’t figure out what for the love God it might have been. What it is.

Whatever lapse of judgement on Dan’s part happened there when he was frustrated out of his mind, stayed there. They didn’t make a habit out of it, and they didn’t talk about it. There’s no purpose going back to any of those memories now, when this is so vastly different. Now Herbert’s the distressed one, feverish, traumatized, and apparently having the least expected kind of a mental breakdown, for this time he’s not working swiftly and efficiently while staring into space, oh no, he’s taking the initiative and doing it really poorly. This time he’s offering. This is probably what he imagines people do in situations like these, this is his idea of seduction, nuzzling against Dan’s Adam’s apple, sniffing from time to time — God, why won’t he just blow his nose like a normal person? is it the kind of sniffles that just leak and never stop? — and with his clumsy hands fumbling all. Over. Dan’s chest.

“Herbert,” Dan says valiantly. It comes out surprisingly raspy, but that’s understandable. He’s been on a walk in a cold and without a scarf, no mysteries here. “You’re not thinking straight.”

The deranged man makes a cackling noise at his phrasing. It starts somewhere at the back of his throat and comes out as a series of unnerving rattles. “Obviously,” he says curtly.

“Jesus, you know what I mean. You’re not yourself.”

It’s not a no, though. For some reason, Dan still hasn’t just flat out refused, and it might get more difficult to do so if this continues. He has no idea how it happens, but he ends up cradling Herbert’s chin in his hand, tipping it slightly upwards, and placing a kiss against the seam of his mouth like he usually does with girls he wants to let down easy. It’s supposed to serve as a consolation prize, handed by the end of a bad date and accompanied by an unconvincing ‘we should meet again sometime’ that both parties understand to be a white lie. But Herbert never got the memo about that last part. He missed every memo out there.

It’s difficult to call what he does reciprocation. He advances on Dan, and the word 'sloppy' doesn't even begin to cover it. Sloppy doesn’t entail violent, while right now, there are teeth clinking against teeth, and Dan’s lower lip gets bitten down so hard he'd swear skin split in one place. Herbert couldn’t be described as sensual even by the most favorable observer, but he’s certainly feral. Dan must have unbent his legs at some point, because now his lap is full of a very sweaty man who tries to straddle him and keep his balance despite half of his limbs being of no use. He’s fully clothed and also clearly unskilled; when he leans in, his belt buckle — sharp-edged and cold, cold, cold — presses against Dan’s bare stomach. But that’s nothing, just a small discomfort compared to what happens next, because next, Dan loses his breath, feeling a knee collide with his solar plexus, and fuck. He knows it’s part of the sympathetic nervous system, of course it hurts, but it never ceases to surprise him just how much.

“I need you, Danny,” Herbert warbles, perhaps ignoring the pained gasp, perhaps misinterpreting it. Even though Dan’s still struggling for breath, the missing puzzles fall into place, and Dan’s hands to his sides.

West’s not lying. He does need Dan, not like that, of course, but he does need him, God only knows why. Dan’s gotten stuck with Herbert because he had no one else left, but Herbert? He actively chose Dan. It might have made some sense on the night of Rufus’ deaths, back when Dan was on Halsey’s good side and had access to the university’s resources. It didn’t make any sense even a day later, when Dan lost both his student loan and the Dean’s favor. And yet. And yet, Herbert kept dragging Dan with him, and Dan would love to think he was kicking and screaming while it was happening, but like with most things he tells himself, it’s not really true.

He had a choice, and he kept making the same one. He was in control, at least to some extent. He could have walked away, back when Meg asked him to, back when Herbert suggested Peru. Definitely back when he realized why Herbert wanted to go there and what atrocities he was commiting. They both were. Back when he actually said he’d walk away, because he did claim he was going to that, didn’t he. He already followed through with it, even if something he decides to call a conscience compelled him to come back and dig for the man under the rubble.

Herbert West is inconsiderate on principle and socially inept in ways words cannot even begin to describe, but that’s very much on purpose. At least Dan thinks so. Herbert’s not stupid. He knows, he must have known for quite some time he’s not the one power here, and maybe that’s why he’s been going out of his way to make this truth so difficult to notice.

Somehow, that realization makes Herbert’s display even sadder. Maybe Dan should be simply disgusted by the feeling of a wet nose being gracelessly rammed into the spot behind his ear — what is that even supposed to achieve? in what world is that something erotic? — but he mostly experiences paralyzing pity.

“You’re afraid I’ll leave,” he says, and it sounds awfully hollow.

The owner of the runny nose freezes.

“Excuse me?” he finally says into Dan’s neck, his voice offended but his breath ticklish.

“You’re scared shitless I’ll walk away if you keep this up,” Dan restates, addressing the dark space a bit to the right from where the tacky pictures most probably hang. And the thing is, he will, no matter what Herbert does, yes, he will walk away. It’s just not the right moment to say it. That would be far too insensitive, you don’t break a news like that when someone’s sick, and certainly not when they proposition you, no matter how incredibly bad at it they might be. It’s just something a gentleman wouldn’t do at a moment like this.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Herbert murmurs into his neck, but sits still, refusing to withdraw. “I know you can, you’ve already left me behind on more than one instance. Last time it happened, it was less than a week ago. Perhaps you still remember?”

Dan waits for the pang of guilt that always comes with Herbert bringing it up. It doesn’t appear, and that tells him something must have changed, however slightly.

“But I came back,” he says. For the first time, he’s just stating the fact, not looking for absolution.

“But you came back,” Herbert agrees. Then, he tries to move on Dan’s lap in a way that probably was supposed to be suggestive and lewd. It sort of is, but mostly, it’s just very clumsy. “You always come back, Danny.”

Dan doesn’t say anything for a while, focusing on remaining a gentleman.

“You will come back to me,” Herbert finally informs him. His lips are basically touching Dan’s ear, even though he’s now speaking at a full volume, and it’s really hard not to wince at that. The tremor in his voice is so well-hidden under the note of finality that Dan wouldn’t have noticed, had he not known it was there.

He painstakingly slowly untangles the mess of limbs, and thankfully, Herbert allows him to do so. Dan avoids touching any of the injured areas, though without the lights on, it’s mostly guesswork. If he failed at some point, there was no pained hiss to inform him about that. It’s just dead silence. When he’s done, he carefully deposits Herbert on the floor next to him, like a child after a tantrum.

“It can’t go on like this,” Dan says.

“I agree,” comes an immediate answer. “It mustn’t. A volatile lab partner is just a liability, a—” Herbert gives a dry chuckle, “dead weight. I need you committed, Dan. Focused. Not chasing every pair of legs you see.”

“So far, I’ve been chased around by a pair of legs. Sewn together,” Dan deadpans. It wasn’t even supposed to be a joke, because what the fuck was Herbert thinking when he made that thing?

He feels the accusations gather like bile in his mouth, ready to spill, but say what you will about West, he does appreciate wordplay. He snorts again, this time almost genuinely, and Dan joins in. Mostly because it’s the polite thing to do. It’s here-and-gone, short and perfunctory, and it doesn’t dispel the images of things they left buried in Arkham.

Herbert laughs on for a second or two longer than him, but by now, it begins to sound forced, and when it dies down, it’s with a sound that’s more pitiful than anything than happened tonight. He sniffs once, though that’s probably just the runny nose, and then they sit there in relative silence. Some of the birds outside have woken up and began to sing. The sun should start rising in a few minutes, probably, which means the night is almost over, and Dan is more exhausted than when it started.

There’s some shuffling, and then a skull knocks slightly against Dan’s before falling onto his shoulder. Dan puts his wrist against the other man’s forehead, though it’s just an empty gesture. They both know Herbert has a fever, with the limited amount of reagent it’s not going to abate soon, and it’s a hell of his very own making. Herbert clearly misinterprets the gesture, however, now nuzzling against his hand. Dan wonders whether in order to learn about interactions, Herbert watched a documentary on cat behaviors. He scratches the smaller man’s nape, and he’s almost disappointed not to hear a purr.

“I need you, Danny,” Herbert repeats stubbornly, even though at this point, there’s no reason to restate the absolutely obvious.

“I know,” Dan says, choosing the Han Solo routine ‘cause what else is there to choose? He shouldn’t make promises he’s not going to keep, right?

He has no way of telling whether the violent shiver going down West’s frame is a real thing, or something carefully orchestrated in order to appeal to his savior complex. It might be. Dan is a predictable creature, and Herbert knows him quite well. Whatever it is, it works, because for a minute or so, there’s no universe in which he’d be able to walk away.

Thank God, it passes quickly. Herbert ruins it, trying to kiss him on the mouth once again, and then losing his balance. He misses in an absolutely spectacular fashion, and knocks his skull against the wall with a soft whine. Even in his state, that is too uncoordinated to be believable. It’s a display of helplessness so out of character, some calculation must have been involved.

“Overselling it, Herb,” Dan admonishes him, trying at the same time to help the other man up and keep him at an arm’s length. He almost never uses that nickname, Herbert absolutely despises it, but tonight, he’s certain he can get away with it. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, but he chokes on his spit the moment he tries to finish the sentence. There was supposed to be a ‘for now’ in there, and yet, for reasons that escape him, it’s very clearly absent. He turns the words around in his mouth carefully, looking for the best way to phrase the next part, but there’s none. He finally settles for “I appreciate the uh. The offer. But that’s not how it works.”

“How what works?” Herbert huffs in annoyance, now hooking his good ankle against Dan’s. What is that? It might have worked if they were at a restaurant, their limbs hidden under the table, but even then, tugging at one’s leg is just plain weird.

“Any of it.” Dan makes a gesture that is supposed to encompass the room, them, and the entirety of human sexuality before he remembers his interlocutor can’t see it in the darkness. “Relationships. Sex. You know. Stuff.”

Herbert probably doesn’t know, though it’s not likely to stop Dan from contemplating the extent of his knowledge in the nights to come. Scientific curiosity.

Though you know what they say. It killed the cat. Quite literally, Dan suspects, but there’s no evidence, and Rufus did tend to stick his head in weird places, that part was quite true.

Another offended sniffle. Then, “I’ll defer to your judgement, you certainly have more experience in that area,” Herbert says, and he’s probably the only person in the whole wide world who could make it sound like a grave insult. “Your concupiscence has proven problematic on numerous occasions.”

“Concupiscence?” Dan echoes, trying not to laugh. “Really?”

“There are other words I could use, Daniel. Would you prefer that I do that?”

For a moment, Dan allows his mind to wander into the dangerous territory and imagine Herbert using obscenities in this context. Huh. Apparently, there are some things he didn’t know about himself. You live and learn.

He lets out a small, choked “No, I wouldn’t,” praying to everything that is holy that Herbert believes him.

“Yes, I thought so,” West says. The tone of his voice makes it obvious that he’s wearing that specific brand of self-satisfied smirk he adopts every time he believes he got something right. Dan breathes in relief as Herbert carries on: “But if this is what you require to stay—” A momentary hesitation, as if the sentence was supposed to end here, but Herbert thought better of it. “… on the task, then I think we should hurry up before people start waking up. I regret to inform you, you’re not very good at keeping quiet during an intercourse.”

Dan refuses to think about the ramifications of that statement. Maybe, one day, he’ll learn to make sure the doors are closed before he starts making moves on a girl he brought over. But then again, why would he? He’s not going to share yet another house with Herbert, their living arrangements are going to change drastically the moment they leave this motel. Fine, not the moment, but in a week or so after they do that. It’s going to be different. So yes, maybe he’ll take care to keep the doors shut and curtains drawn in the future, but that’s not really the most pressing matter at the moment. Not when his blood is once again rushing away from his head as there’s a hand snaking up his thigh. Herbert, petite and frail, with his mood swings and complete lack of muscle, is a bit like a girl. The darkness hides the hair on his forearms, and so it's only natural that Dan would react in this manner.

He has enough wits left to bat the hand away like one would do with a fly.

“God, you really think that’s all it takes?” he asks, and Herbert’s affirmative hum certainly doesn’t alleviate his indignation.

He knows Herbert is judgmental, he knows he takes issue with people having a libido, but this is more than just lack of understanding. This is willful ignorance, the exact thing Herbert claims to despise. It’s also really, really rude.

“Well, fuck you!” Dan growls.

Which is not only not very articulate, but also a really stupid move, because it gives Herbert a perfect opening to say, “That, I believe, is the plan.” And he says it, because of course he does.

Dan’s never accepted money under the table. Not one box of chocolates, not even the bribe Herbert made for him back in the basement. Let’s face it, that’s what it was, not a gift, not a child, it was Herbert’s attempt at bribing him in order to make him stay. And Dan saw right through it, and rejected it, because he has some goddamn integrity. That’s what happened back there, and that is all. He’s not going to start accepting bribes now, was his point.

“I don’t want any of this,” he decides.

The shaky exhale he hears sounds an awful lot like a breath of relief, even though it’s not fair. It’s not Dan who initiated this entire thing, Herbert shouldn’t be the one to be thankful just because the thing is not happening.

Dan’s statement’s not quite true, by the way, but he’s certainly not willing to accept the price for what he wants at the moment. Nor the fact that there’s a price, and with Herbert, there’s always going to be one. That concludes the matter, and if it didn’t, the sound Herbert just made definitely does.

Still, Dan wavers, mulling the problem over, debating whether to volunteer more information and give Herbert the upper hand once more. Maybe sincerity could be his parting gift of sorts, a way to make Herbert understand.

But he wouldn’t either way. He wouldn’t even try to. Dan doesn’t actually owe the other man an explanation. At this point, he doesn’t owe him anything. Whatever obligation he might have had — and did he ever actually have any? Or did Herbert just make him feel like he had? — whatever debts there might have been, have been paid with interest, and oh, there was so much interest.

So no, he’s not going to humiliate himself for absolutely no reason, he concludes. It’s a very sound decision, and he’s about to pat himself on the back when the next sentence spills out of his mouth on yet another accident tonight.

“I mean, I do,” he says.

It happens without his intent or control, similar to a sneeze, a hiccup, or maybe an embarrassingly loud fart. Just like in case of the latter, it’s greeted with dead silence.

“I do,” his mouth goes on, trying to salvage the situation, and way to go, truly. Incredible save. “But.”

But what? What the fuck was supposed to follow that word, and, more importantly, is there anything that could? There must have been something he had in mind when he started saying the sentence, something that would rectify all of this, but. Now there’s nothing but white noise.

And then, as if his voice cords declaring mutiny, either making obscene clamor out of turn or refusing to produce any sound, as if those weren’t bad enough, then there’s a heavy sigh, and a cold hand on his thigh once again. The fingernails scratch his skin in something that might have been a very sensual gesture had the digits not been attached to Herbert West.

“But I don’t want it like that,” Dan adds hurriedly. That’s the closest he can get with words to what he’s trying to express. It’s supposed to be a clarification, but sounds more like an apology, and, worst of all, there’s very little conviction to his voice. “Not like that.”

“Then what do you want?!” Herbert hisses. The note of frustration is a familiar one. It’s the indignation at an experiment gone wrong, as if the specimen personally offended him by not complying with his predictions, it’s the sound he makes when looking at a perfectly good organ wasted because the freezer gave out, and the thing is, he never knows when to quit, so he repeats the botched experiment stubbornly until reality bends under the weight of his demands or he collapses from exhaustion, and of course he injects the organ with the reagent either way and claims it’s a logical thing to do because they need to see how the new formula works on decomposed tissue now that they’ve given up on anti-coagulants, Dan, and then

and then Herbert understands what he’s just said.

The sharp exhale and the way his fingers spasm and dig into Dan’s leg are the only tells of the realization finally filtering in, but they’re more than enough. He suffers through the contact, too stubborn to let go. It took him a second longer than Dan to notice what just happened, and that must be the first, but it’s kinda hard to feel smug about it.

There should be some sort of ringing in Dan’s ears as he recoils. That’s what people in similar situations have been said to experience. It’s listed in almost every textbook, he remembers quizzes on it. A pit in his stomach does indeed open, and it is gaping, endless and yawning. It’s funny, actually, because that sounds like a description of hunger, though what he feels is the exact opposite. Maybe Herbert was wrong, maybe his affliction was, in fact, contagious. So there’s nausea, but there’s no ringing. There are sounds of the birds preparing for the sunrise, there’s Herbert’s sharp intake of breath after an unnaturally long pause, there’s the rustle of fabric as he finally releases the death grip on Dan’s leg and very slowly withdraws his hand. Dan can hear all of that perfectly, is the thing. A car passes by. The ceiling falls down, crashing, someone across the hall flushes a toilet. The vending machine is running, there’s a motorcycle passing in the distance, and they just sit there, frozen, Dan, Herbert, and the unspoken third one between them. Herbert’s stomach growls slightly, and the floor creeps as he shifts his weight. Someone flushes the toilet again.

By the time Herbert moves, it’s already dawning, and the darkness has given way to sort of greyness. There’s probably a word for that, but Dan can’t come up with anything. He just watches the other man stand up, leaning against the wall, and then take a couple shaky steps towards the bathroom. The doors close with a crash that has probably awaken half of the motel.

Only after Herbert’s out of sight, Dan dares to crawl back into his blanket and close his eyes. He finds a nice house there, settles down with a nice girl, and yes, there just might be some golden retriever involved. Why not. It’s shockingly easy to imagine. He ignores the retching sounds coming from behind the doors. He can’t do much about them anyway. He could get Herbert some water from the bathroom, but Herbert’s already in the bathroom, so there’s no point.

And yet, the next evening finds them in a blasted stolen car. Dan nearly drives them into a levee in blind panic, his entire body shaking with adrenaline and disbelief that somehow, on the sixth try, he managed to jump-start the fucking thing, nobody came to halt him, and the police sirens have yet to start wailing. If the car stops, he won’t be able to start it again.

“We’re only borrowing it,” he informs his passenger for the eleventh time. In the rear-view mirror, he can see the smaller man rolling his eyes in a way that’s sure to make his migraine even worse. Any comment Herbert wanted to make, however, gets drowned in the sound of the truck Dan tries to overtake for an entire minute before the dick behind giant vehicle’s wheel finally slows down and lets them pass. By the time they’re back in their lane, Dan’s palms are slippery with sweat. “We’ll return it.”

“Yes, Danny,” Herbert agrees, but it sounds automatic. At least he’s done with theatrical sighing, it would seem.

“We will return it,” Dan repeats, as if putting emphasis on the word gave it more power, turning it into a spell of sorts.

“Yes, we’ll return it.” Another eyeroll, this time followed by a pained wince. Serves the asshole right. “As far as I know, that’s what borrowing means, Dan.”

That’s technically correct, but somehow they end up not returning it anyway. Three years from now, squirming under the prosecutor’s gaze and carefully avoiding Herbert’s, Dan will say he cares about the defendant a lot, but it doesn’t change the fact that all of it was Dr. West’s doing. At least half of his statement will be true. There will be no dog waiting for him back home, not even a fucking pug with eyes falling out.