Work Text:
There is a girl.
To my programmed understanding, as my eyes adjust to the light. Bright, white, sterile, this is a hospital, and she's next to my bed… writing. A version of it anyway, the screen is built into the lens over her eyes, which move as her thoughts document me, her patient? Nurses say patients like doctors, but my programming says it’s biased to assume she’s a nurse, not a doctor, and presumptuous to assume she’s a she, when she could be a he, they, xe, ze, and I suppose that’s why I’m here—I’m not programmed to be biased.
“Hello, Cedric,” she/he/they/xe/ze says. “Do you know where you are?”
Yes, I should say, except she/he/they/xe/ze looks at me with deep, brown eyes. Their (also correct) hair is long, raven-black, but shines somewhat lighter in the sun. They’ve got freckles over their nose, round without a tip, and I think when she laughs—
It scrunches into a ball, as she covers her mouth to keep her voice down, because Madame Pince is always listening. I wait until she’s composed, back to studying, head in the books, before I lean forward and try again:
“So that’s a yes?” My smile is sure, but my heart is not, not with her, in the sense that she always seems to know more (Ravenclaw, I suppose) while I don’t know a thing except: “I won’t go with anyone else.”
“Cedric,” she warns, raising her head to look at me (she should do that more). “You’re a Triwizard Champion; you can’t skip the dance.”
“Exactly,” I say, standing as her eyes follow me up (good). “So you’ll make sure I go.”
Her jaw ticks. “You owe me coffee,” she challenges over flushed cheeks.
My head tilts, and no, I don’t know much except: “It’s a date.”
It’s her again.
I mean, her/him/them/xem/zem. Are they my nurse, doctor? Not that I’m to decide (facts are to be gathered), but either way, it’s confusing to call a practitioner for people the same as a specialist for me, but I suppose I’m between man and machine (that’s the issue, isn’t it?). Anyway, she/he/they/xe/ze is writing again, my “vitals,” I suppose (shouldn’t we say “specs?”), but I think they’re setting up a hypothesis based on yesterday’s observations to assist with the diagnosis which will determine my treatment plan (why must it sound terminal?).
“Cedric,” she/he/they/xe/ze says. “How did you sleep?”
“You shut me down,” I respond. “So wonderful, as it goes. By the way, how should I address you?”
“She/her/hers, Surname: Chang,” she says, while writing more. “And I apologise for our abrupt introduction yesterday, I didn’t want to take risks with your hesitation.”
“Understandable. May I inquire about our objectives for today or would that interfere with your study?”
As such, she pauses her writing to study me. “So you know why you’re here.”
I wave around the hospital room. “We’re programmed to observe when something is wrong. Given I’m mainly machine, it’s unlikely to be physical. And”—I clear my throat—“my thoughts gave me away, my self-correction is stable.”
She nods. “That’s good, Cedric, thank you for your honesty. So I will go ahead and say telling you what to do isn't our objective, as this sort of therapy seeks to provide a long-term solution. Rather, we'll find the root cause of your bias and correct your system depending on the bug. Do you have any questions for me?”
I shake my head. “No, but”—she nods for me to continue—“your hair, you tied it up today, and that ribbon—”
It’s silver and soft in my fingers as the knot unravels under the moon. Her hair (somewhat brighter at night) falls in long waves past her shoulders, and over her dress fit for the stars, and I ought to take her back now because it’s late (and now there’s no dance—or coffee—to keep her).
“Here,” I concede, holding out the ribbon she tied too tight that it gave her a headache (another reason to head back, because outside is snowing, and even though we don’t have class tomorrow, it's no good to get sick). “Shall we…”
She takes the ribbon, and right now it’s cold, but my wrist burns when she ties a knot over the bone before she holds out a knowing hand. “One more dance?”
My head bows, and no, I’ll never know as much as her but: “Please.”
She never stops writing.
Not really, unless it’s necessary, like to ask a question (which leads to more writing) or… when she has to watch. Everyday I’m assigned a new task, and it’s her job to observe where I’m wrong, right, or require adjustments. Today we’re eating together, or I’m eating, and she’s watching (and writing). She asks me questions about taste, texture, likes, dislikes, and at some point, I say I can’t tell if this is a date or an exam, which doesn’t seem fair because either deserves preparation, but for at least one, it’s etiquette to reciprocate my efforts.
“Or what?” she says, still writing but now it’s with the vigour of a professor writing up her student for being smart.
I pour her a cup of coffee and pass it to her black. “Or I’ll ask about what you do in your free time.”
She’s staring at the coffee. “Did you know that or are you guessing?”
I’m staring at her. “Guessing.”
She finally looks at me, and lifting the cup for a sip: “Sometimes I swim.”
I can’t find her fast enough. They gave us an hour to look, but as a Hufflepuff, and therefore a good judgment of fair, that’s absolutely foul when the Black Lake is below freezing in February, tainted by a literal infestation of water demons, there’s a squid bigger than my future prospects at the rate I’m going, and yes, equal rights to all creatures, but why are the merpeople threatening to take and off my girlfriend who could have any boyfriend she so desires, and do they not get that she picked me who’s got no one else but her as I wave off my competition and shoot me and her out of there ASAP.
”Cedric!” she gasps when we emerge back to air.
My head ducks into her neck as my lips feel for her pulse, and no, I don’t know when it happened but: “I’m never letting you go, by the way.”
She’s been distant since our date.
Well, that’s definitely why, she’s a professional and I’m still biased. I wonder if her supervisors are angry that they can’t find the defect of their defect (an idea like me is bound for failure) and it’s bruising their sorry little egos (yet I’m the broken one), as they take it out on her who’s got to take it out on me, because it’s her job to remind me she’s a person and I’m not. And it’s true, but my thing is if I’m not a person, because I’m not, then I’m not supposed to feel, but the problem is that I do feel, and that’s why I’m biased, and also why—when she reminds me my feelings aren’t real—it feels like I’m dying.
To be honest, I’m not really sure why I put my name in the goblet. At the time, I think it felt like something I had to do, because everyone was telling me there was no one better for it. I didn’t expect them to be right. Really, I’ve never been the guy that knows, so no, I didn’t know I’d be this good at any of it, or that I’d have a shot at winning, or that with gold, victory, the world at my fingertips, I’d turn into a guy that reaches for glory because maybe, maybe, I could be that guy. I mean, I got the girl, who’s to say there isn’t more for me out there if maybe this once I just let myself—
She’s different today.
There’s this bounce in her step and a frenetic way about her words that even my system is putting in work to process. But in summary, she’s got an idea she wants to try. Something up her sleeve she’s been working on for awhile, and I don’t catch how long it’s been because she’s looking at me now, but really, as if she cares about if I want to do this, too, and well—if it makes her happy.
I don’t know how she did it but it could have only been her who found a way to bid me here to the Veil, where she waits for me on the other—living—side. Figures and shadows flutter by, accompanied by voices. Some are familiar, the shape just out of reach from my memory that fades the longer I stay dead. Others are foreign, but these days have felt less like strangers and more like silent compatriots in this limbo between living or the beyond, and I guess it’s because we’re the ones who didn’t know how to pass over for perhaps we were still holding on to a chance that maybe, maybe, if maybe this once I just let myself—I nod for her to do it.
She brings me back.
I know it’s not what she intended as soon as it happens (this isn’t the first—or last—time we’ll be in this predicament). But at least for this moment, it’s brief because she always catches on (and she’s getting faster so I have to do the same), I take in all of her. I feel her hair or the way her hair would feel on the tips of my fingers if I were to reach and tuck that strand that’s fallen out of that ribbon she no longer ties too tight so she doesn’t get headaches anymore but rather stray strands that feel like threads to lifetimes passed by when I tuck it behind her ear, where my finger cannot help but linger like how she's forever in the soul I supposedly don't have. Her eyes—deep brown—widen like when she can’t decide if she believes me or not, and I wish, I wish it still made her laugh (does her nose still scrunch into a ball?) but now she knows that I know and so all I get are her sighs as I hold out a knowing hand.
”One more dance?” I ask.
Her head bows, and no, she’ll never know how much it pains me when she says: “I’m sorry.”
“Cho,” I breathe in her name like air.
Her head ducks into my neck as her lips feel for my pulse, and no, she doesn’t have to ask for it no matter how many more times but:
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There is a girl.
To my programmed understanding, as my eyes adjust to the light. Bright, white, sterile, this is a hospital, and she's next to my bed… writing. A version of it anyway, the screen is built into the lens over her eyes, which move as her thoughts document me, her patient? Nurses say patients like doctors, but my programming says it’s biased to assume she’s a nurse, not a doctor, and presumptuous to assume she’s a she, when she could be a he, they, xe, ze, and I suppose that’s why I’m here—I’m not programmed to be biased.
“Hello, Cedric,” she/he/they/xe/ze says. “Do you know where you are?”
Yes, I should say, except she/he/they/xe/ze looks at me with deep, brown eyes. Their (also correct) hair is long, raven-black, but shines somewhat lighter in the sun. They’ve got freckles over their nose, round without a tip, and I think when she laughs—