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Chapter Text

"And... action."

    You hit 'enter'. The hydraulic leg pistons down among a tumble of foam rubble. Apertures snick open on its surface, from which laser guns fold out and start firing. Screaming, the crowd scatters.

    "Cut! Jesus, where do they find these people?"

    You stifle a sigh, hit 'esc', type /reset and /passive, then get up to go help the techs return the prop to its ready position. You can't cross the set yet, though, because the director is still busy berating the mob of milling extras.

    "You in the purple shirt. Do you speak English? Yes, I'm talking to you. What did I tell you to do?"

    He's singled out a willowy, androgynous young man with a bleached streak in his hair. The others quickly find somewhere else to be while the director's target tries to answer his rapid-fire accusations.

    "When the guns come out, we --"

    "Did I say stand around looking pretty and hope someone will notice you?"

    "I was just --"

    "Did I say hog the frame and get a few more seconds of screen time for your portfolio?"

    "I wasn't --"

    "News flash, starlet, you're a goddamn extra! If you can't act like one, I know where there's a hundred other guys who will."

    Clearly fighting tears, the extra draws himself up in a last-ditch effort to salvage his dignity. "If you would just tell me what you want me to do different, I --"

    "That's it, get off my set." The director whirls to stalk back to his chair. He spots you and points. "You. Security. Escort Miss Star Quality off the premises."

    You raise an eyebrow. You make a quick calculation. You turn to the rejected extra and smile consolingly. "This way, sir."

    The honorific seems to mollify him somewhat. At least, he comes along readily enough as you take him to collect his things -- a jacket, a messenger bag, and a surprisingly large duffle -- and then head for the parking lot.

    "I wasn't hogging the frame," the young man grumbles, mostly to himself. "I was just being shocked for a second before running. I thought we were all gonna do that."

    "Don't take it personally," you offer. "He's a low-class cretin with the manners of a playground bully. And a mediocre director as well, in my admittedly amateur opinion."

    He shoots you a sharp look, properly seeing you for the first time. He's really very handsome. "Can you say that?"

    "I see no reason why not," you smile as you emerge into bright sunlight. You take out your sunglasses, but hesitate before putting them on so you can enjoy this stranger's charming face for a moment longer. His eyes are an extraordinary violet. You wonder if he's wearing contacts.

    He's examining you at the same time, looking you over in that judging way everyone in Los Angeles seems to have. He smiles wryly. "Well, I appreciate it."

    You gather your courage. "May I give you a ride somewhere?"

    "What?" He forgets to appraise for a moment. "That's not -- he didn't -- you're gonna get fired."

    "I can't get fired, because I just quit." You put the sunglasses on and scan the lot for your car. "This is the second time he's mistaken me for a security guard. I can't tell if he's racist or merely stupid."

    He gapes gratifyingly. Then he goes thoughtful, which is even better. "Come to think of it, the security guys have 'security' on their shirts. Wow, what an idiot! So what are you really?"

    "I'm the robotics consultant. Was the robotics consultant. Goodness, I hope the set techs have been reading the command interface over my shoulder, or they'll have no idea how to make the machines go."

    He laughs. "If you wanna drive me somewhere, how about lunch?"

Chapter Text

His name is Eridan Ampora, and he eats like a space shuttle. You have a healthy appetite yourself, but you've never seen anything like this. He shovels down penne primavera like it's ammonium perchlorate composite propellant and he's determined to make escape velocity on this meal alone. Either he hasn't eaten for a long time, or he's got the metabolism of an Olympic swimmer.

    It's oddly endearing. If he were poised and pretty even while eating, he'd be just another Hollywood hopeful. You've seen enough of those to last a lifetime. This makes you want to big-brother him a little. When he finishes the pasta and salad and starts in on the garnish without slowing down, you wave over the waiter and order him another plateful.

    "You don't have to," he says around a mouthful of tomato-rose, clearly not meaning it. "Thanks."

    "It's no trouble. Do you mind if I make a phone call?"

    His eyebrows go up in shock as he shakes his head. In L.A., no one asks. They simply whip out their phones whenever the urge strikes them. Deplorable bad manners are the default.

    When you first moved here, you used to say 'let me call my agent' as a joke, knowing with absolute certainty that you would never have one. Now here you are actually calling your agent. It makes you feel very silly. It also refreshes your annoyance at that oaf of a director, but you try not to take it out on the agency's receptionist, even when she tells you Ms. Brock isn't available and you'll have to make an appointment.

    "I'd like to leave a message, then," you say politely. "Please tell her that I left the job without notice, and I'd like to know if there's some kind of procedure or penalty. I don't believe there was, but I don't have the agreement in front of me."

    There's a pause. "One moment, please, I'll put you through." Ms. Brock has mysteriously become available.

    Eridan's fuel consumption is finally slowing down. He watches you with a complex mixture of disbelief, embarrassment, and admiration as you patiently convince your agent that you're not bluffing, you're not holding out for more money or your name on the credits, you're honestly not very interested in being in the movies at all, you really did only start doing this consulting thing for fun and a little extra pocket money, and you genuinely do have better things to do.

    "You're seriously gonna quit on me?" she says at last. "Enrico, baby, c'mon."

    "Equius," you correct her, not for the first time. "And I'm Egyptian, Ms. Brock, not Mexican, so if you're going to call me by names that are not mine, perhaps Abdul would be more appropriate."

    "Only if you'll call me Dot."

    Maybe the whole question of names is better ignored. "I suppose I'm not giving up on consulting entirely, not if you come up with something interesting. But I didn't go to the trouble of earning a doctorate so that I could be repeatedly mistaken for a security guard by a man who treats his employees like garbage. I have responsibilities at the college. I need a much better reason to neglect them."

    Inexplicably reassured, she starts to chatter about a television miniseries about a manned mission to Mars. You convince her to email you the details and end the call. Eridan drops his fork on his empty plate as you put the phone away.

    "So you're a professor, huh?"

    "No, merely a post-doc." It seems that means nothing to him; you clarify. "I have no interest in a teaching career. I'm a researcher. Robotics is one of the few fields where it's possible to secure research resources without a tenured position. Corporations, government agencies --"

    He cracks a grin. "Shit, I wanted to make a joke about being hot for teacher."

    You wince at his scatological language, but it doesn't keep you from appreciating the rest of the statement. "I do teach a weekly seminar," you offer encouragingly.

    His grin widens. He has the same perfect white smile as everyone else who hangs around the movie industry, but somehow his makes you think of sharks. "Well then, Teach, how about you take me to school?"

    You tilt your head, unsure. "You want to see my lab? Or are you expressing interest in the seminar?"

    "I was thinking more in terms of sex education."

    Your skin prickles, and you just know sweat is beading unattractively all over your face. "Goodness. I. Well."

    His grin vanishes instantly into hurt petulance. "Or are you gonna tell me you didn't know you were flirting with me?"

    "I just think you're moving a little fast," you sputter.

    "Thanks for lunch," he spits, snatches up his baggage, and strides out of the restaurant.

    You sit there for a long time after that, poking at melting ice with a straw, trying to figure out what just happened. In the end you decide you just have to let it go. You're not going to see him again -- you didn't exchange contact information, and you're probably done with the entertainment industry -- and there's no guessing the pitfalls of a stranger's psyche. You'll never know what he really thought or wanted.

    Probably for the better. You've been told more than once that being attracted to damaged people isn't healthy. Besides, the little you do know about him -- beautiful, stylishly dressed, trying to break into acting -- tells you he'd never want to be with someone who wears gray cargo shorts every day and usually smells like hydraulic fluid. If he even wants to be with anyone at all.

    Yes. It was an isolated episode. You essentially exchanged two orders of pasta for an hour's aesthetic appreciation, and no more analysis is required.

    You get out your laptop and beckon the waiter over so you can order another iced latte, this one with a shot of Irish cream in it. It'll be good to get back to work on the seafloor-exploring swarmbot; those movie props were excruciatingly simple. And the computer they supplied you on the set was quite frankly obsolete.

Chapter Text

"The light sensor is working fine!" Norma insists, waving her hands in frustrated loops. "It's not the light sensor!"

    "But it's hardwired to the camera cutoff. If the sensor was working --"

    "I've been over it a million times. I swear that array is the most tested piece of hardware in history. It's not the sensor, Zack. Trust me."

    You scowl at the aquarium containing the recalcitrant robot, because the alternative is to scowl at Norma. 'Zack' is the only nickname you'll accept, but you accept it grudgingly and she knows that. She's perfectly capable of pronouncing Zahhak when she wants to. And it has to be the sensor. "It isn't the software. And I'm not just saying that because I wrote it. If numbers one, two, and four respond perfectly to the software, and number three does not --"

    "I'm not saying it's your software," she says, dropping her voice a few notches to something near a conversational level. "Could be the camera software."

    "Oh." Your scowl smooths. "Oh, you know, it could? I was just assuming that because it's an off-the-shelf component it would function perfectly. But that's not necessarily true, isn't it?"

    She shoves her sleeve up and reaches into the tank. "Tell me we don't have to pull out the whole wiring harness to test that."

    "I think we can probably --" You pause. "Did you hear the doorbell?"

    You both listen for a moment, but hear nothing. You find yourself staring at the wall of the garage as if you have x-ray vision and can see the front door from here if you look hard enough.

    Eventually Norma shrugs. "I forgot what your doorbell even sounds like." You gave her a key to the garage when the two of you moved your project in here, and she just walks in whenever she wants to work on it. "What time is it? Isn't it kind of late for someone to be --"

    You definitely hear it this time. "It's almost three in the morning," you frown as you go to the door that opens onto the driveway. You pluck a wrench off the wall just in case. This isn't a bad neighborhood, exactly, but it's not exactly good either. You turn the handle as quietly as you can and peer out.

    The figure standing on your front step turns to you immediately. Of course: the light spilling out of the garage. It was silly to try to be stealthy. You throw the door wide and step out, straining to see anything more than a pale blob of a face, a vague suggestion of thin, hunched shoulders, and a lump at its feet like a sleeping dog. Installing a motion-activated welcome light rises to the top of your to-do list.

    "Hello," you prompt after several seconds of awkward silence.

    With a geriatric, shuffling gait, the figure moves toward you, dragging the lump, which you realize -- after a moment of surreal horror in which you see it as a dead dog -- is a large duffle bag. That sparks a sense of familiarity, but it isn't until you see the streak in his hair -- pink now instead of white -- that you recognize your unfortunate lunch date from last month.

    "Sorry," he greets you. "You probably don't even remember me."

    "No, I do," you say uncertainly. "I do now. I couldn't see you in the dark. Eridan... A-something. Why... what... it's three in the morning."

    He gives a chuckle that's one raw breath from being a sob. "Yeah, well, you were really nice to me that one time, and I thought..."

    Norma pokes her head out. "Everything okay?"

    Eridan startles. Then his head sags as if her presence somehow means defeat. "Oh. Uh. I didn't think... yeah, I should go."

    "Don't be ridiculous; you came here for a reason. What is it?" Only after you've said it do you realize he probably thinks Norma is your girlfriend or wife, that you won't want to explain why some flamer in lavender clubwear would show up at your house in the middle of the night. "This is Dr. Norma Cook, head of my current project. Norma, this is Eridan, an actor I met on one of my ill-fated consulting jobs. Eridan, you're not leaving until..."

    You trail off, warned by his increasingly nervous posture. There's something fragile about him right now. Something tight-strung and ready to break. Fear? Pride? Methamphetamines? Demanding why he's here, what he wants, and how he found out where you live might not be the best way to get answers. In fact, demanding anything might make him run. You don't want him to run, not even if he's on drugs.

    "Do you want to see my robot?" you ask instead. Your gentle tone gets a bemused look from Norma, but Eridan's shoulders relax a fraction.

    "Sure," he says with forced casualness. "Might as well. Since I'm here."

    You hold the door wide and gesture him in.

    When he steps into the light, Norma gasps, then says, "Whoa, damn." You hurry around him so you can see what she saw. When you do, your heart clenches like a fist: ache and anger, a visceral, childish reaction to suffering.

    "Who did that to you?" you blurt.

    He shakes his bedraggled hair so it partly covers the black eye, as if that will also keep you from looking at the puffy bruise on his jaw, the blood crusted under his nostrils, the split lip swollen like a necrotic purple grape. "Got in a fight," he says with a dismissive laugh. "Don't make a big thing out of it. You should see the other guy."

    "Maybe the police should see the other guy," you say sternly. "For an actor, you're not much of a liar," you add when he looks about to object.

    "Fuck you, Teach," he spits, and holds up a fist so you can see the scraped and reddened knuckles. "I'm not a little girl. I paid it back. I just --" He drops the hand with a shrug. "Show me the robot already."

    "Let me get you an ice pack --"

    "I wanna see the robot."

    So you show him the robot.

Chapter Text

He zones out during your explanations, swaying with what you hope is fatigue and not a concussion, but when you fish it out for him to hold, he handles it delicately. You show him how it has a pneumatic 'swim bladder' to control its depth, which is more power-efficient than running the rotors all the time. He seems to understand. He puts it back in the tank, wincing at the contact of salt water on his knuckles, and his eyes widen as it purrs to life and settles to hover six inches off the bottom.

    Norma taps your shoulder. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

    You let her draw you away. It's rude to whisper about people behind their backs, but it's probably ruder to refuse to discuss an occurrence this odd. "It appears we're done working for tonight," you tell her apologetically.

    She dismisses that with a slight headshake. "Do you want me to stay or go? I'm not sure I'm comfortable with -- look, maybe we should call the police."

    "I can't force him to press charges if he doesn't want to," you say, surprised. He might be wearing painted-on purple jeans and a satin shirt with sparkly goldfish on it, but he's still a man. If he says he gave as good as he got, no force in the world will convince him to admit he was victimized.

    "How well do you know him? He's acting like he's on drugs."

    "Not very, but I don't think he is." You give her an amused look. "Are you concerned for my safety?"

    She glances at Eridan, then back at you, taking your point. He can't be more than a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet, and he already got beaten up tonight; you're six-two, two-ten, and only gave up boxing because you needed your Thursday afternoons for Muay Thai. "Worried about the equipment," she says.

    "I'm not. Anyway, I don't think he'll talk while you're here."

    "Call me tomorrow, then," she says. She leans around you to wave at Eridan. "Don't forget to ice that!"

    His only reply is a wan smile. He watches the door once she's gone, waits until the sound of her car has trailed away down the street before he speaks. "You're as nice as I remember. I'm glad I came here."

    You give him a perplexed look. "I haven't done anything yet."

    "You let me in," he says simply.

    "Oh." You pick up his duffle. It's damp. So is he, now that you're looking. "It stopped raining hours ago," you point out. "How long did --" You pause. You stare at him. "Did you walk here?"

    He shrugs.

    "From where?"

    He tells you. It's... absurd.

    "I can't believe you. Come inside, for crying out loud; how are you still standing? Explanations can wait until you've got your shoes off and an icepack on your face. I can't believe you." Blathering in dismay, you usher him into your living room, push him onto the couch, and rush around collecting the things you need to take care of him.

    He can hear you no matter where you are; your house is a silly little postwar clapboard shoebox, barely bigger than a trailer, and everything opens off the living room. He doesn't answer you, though. You're not really saying anything worth answering. It's as if you had some pressurized pocket of mother-hennishness lurking within you, and his helplessness tapped it, and now you've got a gusher on your hands.

    You clean the blood from his face, a scrape on his side that looks like he caught a doorframe on the way down, and the burst blisters on his swollen feet. You make up ice packs for his bruises. You give him some ibuprofen and make him drink a whole glass of orange juice. You disinfect everywhere the skin is broken, put band-aids on everything but his lip and give him some balm for that. The whole time, you cluck and fuss over what a wreck he is.

    The more you chide him, the more relaxed he seems to get. Your scolding is his lullabye.

    Finally, there's no more you can do -- at least, not without treating him like a child instead of a friend. You sit back against the other end of the couch, studying him. He no longer looks like a raw casualty. He looks like someone who's being taken care of. Like someone who lives in a civilized society that helps people who get hurt. You think that's what upset you so deeply when you first saw him tonight: he looked like a refugee.

    He curls his feet under him and lets his head loll against the back of the couch, eyes half-closing. You say, "Don't you need to take out your contacts before you sleep?"

    "What? I don't have contacts." He lifts his head to study you with violet eyes that are apparently natural. There's something almost offensive about that. "When did you ever see me with glasses?"

    "I guessed."

    "Well, they got broken, so now I'm just learning to love the blur. Makes reading street signs a real joy."

    "How did you even know where I live?"

    "Googled you. Like right after we met. I got to thinking walking out on you after you bought me lunch was kind of a stupid move. Like maybe I should call you up and say sorry or something. You have a pretty unique name, you know? All it turns up is Persian myth, some dead Afghani politician, and the Cal Sci robotics department. Anyway, I didn't call, obviously, but you're in the White Pages." He sighs and sags, as if that speech exhausted him. He doesn't seem to realize that following that logic chain and then remembering the resulting information might be something to be proud of.

    "You could've called tonight," you point out. "I would've picked you up."

    "I'd've been fucked if you said no," he says, with a bitter twitch at the corner of his mouth. "He broke my phone," he adds.

    "The person who...?" You gesture to your own face where the worst bruise is on his. "Who was it?"

    A laconic shrug. "This guy I was staying with. He's a asshole. I should've left weeks ago."

    Something in his tone suggests it was more than that. "Your boyfriend," you guess.

    He snorts. "Boyfriends like each other. I was just trading my ass for a place to stay."

    "You're homeless, then. I mean... were, even before you fought with your... roommate."

    "You'd be surprised how many actors are. I live on couches. It's what I do. Pleased to meet you, I'm Prince Eridan of the Kingdom of Sofa." This smile is a little less bitter than the last one. He pats the cushions beside him appreciatively. "I think this one is even long enough for me."

    You cross your arms and try to look stern. "You haven't even asked if you can stay."

    "Well, you're not gonna kick me out tonight, are you? That's good enough for now."

    He has a point. With a sigh of resignation, you get up to fetch him a blanket and pillow. "Why me?" you ask as you return with them.

    "I needed somewhere he won't find me."

    The way he says that sends a shiver down your back. It's so matter-of-fact. He doesn't even seem to realize that it's not typical to be afraid your boyfriend will track you down at someone else's house and attack you again. He doesn't think of himself as an abuse victim. He's only taking reasonable precautions in the world he inhabits. A war zone just big enough for one.

    You spread the blanket over him without another word. It's no good telling him he's safe here. You're starting to suspect he doesn't know what safe is. You're tempted to tell him he can stay as long as he wants, but that would be a lie. You're not in the market for a roommate, especially not a freeloading drama magnet.

    You're certainly not going to tell him: I have so many big-brotherly feelings about you right now, I want to give you a lollipop and have you show me on the doll where the world touched you. I want to go find your boyfriend and put my martial arts training to uses entirely unrelated to inner peace or cardiovascular health. Because you're a wreck. Because you're smarter than you think you are, and also an enormous idiot. Because you look like you've been living on discounted day-old bagels and ketchup packets for months. Because even with half your face swollen in technicolor, you're so very pretty.

    So you say nothing. You pat him on the shoulder, turn off the light, and go back to the garage. Just because there's a hot mess sacked out on your couch doesn't mean you don't have work to do.

Chapter Text

You notice when he comes out to join you, but you pretend you don't; you have headphones on and your back to him, can only see his reflection in the computer screen. You glance at the time. He slept fourteen hours. Lucky bastard; you've only had a four-hour nap. But then, you're an unknown postdoc nearing the end of a project that might make your name, and he's homeless, injured, and unemployed. You need to work; he needs to rest. It's no good envying him.

    He sits down on the plastic-grass mat on the top step, leans back against the door, and watches you. You keep waiting for him to pester you, demand some attention, but he doesn't.

    Your focus gradually returns to your work. There's something so absorbing about the debugging stage, so soothing. Breaking problems down into sub-problems and shooting down those sub-problems one by one. It gives you a sense of control over the world. Eventually, you forget all about your guest. You don't even realize it when you start acting out your music while you work; tapping a screwdriver on the workbench, nodding your head, heel-and-toeing from bench to tank, returning with a little spin.

    Until your shuffleplay spits up one of the songs you developed a habit of singing along to. Rapping along to, rather, just to see if you could talk that fast, imitating the accent without being really sure what you're saying. Because it doesn't matter, it's just something that happens when you're working alone.

    "Yeah, I'm a all time fighta, I make a next guy look like an acta, so da man dem wail like they matta, when I touch mic I see the men scatta, an they wanna talk big, but when it comes to big it they bout to get splatta --" and then you're interrupted by a burst of laughter so loud and sudden it makes you drop a hex wrench in the seawater tank.

    You pull your headphones down around your neck and glare at him. "It's my house, I can sing if I want to."

    "No, no, cool, it's --" He waves a hand in front of his face as if his laughter is a cloud of smoke. "You get lemonface when I swear. How are you into rap?"

    You hesitate, arguments lining up in your head, ready to educate him on how casual obscenity devalues language and leaves one with no options for expressing extreme emotion, or how common courtesy is not a lost art, how there's a time and a place, how certain language might be appropriate in a rap song but not in the supermarket checkout line -- but you're starting to get the impression it would be wasted on him. He likes to provoke.

    "I'm into drum-and-bass," you say instead. "It just so happens Skrillex remixed Foreign Beggars."

    "Well, don't let me stop you, baby. Shake dat ass." He's scrubbing tears of laughter from his eyes.

    "I believe I have shaken it sufficiently for the time being."

    Howling, he slides off the step, astroturf doormat and all. You find yourself grinning a bit as you retrieve your wrench.

    "I think it's time I took a dinner break. You must be starving; you slept all day. I'm thinking mushroom and cheese omelettes. Maybe with garlic toast. While I cook, why don't you take a shower?"

    Picking himself up off the garage floor doesn't stop him from throwing you a wry look. Fine, perhaps it's usually not very nice to tell people they need a wash, but there's blood on his collar.

    "Do you need to do laundry?" you prompt. "You can borrow something to wear if you don't have anything clean. Oh, and I should show you where the band-aids are so you can put new ones on."

    "What would I do without all this parental guidance?" he drawls.

    "I don't know, Eridan," you say patiently. "You tell me."

    He freezes for a moment. Then he grimaces. "Show me where the laundry happens."

Chapter Text

    Norma shows up around eight. She looks surprised to see Eridan perched crosslegged on a workbench, watching you pack delicate wiring back into the robot's plastic carapace.

    "So, uh, you're staying a while, then?" she asks him.

    He shrugs. "I can't work looking like this. Least, I haven't heard of any calls for zombies."

    "Well, I prefer to work without a peanut gallery, so..." She gives him a pointed look.

    He glances to you for confirmation. Which isn't particularly courteous to Norma, so it really shouldn't be endearing. You nod. "Feel free to watch movies or raid my bookshelves."

    "I'm sure I can find something to do. I wouldn't want to be in the way," he grumbles as he slumps off into the house.

    Once he's gone, Norma gives you a meaningful look. "Well, that was a pretty little guilt trip. How did he get the impression you're obligated to entertain him, and does it have anything to do with him wearing your clothes?"

    "What? No!" You mop at your brow, hastily turning back to your task. "He was out of clean laundry, that's all. Please don't jump to conclusions." You honestly didn't know he'd look so adorably vulnerable in a hoodie three sizes too big and pyjama bottoms with the drawstring cinched in. You're trying not to think about it.

    "I asked you to call and tell me you were all right. You didn't call me. I'm your friend as well as your advisor, Zack. I worry."

    "He's harmless. I think you're making far too much of the situation." You clear your throat. "It turned out to be a hardware error after all, though not the light sensor, you were correct about that. The camera had a faulty chip. I decided to replace the entire camera. I'm just finishing now."

    She goes along with the change of subject, but every so often she gives you looks that suggest she's itching to bring the topic of Eridan back up. It seems unfair and intrusive of her. Perhaps she wouldn't take in a casual acquaintance if said near-stranger showed up on her doorstep homeless and beaten, but if not, you don't want to know, because you would like her less for it. You're just doing the right thing.

    When you go in to refill your coffee mug a few hours later, Eridan is hunched over a notebook at the kitchen table, furiously scribbling. He shoots you a glare like a feral dog caught raiding your trash, curling an arm over his page. You make a point of not even glancing in its direction. "Norma and I are ordering pizza. What do you like on yours?"

    He uncurls slightly. "I don't eat any meat besides fish."

    "Really? Can you afford to be that picky in your situation? No, forget I said anything; this is California. At least you're not vegan."

    "You asked," he says defensively.

    "You're right, I did. Well, I don't like fish on pizza, so how about mushroom, onion, and extra cheese?"

    He nods, eyes fixed on the table. "Okay. Sorry. Thanks." He clears his throat. "Look, I know I'm a pain in the ass. Showing up outta nowhere, taking advantage of your kindness and all. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I find somewhere else to go."

    "Stay until you've healed enough to work," you say impulsively. You finish dosing two mugs of coffee with enough sugar and half-and-half to turn them into desserts, and set one beside him. "I have this inexplicable urge to feed you up."

    He regards the mug with absolute bafflement. "Okay," he says slowly. "Do you want me to call you Daddy?"

    "Goodness. No." You shudder. "Please don't." You hurry out before he can say anything else.

* * *

    The next day presents you with a dilemma.

    "I'm going to be out all afternoon for my seminar," you explain. "I'd take you with me, but I'm afraid your presence would be disruptive."

    He gives you an unamused look. "Yeah, the second I step into a classroom I just lose control of myself, I start tap-dancing on the desks and pissing in corners, it's a terrible disability. What the fuck, Zahhak."

    "Oh, goodness. No, that's not what I meant at all. I meant -- the fact that I have an attractive houseguest -- and you still look very much as if you've been beaten up -- gossip would drown the lecture, I'm sure of it."

    That gets a grudging half-smile. "I'll let you off the hook this time, but only because you said attractive. I don't need a babysitter, anyway."

    "No, of course not, and it's not that I don't trust you, but... well, leaving you here alone... I just don't think it's a good idea."

    So much for that smile. "You think I'm gonna steal your TV. Go to hell." He starts looking around as if he's going to collect his belongings and storm off.

    "Please stop doing that. I just don't know what I'd do if anything happened to the equipment I have in the garage. It doesn't belong to me! It's extremely expensive! Eridan --" You get between him and the door to the bathroom. He can't leave without his hair products, you're certain of it. "I'm not judging you."

    "Well, you sure don't trust me," he snarls. He's in your personal space now, which is making it very hard to think.

    "I trust you much more than is rational, given the facts," you retort. "But in the very unlikely case that you were to, for instance, decide to play with the robot, and you broke it, I would be liable. The reason it's in my garage instead of Norma's is because she has kids!"

    "You like treating me like a kid, don't you? I'm twenty-six, how old did you think I was? I'm probably older than you are."

    "The same, actually, but that's irrelevant." You rest your hands on his shoulders, hoping desperately that the gesture will come across as friendly rather than threatening. "I don't have time to argue about this. Call me paranoid if you want. If we go now, I'll have just enough time to drop you somewhere more interesting than the college cafeteria."

    He glares for a moment longer, then looks away, shoulders loosening slightly under your hands. "Fine. Whatever."

    "Where do you want to go? Maybe the library? Or there's an internet cafe on the way if you have email you want to check --"

    "The ocean."

    You hesitate.

    "Sorry I'm not a fucking intellectual," he snaps, twisting out of your loose grip. "You asked. That's where I wanna go."

    "I was just calculating drive times, Eridan. Of course I'll take you to the ocean. Does it have to be a swimming beach? That's going to be a bit out of the way --"

    "No, somwehere --" He ducks his head as he slings his messenger bag across his shoulder, mumbling into his chest. "Somewhere with tide pools and shit. And like... not too many people."

    A slow, bright warmth unfolds in your chest at that, and you don't even know why. "I know just the place," you assure him.

    When you drop him off at the nearest stretch of rocky shore, he walks away from the car without looking back. For a moment, you have the oddest feeling that he's going to transform into something that belongs to the sea, swim away and never return. A merman, a selkie, an orca. You know it's a silly thought, that you're being fanciful. Nevertheless, you sit there with the engine running until you see him plunk down on a driftwood log and take out his notebook. Only then can you bring yourself to drive away.

* * *

    "We're getting Japanese tonight, it looks like. Sushi for you?"

    "Sure, whatever. I mean... yeah. Thanks."

    You find yourself smiling as you get down two mugs. It's only been a week, but already this feels like a comfortable routine. Coming in for a coffee break and finding Eridan at the kitchen table with his notebook. Including him in your takeout order. Making him a cup of sweet coffee so he'll stay up as late as you do. Norma has even stopped needling you about him.

    When you hand him the coffee, he looks up and smiles. It wakes up that ever-unfolding little warmth in your chest. There's a stab of sorrow too, this time, because his bruises are almost gone, and that means he'll be leaving soon.

    "What?" he demands, amused. "Something on my face?"

    "Er... almost nothing on your face. By which I mean... you're nearly healed."

    "Yeah." He glances down. Then he looks up again with the aggressive, flirtatious smile he alarmed you with at that first lunch. "My lip's back to normal, I could totally give blowjobs now. Want one?"

    You feel yourself flush. "No."

    "Don't be shy. It's obvious you're into me."

    "I don't believe in casual sex."

    He raises an eyebrow. "I assure you, it's real."

    Despite your discomfort, you can't help smiling a bit at that. "I mean that I choose not to do it. I think it's... emotionally damaging." You try not to be offended by his contemptuous snort. "Yes, I'm attracted to you. But I've gathered the impression that you're not looking for a serious relationship."

    "Hell no. God. No."

    "I like being friends. I don't think we could be friends if we had sex. Please don't ask again."

    "Damn." He tugs at his collar. "But your repressed nerd act gets me so hot."

    "I'm sorry to hear it, because --"

    "I'm teasing you, dumbass." The shark grin metamorphoses into something more honest. He picks up his pen. "My broken heart can only be healed by salmon rolls. Don't come back without them."

    "Miso soup?"

    "Duh."

    Out in the garage, Norma takes one look at your face and shakes her head resignedly. "He's here for good, isn't he?"

    "The arangement is untenable in the long term. But..." You bend to dig in your toolbox in an attempt to hide your red face. "I rather wish it wasn't."

Chapter Text

    You're late picking him up from the beach. You expect him to say something about it -- he can be as naggy as a sitcom housewife when he's feeling insecure, which is often -- but he isn't waiting impatiently. He's standing shin-deep in a tidepool, jeans rolled up and shoes in hand, staring into the water with an expression that makes him look like an innocent little boy. You only realize how much bitterness he wears on his face now that you see him without it.

    Rather than interrupt him, you sit down on the driftwood he usually perches on. After a while he lifts one foot, balancing birdlike on the other, and pokes something with his toe. Jerks it back, grinning. Stalks around to a different vantage point and squats on his heels. Reaches in with delicately splayed fingers, leaves his hand under the water for a while. You see the muscle in his forearm shift as if his fingers are moving, but when he pulls his hand out he's not holding anything.

    The salty wind has undone his careful grooming efforts; his hair is dangling in his face, corkscrewed from humidity, black as wet kelp. The pink streak has faded from neon to seashell. His bare feet are long and awkward. The back of his neck and the upper curve of his cheekbones are reddened from sun and wind.

    You wish he could be like this all the time, and you think you know why he isn't, and it makes your heart hurt so much it's hard to breathe.

    Much too soon, he notices you there. Watching him smooth his hair back and put his public face on is excruciating. He saunters over to you as if he's a model on a catwalk, and you want to demand, Where did the stork go? The stork was wonderful! Why would you want to be anything else? But you're certain he'd find your admiration more uncomfortable than flattering. He seems confused enough by having a friend he's not sleeping with. Knowing how much you've come to care about him might make him throw the whole thing over.

    So you just put on a smile and hold out the bag you're carrying. "Sorry I'm late. I was getting you this."

    "A present? For me?" Half wary, half coy. He takes the bag. "You shouldn't have." He reaches in, feels what's inside, and gets an odd look as he pulls it out.

    "Don't let anybody break this one."

    Staring at the phone, he sinks down beside you on the log. "Wow, you're in a real hurry to get rid of me, aren't you?"

    Your jaw drops. You splutter. You expect him to declare that he's teasing you, but his dejected look is genuine. "I want you to stay in touch!" you burst at last.

    "No, I get it." Of all his forced smiles, this one is the least convincing yet. "Find work, get off the couch, don't be a stranger. Hey, I'm grateful. Do I look like I'm not grateful? Because I am totally grateful. This is a nice phone."

    "You look like I slapped you."

    He shores up the corners of the smile and turns it on you. "Relax, Zahhak. It's not you. Just reality. Reality slapped me, not you."

    "Did you..." Did you think you could stay indefinitely? Do you want to stay? Is it because it's free or because you like me? Are you upset about leaving me, or about having to find somewhere else? Are you going to shack up with another abusive boyfriend to punish me for caring? Things that need saying and can't be said; so frustrating. "It's a gift." Now you sound like you're about to cry. He's going to think you're manipulating him. "I just thought it would be useful."

    "Hey." His voice softens. He puts a hand on your back and moves it the way people do on TV when they're comforting each other. It's not as soothing as it looks. "I'm just being a drama queen. Ignore me."

    "I don't want to ignore you! I want to help you!"

    "Well, I don't like being a charity case. So. I mean, thanks for the phone. I'll use it to find work, and I'll pay you back. How much was it?"

    You shake your head. He peers into the bag, looking for the reciept. Too bad; it's in your wallet, and you're not telling him how much you spent. There's no way he'd be able to come up with that much, and you're afraid he'd try anyway. Do something drastic. Something illegal or self-destructive.

    He heaves a dramatic sigh. "I don't like owing people. You won't let me pay you back in bed, you won't tell me how much this cost -- what am I supposed to do?"

    "Admit your limitations?" you suggest.

    That doesn't go over very well. "Oh, fine, okay: I'm a loser. I'm a chronic loser who fails at everything and the only reason I didn't starve in an alley years ago is because I look younger than I am and I'm not picky about who I fuck. Is that what you're looking for? Thank you for rescuing me from the gutter, Equius Zahhak, you're my knight in shining armor. How's that? Oh, Jesus," he adds angrily when you sniffle. "Don't even try the waterworks trick. I'm the flaming pansy, only I get to pull that card."

    "Why won't you let me be your friend?"

    "Because you think you're in love with me, you moron," he snaps. He drops the phone back in the bag and shoves it into your hands. "And you're wrong. You don't even know me." He whirls and stomps off down the shore.

    As you watch him go, the pain slowly drains out of you, and realization takes its place.

    He's acting even when he doesn't mean to be. He's trying so hard to stay lonely. He knows how obvious it is that he's scared, defensive, hiding behind masks, and all he can think to do about it is lay it on thicker. But he's terrible at it. He's fighting himself and he doesn't even want to win.

    He left his shoes.

    Smiling faintly, you knock the sand out of them and set them up on the driftwood. You take the phone out and set it beside them, stuff the bag in your pocket so it's out of sight. Then you rest your elbows on your knees and watch Eridan's back get smaller. He's stork-stepping again. Hard to stride angrily on slippery rocks, especially barefoot.

    He comes back as the sun is setting. Chin held high, daring you to make something of it. You just nod a reminder at his things as you brush off your backside. He wrinkles his nose as he stuffs the phone in his pocket, but what matters is that he takes it.

    On the way home, he doesn't even make snarky remarks about your music the way he usually does. You choose to take see that as a good sign.

Chapter Text

    Norma isn't coming over tonight, so Eridan keeps you company in the garage while you work. He stays closer than usual, watches you more, talks more. It's a bit distracting, and he's sort of in the way, but you're not about to make him stop. He's letting himself be interested in your work. He's interacting. You like it a lot.

    "Can I make it do stuff?" he says at one point, looking over your shoulder at the computer. You've built a simple clickable UI for the most common commands, just to save the time of typing them.

    "That would be helpful, actually. You can cycle through input modes and tell me what you get." You go over to the tank and prepare to cover it. "If 'visible light' doesn't have a checkmark under 'auto-cutoff', click that box."

    "Where... oh, okay. Yeah, it does. Have a checkmark. Hey, Zahhak? Why is there a button that says 'uncontrolled rampage'?"

    You give him a very serious look. "What good is a robot if it doesn't destroy a major metropolitan area from time to time?"

    He bursts out laughing. "You always blindside me with that shit," he says when he can talk again, wiping his eyes. "You're like this big humorless boy scout, and then you come out with something like that. I'm used to people being so charming and witty all the time it's embarrassing, but you just don't give a fuck, do you?"

    "I'm beginning to think you must like my lemonface."

    "Huh? Oh, the swearing. Yeah. Your lemonface is pretty fucking cute."

    "Please stop."

    "Not a fucking chance." Smirking, he hooks his toes behind the rungs of the chair and poises his finger over the computer's trackpad. "Can I click the rampage button?"

    "No."

    "C'mon."

    "No."

    "What if I'm really really good?"

    "Maybe."

    "Sweet. I'm gonna be a fffreaking saint, just you watch."

    You cover the tank. "Did 'visual light' gray out?"

    "Yeah, and now 'IR' and 'sonar' are lit up. Oh, and 'lidar' is grayed out too.' Was that supposed to happen?"

    "It's fine for now, I have to fix that later. Hang on, I'm going to introduce a heat source." While you're hunting for the little black-painted light bulb you use as an IR target, you say casually, "You know, if you're going to look for a day job, I could drive you to interviews. If you schedule them when I'm free."

    There's no answer. You don't turn around. You think you're starting to get a feel for what will make him turn defensive and obstinate; giving him an expectant look right now would almost certainly set him off. You find the bulb, lower it into the tank, and switch it on.

    "You think I should give up acting," he says at last. Accusatory, but calm.

    "I don't have a right to tell you what to do with your life. I just know it's erratic work and it doesn't pay well. It would be smart to have a day job too."

    "Extra gigs need you to show up at the crack of dawn on hardly any notice, and you don't know if you're there for fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. Tell me what kind of day job would let me do that."

    You grimace at the rubber mat draped over the tank. He's right. Well, in your opinion, he should give up acting, because it's frankly a terrible stupid job and you don't know why anyone bothers. You suppose you're glad some people do, because you like watching movies, but really.

    "If you had to build robots on your own dime," he says suddenly, "or like, if you had to intern and not get paid, sleep in the lab or whatever -- I know grad students do that sometimes. How's that different?"

    You turn with your mouth open, a retort hovering in your throat, but it doesn't come out. Because it's nonsense. It's not the same, you were about to say, but isn't it? How is it different? You can't defend that position.

    "I suppose," you say slowly, "only in that it's possible to support yourself with student loans during that stage, and the probability of gainful employment afterwards is higher."

    His eyebrows go up. "You're one of a kind, Zahhak."

    "What? What does that mean?"

    "I'm not used to people thinking. Myself included."

    "But are you as passionate about acting as I am about robotics, Eridan? You don't talk about it. You don't watch movies or TV. All you do is write in that notebook."

    "I'm gorgeous and stupid and I like attention," he shrugs, as if that's an answer.

    "You're not stupid --"

    "Shush, don't argue, I'm being stubborn." He grins ruefully and turns back to the interface. "This box is the video feed, right? Is this pink blob the heat source?"

    "Yes. Good. I mean, it was working before, but I have to check everything." You clear your throat. "I like having you around. But you should be aiming for more than a couch. And it's a bit awkward not waking you up when I'm working late. Which is always."

    "I'll move on soon," he says without looking away from the screen. "I was just being childish earlier. Sorry about that. And yes, I'll keep in touch. Is your number in the phone already?"

    "Yes."

    "Fine." He suddenly stands and stretches. "I think I'll get some rest. Need to make some calls in the morning."

    "I don't want to hurry you."

    "No, I know, it's cool." He throws you a smile that almost convinces you he means it, and keeps his head high as he goes in.

    Well, that could've been less awkward. You sigh as you remove the IR target and uncover the tank. You didn't actually need to run the whole range of camera tests. You were only doing it so he'd keep interacting with you. Not very professional, really.

    At least the visual light camera cutoff is finally working. Now you just have to figure out why the lidar is cutting out at the same time. After all the effort you put in writing routines for telling murky water from low light, the least the darn thing could do is use them.

Chapter Text

    When you go in, hours later, you pause in the living room to look at him. You're not going to stand there and watch him sleep. That would be creepy. You just want to take a mental snapshot so you'll remember. Much as you hope you can stay friends, you're aware of the possibility that he might just vanish one day. Delete your number and block your calls. Not out of hostility, but out of... whatever it is that makes him think this life is all he can have.

    His bare feet are sticking out, pale and bony. You rearrange the blanket to cover them. Tuck it over his shoulder, smooth it down. He opens one eye with a questioning gurgle.

    "You were losing your blanket," you smile. "Didn't mean to wake you. Good night."

    He grunts and goes back to sleep. Probably won't even remember it. You try to be quiet as you go through your bedtime routine -- though there's only so much you can do about the shower, the plumbing is old and the pipes rattle -- and apparently you're quiet enough, because when you go through again on the way to your bedroom, he's still out like a light.

    You refuse to waste time on if-onlys. You can't change him, you can't fix him, you can't live his life for him. But you can't help wondering... if you told him how precious he is when he forgets himself like a gawky child, would he, just maybe, not force himself quite so hard to be someone he doesn't like?

    That counts as trying to fix him, you scold yourself, and go to bed.

* * *

    He's pulling you relentlessly farther and farther from shore, laughing at your panic. He's become a merman just as you feared -- no, a sea god, a Posiedon, an Enki -- but rather than fleeing from you, he's chosen to steal you. Feathery gills flutter at the sides of his neck. His mouth is full of needle teeth. The question is whether he'll drown you or eat you.

    "I can't breathe water, Eridan!" you remind him frantically.

    "Stupid," he says affectionately, running wicked claws over your cheek. "We've been underwater this whole time."

    And it's true, how did you not notice? The light is fading into deep blue-black, but the cold of the abyss doesn't bother you, because you've already drowned. Your skin is gray with death. You already belong to him. There's no going back now.

    "Prince of Sharks," you name him. "Can't stop swimming or you die."

    "Breathe," he commands softly, eyes half-lidded, and his hand slides down. You buck into it with a

    muffled cry.

    "Breathe," he whispers again. "Just a nice dream. It's not real."

    Muddled with sleep, you catch him, pull him closer. Dry clothes; why? A moment ago he was swimming naked. You push your hands through his hair and draw him into a kiss, careful of the gills you still half believe he has. His breath breaks against your mouth like desperation, even though he's the one with a busy hand down your briefs and not the other way around. Not really fair.

    "Undress," you command muzzily. You try to help him while he obeys. Your hands get in the way, but you can't stop touching him. You'll be swept out to sea.

    He takes your underwear off, and while he's sliding it down your legs you finally wake up enough to realize what's happening. He's in your bed uninvited; he's taking what you told him not to ask for. You realize you have to stop this. You realize you're not going to.

    If you're not going to stop it, then there's no reason to hold back.

    You push him down, pin him, kiss him as he wriggles to get free. Wriggles like a fish. He keeps trying to get a hand on your erection. "Let me --" he whines.

    "Ssh. Slow down." You suck his earlobe, kiss his neck. He tilts his head back, offering you more of it. You lick the hollow, feel his adam's-apple move under your tongue as he swallows.

    His skin is burning hot. His sweat tastes like seawater. You want to kiss everything, gather all of him in your hands. Tenderly. So gently. The fragile arch of his collarbones. The petal skin inside his elbow. The tips of his long, fine fingers. His nipples are sensitive; sucking one makes him gasp, tugging it delicately with your teeth gets him to take handfuls of your hair and twist. You move down; sternum, ribs, the fluttering hollow of his stomach. His nails scratch at your shoulders, but you won't be hurried.

    He wants it fast and rough. Too bad. He'll be cherished and like it.

    When you reach his cock, you barely touch it at first, pleased by the way a light stroke makes him squirm. You brush your thumb up the underside, over the head, back down, sliding on precome. You lick the crease of his thigh. Inhale greedily, loving the smell of him. Clean but not too clean; more man than soap.

    You tighten your hand and suck hard at his inner thigh. He clutches at the sheets, groaning.

    "Please," he whimpers. "Please, please."

    You reward him by dragging the flat of your tongue across the head of his cock, then wrapping your lips around it, moving down little by little, licking thoroughly at each increment. By halfway, he's begging continuously. Another inch and he's speechless again, panting just to breathe. You wrap your hands around his bucking hips and press him still; he cries out, overwhelmed.

    You relax your throat and take him all the way for a moment. And again. And again.

    He screams as he comes. It's only when his hands finally uncurl that you realize how hard he was pulling your hair.

    Kiss by kiss, you move back up his limp body. His eyes glitter at you, languid, dreamy. You're so hard it hurts, but you want to savor this. You know you'll regret it later, so for now you're going to draw out every drop of sweetness. Cradle his face in your hands, twine his hair around your fingers. Try not to thrust against his thigh.

    He reaches for your cock again, and this time you don't try to stop him. His hand is soft, clumsy, but gaining dexterity by the moment as he recovers. You try to hide your face against the side of his head, thinking he won't want to kiss you when you taste like semen, but he catches you and does. Hungrily. Licking into your mouth, pressing close, grip tightening. You crush him against you as you spill over his fingers.

    Eventually he whispers a laugh. "Let me breathe," he protests.

    You loosen your arms, but only a little. He's going to run away. You just know it.

    He strokes your hair with his clean hand, finger-combing it, gathering the sweaty mass of it off your neck and spreading it across your pillow.

    "Sleep here," you command.

    "All right. But. Tissues."

    You let go so he can clean up. Once he's done, you pull him back in. He resumes playing with your hair.

    "It's okay," he promises. "Go back to sleep."

    "We'll talk in the morning."

    "All right."

    "You were right. I'm in love with you."

    "Ssh, I know. It's okay." He runs his fingers through the full length of your hair, moves his hand to work on a different tangle. "It's okay."

    You know it's not. But you're too tired to fight. You let yourself drift away.

* * *

    You wake up alone. You think you knew you would. Still, as you unwind the blanket from your legs and pull your pants on, you let yourself hope. Maybe he went back to the couch. Maybe he's in the bathroom, maybe he's in the kitchen making breakfast.

    When those places are empty, you try to hope he's in the garage. Even if he's messing up your work. But his duffle is gone from the floor beside the couch. The blanket he's been using is folded neatly. The phone you gave him is sitting on top of it.

    You pick the phone up, sit and cradle it in your hands. You feel as if you ought to cry over it. Dissolve in self-pity. That's what people do, you think, when something like this happens.

    But it's not what you do, is it? The harder the problem, the less you can let it go.

    It's not as if he vanished off the face of the earth, or even left the city. He's out there somewhere, being Eridan. Being a scrambling, gangly mess of a love-hungry little boy pretending to be a prickly loner. He knows what he did was wrong. Consent issues aside, and ignoring for the moment that there really should've been a condom involved, he used your sincere emotion to take what he wanted. And he probably thinks what he wanted was to get laid. Or to pay you back, close the books, cut ties.

    You don't think that's what he really wanted, though. This feels like midgame, not checkmate. If he hadn't left the phone, you'd be sure of it.

    Holding your breath, you turn the phone on. After a moment, you crack a smile.

    He didn't erase his call history.

    That goofball. And to think you almost joined him in drama-world for a moment there. He's smarter than he thinks he is, after all. Smart enough to outwit himself.

Chapter Text

    When he sees you sitting on the trunk of his friend's car in the studio parking lot, he nearly trips over his own feet. He catches himself, stops, stares. Looks between you and the guy he expected to pick him up, unable to settle on an emotion.

    "You forgot your phone," you greet him, holding it out. "So I redialed your last call. Rick and I were just getting acquainted."

    Your new acquaintance, a cheerful but vacant young man with an unfortunate goatee, somehow manages to widen his everpresent grin. "You didn't tell me you know a robot guy, Dan! So fucking rad. Did you know he worked on 'Metal Zone'? How cool is that?"

    Eridan jerks into motion again, suddenly on in a way you've never seen and don't recognize. "I know, right?" he laughs, grabbing the phone and dropping it in his messenger bag as if it never had any deeper meaning. "You didn't have to come out, Zack, I coulda asked Rick to swing me by your place later. Since you're here, though, you have to let me buy you lunch."

    You suppose you might as well roll with it. Whatever makes him comfortable, at least for now. "So I take it the job worked out today. You got paid already?"

    "Hell no, I probably won't get a check for three months or something. I borrowed some cash from Rick."

    "So you're going to buy him lunch with his own money." You raise an eyebrow.

    "Nah, just you. Rick can buy his own lunch."

    Rick laughs. "Shit, it's all good. What goes around comes around, you just pay it forward, okay?" He hops off the trunk, pointing at you. "So you got him covered ride-wise, right? Cuz I need to buzz. I got shit to do."

    "Not a problem," you smile, and beckon Eridan toward your car.

    He relaxes his fun-guy act as he falls into the passenger seat, but there's still a kind of energy there. "Well. This is gonna be awkward, huh?"

    "It doesn't have to be. Lunch preference? Italian? Thai? I'm buying, incidentally, because don't be a moron. You used up your moron quota calling your pot dealer rather than asking me for a ride."

    "Stop trying to rescue me. Rick's not the guy. He's just a friend."

    "Yes, that's obvious. He doesn't have an aggressive cell in his body. If he were faced with the choice of 'kill or be killed', he would die with a baffled look on his face, his last words a gently reproachful 'Dude, not cool.'"

    Laughing softly, Eridan thumps his head back against the headrest. "Okay, you win. Fuck it. American. I want the biggest bacon cheeseburger ever made. I want three thousand calories and a pickle spear the size of a baby's arm."

    "I thought you only ate fish."

    "I'm making a fucking exception. You know what I had for breakfast? A fruit roll-up that had been in Rick's glove box for, at a rough estimate, two and a half years."

    "I'm surprised any munchies escaped his eagle eye. He offered to 'smoke me up' three times in the one hour I spent in his presence. I got the impression he wasn't trying to pressure me, he just forgot he'd already asked."

    "Yeah, that sounds like him. But he's harmless, okay? I don't have to justify my friends to you."

    "Of course you don't. I just don't think he should be operating heavy machinery."

    Eridan shakes his head, grinning. "I can't believe I said 'at a rough estimate'. I'm starting to talk like you."

    "So tell me about this job."

    He tells you about it all through lunch. Stiltedly at first, and then freely, complaining about everything from the script -- which of course he didn't actually see -- to the pay -- which he won't get for far too long. He talks with his mouth full, gestures with his french fries, lifts up his burger and eats escaping onions out of the back of it. You do nothing to bring him down. It's nice to see him happy, even if he's using it to dodge an important conversation.

    On the drive out here, you figured something out. At first you told yourself he didn't mean to hurt you. But you've realized that, on some level, he did. Because if he can hurt you, that means you care. He probably tests everyone this way. By tracking him down, you've passed his test. You're probably going to have to keep proving yourself for a long time before he'll let himself believe in you.

    It isn't healthy. You know that. This isn't the kind of relationship a rational, self-respecting adult should enter into. It's probably verging on codependent. His need for validation, your need to be needed. His need to be chased, your need to -- to what, prove you know what he wants better than he does?

    Oh well. It's not really a major life goal of yours to be well-adjusted. You were never much of a consumer of self-help books anyway.

    "Are you staying at Rick's tonight, or coming back to my place?" you ask when he finally winds down.

    "Um." He tries to cover his hesitation with a gulp of soda, but after it he still has nothing to say.

    "I told you you don't have to be in a hurry to leave."

    He crumples his napkin in his hands, giving it a grim smile. Begins picking it into strips. "So I guess we're not gonna talk about it."

    "Do you want to?" You wait, but don't get an answer. "I think the lesson we've learned from this Very Special Episode is that jumping a guy while he's sleeping leads to unsafe sex."

    "Uh." An uncomfortable laugh. "Yeah. You should probably get tested. I mean, I'm clean, but I could be lying."

    "I can think of a few reasons you might have had for doing what you did. Maybe you thought you were doing me a favor. I think maybe you were just lonely. We don't have to analyze it if you don't want to."

    "Thank fuck."

    "I guess where we stand now is, let's either be dating, and see where it goes, or you promise you'll never do that again."

    He lifts his head to wince at you. "It's not that simple. You have stronger feelings than -- I mean, I wish I could return the -- but I can't, it's just -- I'm messed up like that. You deserve... yeah."

    "Eridan," you say patiently, "I'm a scientist, not a schoolboy. My world isn't going to crumble because you don't love me back. You need space and autonomy. I get it."

    That gets another wince, and the napkin suffers further torment. "For a scientist, you're not being very logical."

    "How so?"

    "You could run the whole universe through a supercollider and never detect one particle of love."

    You plunk your elbows on the table and your chin on your hands, not sure why you're suddenly beaming like it's your birthday. Maybe just because he's not denying your feelings, even though he doesn't share them. "That depends on the power of the collider, doesn't it? Love is a boson, not a fermion."

    He blinks, pale cheeks starting to redden. "What."

    "It's an energy field. Just like gravity. You can't run away from gravity. Not even by pretending not to believe in it."

    Confusion; concern; blush deepening. "Are you saying if I don't come home with you you'll stalk me?"

    "What? No! Did it sound like that? It did, didn't it. That'll teach me to let my metaphors run away with me. What I mean is, I'll still care about you even if we drive each other crazy. We can settle into being friends, and never bring up my romantic feelings again, and eventually they'll fade. But I'll still care. Or you can run -- if you genuinely don't want to see me, I'll leave you be. But I'll still care. I'll still think about you sometimes and hope you're okay. Or, and this is what I'm hoping for, we can try out being boyfriends, and I can show you. Talk is cheap. I know talk is cheap. But I can back it up."

    "Jesus." He looks spooked.

    "What I'm saying is you can't make me not like you. Even if you try. And I know sometimes you'll try."

    "Why the fuck would I do that?" He means it as a challenge, but it sounds more like a plea.

    "The same reason you think you have to be an actor, I guess. If someone wants to point a camera at you, that proves they appreciate you? If I come find you after you seduce me and vanish, that proves I really like you."

    "You think you've got me all figured out, don't you."

    "Not even close. But I'm enjoying the puzzle. Anyway... just think about it, okay?" You pick up the frilly toothpick from your sandwich, twirl it consideringly in your fingers, and then, with a sudden grin, throw it at him so it sticks in his hair. "Stop being a dick. Come home and help me debug the lidar."

    "Ew, there's mayonnaise on this!" he bursts, frantically pawing it out. He throws it back.

    He comes home with you.

    He is absolutely no use for debugging the lidar.

Chapter Text

    There's an elephant in the room, but that's okay for now. He's not equipped for elephant-wrestling at present. You're not going to make him tackle it.

    He works more often than you expected him to. He's a hard worker when he wants to be. It tips his sleep schedule back, so you no longer find him writing in the kitchen when you come in late at night; you have to tell delivery drivers to bring the food to the garage door so they don't wake him up with the doorbell. Sometimes you're still awake when he leaves before dawn for an early call. More often you only see each other briefly when he gets back.

    Oddly, this seems to make him less skittish. Maybe you were just crowding each other before. He definitely likes having his own money; movie work might take forever to pay, but commercials and modeling are more prompt, and he does a surprising amount of those. He shows you some of them. You barely recognize him. He's a chameleon. He'll be a clean-cut businessman in one, picking out insurance, and in the next a 'teenager' in an anti-smoking ad.

    His hair streak is a different color every day, it seems. Most jobs want him to dye it to match the rest of his hair, but he uses temporary dye, and after that washes out he's experimenting with it again. Kool-aid, markers, henna. It takes you about a month of this to realize the streak is natural, not bleached. When you tentatively ask about it, he laughs at your caution. It's just a patch of vitiligo, he explains. A sort of reverse birthmark. He was sensitive about it as a kid, but now he's grateful for it. It makes him memorable.

    Every so often, he sleeps somewhere else. Sometimes he remembers to call and warn you he won't be home. Sometimes he doesn't. But he always leaves something behind, as if to reassure you he's coming back. A jacket draped over a kitchen chair. A hair gel bottle in the bathroom.

    It's hard not to be jealous of whoever he's with when he stays out. It's hard not to ask. But he doesn't come back beaten or hickeyed, so you leave it up to him whether to explain. He never does.

    Sometimes you half-wake and think he's in your bed again. You always welcome him, cursing yourself for a sucker. But every time, when you wake the rest of the way, you realize it was a dream. You wish your subconscious would just get over what happened and stop harrassing you with replays. And also it would be nice if you'd stop dreaming of him as a fish-man with a mouthful of knives, because you've never been afraid of the water and you'd really rather not start.

    Two months after he showed up on your doorstep like a refugee, he gets home and comes directly into the garage without stopping in the house to clean up. He's drooping, sweaty, and rumpled from another long day of hurry-up-and-wait, compounded by busses and the walk from the bus stop. But there's satisfaction in his eyes.

    He marches up to you, ignoring Norma's annoyance at being interrupted, and presses a fold of damp, limp bills into your hand. "Rent," he says. "Okay?"

    You open the fold with your thumb. Two hundred bucks. Nowhere near what you could get for a sublet; far more than you want to take from him; apparently precisely what it takes to soothe his pride. "Okay," you say simply, and tuck the bills in your wallet.

    He nods serenely and goes inside.

    Norma chuckles. "So what's the going rate for your couch, Zack?"

    "Doesn't matter. It's symbolic."

    "Symbolic rent?"

    "I think it means he'll let himself be friends with me."

    She's giving you a very strange look. "What were you before?"

    "Circling warily, I suppose." You finally recollect yourself, and give her a disapproving look for taking advantage of your distraction. "You know how I feel about gossip. If you're curious about him, get to know him yourself."

    "Protective much?" she smirks. "Fine, I'll stop prying. But I think you should invite him out with us for the site test."

    "Really?" You turn to look at the equipment you've been in the process of packing away, as if it will explain what it has to do with Eridan.

    "Sure. Sun, surf, radar mapping, what's not to love? He looks like he could use a day on the water. Or six or seven."

    "I think he'd enjoy that. But is it truly all right with you?"

    Norma sighs. "I don't know how I gave the impression I don't like him. Yes, go ask him right now. And find out if he feels like getting dive certified on Cal Sci's dime; we could use another guy in the water."

    "Oh, now I see how it is," you chuckle.

    "Altruism is overrated. Go on." She makes push-hands at you.

    You find him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth like the toothbrush weighs a ton, eyes half closed. You explain about the site test, how you'll be taking the swarmbot into different ocean environments and seeing how it performs, which means spending an unknown number of days out on a boat pretty much playing in the water. And how if he'd like to help, the project can pay for his scuba training, it won't be anything dangerous, just putting the bots in the water and taking them out, photographing them, maybe unhooking them if their tethers get snagged --

    "Zahhak," he stops you at last, owl-blinking at you with toothpaste on his chin. "I'm a certified scientific diver. I had to do a hundred-hour course in college."

    That's a surprise on so many levels, you don't even know how to respond.

    "Yes," he says patiently, "I went to college. Marine biology, UCLA. Didn't graduate. Any questions?"

    "Why didn't you graduate?"

    "Wrong question."

    "Do you have documentation? Because if you're qualified, I bet I can arrange it so you get paid for your time."

    "Yeah. Yeah, I do. So that would be... pretty cool. Actually."

    You beam at him. Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and ruffle his hair. He grimaces and flicks toothpaste at you, then shoves you out of the bathroom and shuts the door.

    You stop in the kitchen and wash the coffee pot just to give your face time to calm down. If Norma sees you like this, she'll definitely comment. Your mind's eye keeps replaying Eridan pushing you out the door. His half-smiling irritation, sleepy and comfortable. Just for that moment, he trusted you.

    I've got it bad, you think, trying out the idea. I'm sunk. Head over heels. What's with that phrase, anyway? Isn't your head normally over your heels? You laugh a little as you rinse the pot out, more because your stomach feels light and fluttery than because your thoughts amuse you. I want him like that all the time forever. Even though he likes droney mumbling indie bands and says dubstep sounds like I put my ipod through the dishwasher. If I can forgive that I can forgive anything.

    The big problems just don't seem to matter anymore. Maybe you just got tired of thinking about them. So what if he's probably going to wait until you corner him for an answer and then turn you down? You can worry about that when it happens. For now, you're in love. For now, you're grinning at the coffeemaker and everything is beautiful.

Chapter Text

    He looks silly in a wetsuit. Skinny and awkward, all elbows and eyes. It's terribly cute. He catches you smirking at him and snarls something caustic that you don't hear over the boat's engine.

    Once he's in the water, though, the awkwardness disappears. He suddenly moves with perfect assurance and grace. Unimpeded by his mask and tank, he doesn't even bother staying head-up most of the time; he's perfectly at home in a three-dimensional environment, curving and twisting with a lazy flick of a flipper while you thrash and overcorrect and -- in one incident he will probably never stop teasing you about -- get yourself tangled in the base station's tether.

    Unfortunately, you have no time to play. Every test turns up new bugs, adjustments that need to be made, challenges the bots aren't quite equipped to overcome. They spend more time on the deck than in the water, and you spend most of yours tinkering with them. Eridan, however, spends every minute in the ocean that he can. Unless you have a specific task for him on the boat, he doesn't come out until it's time to go back. He uses up his air tanks, then strips off his mask and goes free-diving, staying down for an unnervingly long time before breaking surface for a few unhurried breaths.

    Norma has to remind you several times that you're here to test the machines, not drool over your roommate.

    "He's one hell of a swimmer, I'll give him that," she concedes. "Which means he'll be fine without a lifeguard, so how about you focus on unsticking that rotor now? I'll let you know if he gets eaten by a shark."

    Since you turn the boat back as soon as the sun gets low, you're home by dinnertime, already worn out when, on other days, you'd just be hitting your stride. You sit across the table from each other with takeout and beer, silent, suffused with the kind of weary well-being that can only come from a day working outdoors. Then Eridan gets out his notebook, and you go out to the garage to pick away at whatever problems the day's tests turned up.

    By the fifth day, you have the whole swarm in the water and running at once, four robots zooming along together like a little school of safety-orange, fan-propelled fish. You watch with your heart in your mouth and your fingers crossed, silently begging them to do what they're supposed to do. Eridan films them; that was going to be your job, but he's much steadier with the camera. The bots spread out, moving independently but keeping tabs on each other, and begin mapping the seafloor. Yes!

    They keep it up for nearly an hour before unit two becomes mysteriously bashful and starts avoiding the other bots. You sigh bubbles and go fetch it. The course of true science never did run smooth.

    Eridan helps you hand the bots up to Norma. You climb out, shed your gear, and eel out of your wetsuit. You wave Norma off -- she finds debugging infuriating, not soothing, and she has piles of data to sort through. You plunk down on the deck and pop two's case open so you can plug it into the laptop and find out what the hell it thought it was doing.

    To your surprise, Eridan sinks down across from you. Still suited up, but sans tank and flippers. He studies the bot curiously. "Why did it do that?"

    "That's what I have to figure out." You frown at the screen, gnawing your lip, as the bot dumps its log. That is a lot of text to have to sort through. But of course it wasn't going to be anything obvious like a hardware malfunction, not with weird behavior like that. "This is going to take forever. Damn. Damn it."

    Eridan rears back in exaggerated shock. "Whoa."

    "Sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

    "Yeah, that was not what the 'whoa' was about. Are you okay?"

    "I'm fine." You sigh, shoving your hands impatiently through your dripping hair. Belatedly, you realize Eridan is actually concerned for you. You glance at him, and he looks away. Don't reject this, you caution yourself. "I'm not fine," you admit quietly.

    He meets your eyes again. "Why?" he says just as softly. "Is it like... super broken or something?"

    "No. No, it's not this malfunction, not really. Just..." You glance up to make sure Norma's still in the wheelhouse and can't hear you. "I'm exhausted, Eridan. I've been running short on sleep for months, and it's catching up with me. I've done nothing but work on this stupid swarmbot for so -- so bloody long -- and I think I sort of hate it now."

    "No shit, it took you this long to get sick of it? I've been wondering when you were going to snap."

    The sudden inversion of perpsective gets a startled laugh out of you. "I've been thinking the same thing about you -- all those predawn calls, fourteen hour days, getting yelled at by sleazeballs for less than minimum wage? I've been thinking, any day now you're going to flip the table and walk away."

    "Wouldn't be the first time. But I always go back. What else would I do?" He shrugs as if the question is rhetorical.

    You point at his discarded breathing apparatus meaningfully. He raises an eyebrow. So do you. He begins to look thoughtful. You nod.

    "What, like a salvage diver or something?" He sounds tentative, as if his talent in the water is something you could negate by disagreeing.

    "Even a tour guide makes more money than a movie extra. And you're an exceptional diver, you could do much more than guide tours. You're surprisingly steady with a camera, for instance."

    He thinks about it for a long moment. "Huh," he says at last.

    "When you get back from acting or modeling, you look completely burnt out. When we get back from doing this, you look satisfied. Just something to think about."

    "Weird." The corner of his mouth turns up. "You just want more excuses to laugh at me in a wetsuit."

    "It only looks funny on deck. Underwater you're amazing." You focus on the screen, feeling a little self-conscious now. "I keep dreaming you're a merman. Not like a fairytale merman at all. Legs, not a tail. But... alien. It's decidedly unnerving. You have sharp teeth and claws, and gills like a salamander, and sometimes you drown me."

    It takes several moments of silence from him to make you look up. His expression shocks you. Wounded rage. As if you've betrayed him. "That notebook was private," he snaps, rolls to his feet, and dives off the edge of the boat.

    "What?" you say stupidly to the disturbed water

    When he surfaces, he's out of talking range. Lovely, that makes it so much easier to focus on your job. If looks could kill, unit two would be a smoking heap of melted plastic and scorched wiring.

    Norma's shadow falls across your work. "So what's the deal?"

    "Just a dramatic exit," you snarl as you punish the spacebar. "He uses them in place of reasoned discourse. Because he is twelve."

    "I meant the robot," Norma says with exaggerated patience. "What is the deal with the robot. Why does the robot keep buzzing off. I'm not really interested in why your pet drama queen does it."

    "God, I don't know, Norma, there's two hundred and six pages of core dump here and it'll take me an hour to even skim it. Can we just reboot and try again? See if the error recurs predictably or if we've got a heisenbug on our hands."

    "Fine." She sucks air through her teeth, hands on her hips, scanning the distance as if posing for a Soviet-realist portrait of Science Serving The Proletariat. Or, you realize a moment later as she squats down to help you wrestle the bot, as if checking that the chop's not severe enough to damage the equipment if you keep working. "And if it does recur, we'll reboot again and switch up the formation. See if it has anything to do with position. Because it looked to me like it was misinterpreting the location of the rest of the swarm."

    You sit back on your heels, anger momentarily forgotten. There's a reason she's your postdoc advisor. You still have plenty to learn from her. "Oh! Yes, we can test for that! I'll get suited up."

    Norma goes to the rail, sticks two fingers in her mouth, and whistles piercingly. "Hey! Come give us a hand!"

    Eridan comes obediently back, and works as hard as before, but he throws you nasty looks behind Norma's back. So immature. But at least he's competent in the water even when he's angry, and it's not as if you have time to indulge in emotional maunderings. Norma's hypothesis proves correct: whichever bot is placed at the rear point of the formation eventually starts displaying avoidant behavior.

    At the end of the day, you find yourself almost hoping Eridan decides to stage one of his overnight disappearances. You have so much work to do.

Chapter Text

    In the car, he sulks like a child. The kind of sulk that screams 'notice me!' like a tantrum. It's suddenly apparent how happy you've been to give him whatever attention his damaged psyche requires up to now, because this is the first time you haven't wanted to. You want to tell him, You're twenty-six years old, for crying out loud. Scowling out the window with your arms crossed is something you should've outgrown ten years ago. Are these your only coping mechanisms? Run away or mope? What do you even expect me to do about it?

    What you say instead is, "I'm getting a little tired of takeout. I think I'll cook. How do you feel about Egyptian food? There's this rice and lentil thing with fried onions --"

    "Oh, are we pretending nothing's wrong?" he says acidly without looking at you.

    "My -- a wise man once told me never to start an argument in a car. Fights are always worse in closed spaces."

    "Your what? Your dad?"

    "My parents' butler, actually," you admit, ready for him to sneer at the idea of anyone having a butler in this day and age.

    But the line of his shoulders softens a little, and his voice is a shade less caustic when he says, "Maybe we have more in common than I thought."

    "Your family had a butler too?"

    A bitter grind of laughter, but not at you. "We had a series of underpaid Mexican maids, and my mother was so proud of speaking Spanish to them. I mean, her Spanish wasn't even very good, and all she ever said was condescending impersonal shit, but God did she show off in front of her friends, and they just ate it up. Like she was some kind of fucking ambassador because she could say 'saca la basura' instead of 'take out the trash'. And I think my father slept with every single one of them. The maids, not the friends. Though he probably did some of those too. He even slept with Magdalena, she looked like a fucking sock monkey."

    You let out your breath in a surprised chuckle, which makes you realize you were holding it. He's never talked about his family before. But then, neither have you. "My father insisted that Arthur learn Arabic, even though we only spoke English at home."

    "Artoor," Eridan echoes mockingly. "You had a French butler."

    "And naturally Father didn't learn French. Mother knew a bit, because she went to finishing school and apparently that's what you do there, but she only used it to drop quotes and sound refined."

    "How civilized." The corner of his mouth is pulling, like he's fighting a genuine smile.

    "Well, the upshot is that my French is better than my Arabic, because who wouldn't rather speak a language their parents don't?"

    "I learned Russian in school because nobody knows Russian. Result: I have no fucking use for it."

    "I'd like to hear you speak it, if you still remember."

    "You first. Arabic. Go."

    You quote him a line from the Poem of Imru-ul-Quais, the only one of the Mu'allaqat you can halfway stand. He shudders like you dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt and barks, "Stop!"

    "What?" you demand, a little offended. "You said to."

    "What did you say?"

    "'Come, my friends, as we stand here grieving, don't you see the lightning?' Context doesn't help it much, but I do like that line."

    "What is it?"

    "A poem. From the sixth century, if I recall correctly. I was made to memorize it. Cultural importance, blah blah blah. All those old poems start out blithering about some girl's hair and then go off on a series of random tangents and end in a flood of fatuous advice. I prefer modern poetry. And in English, though the new generation of Arabic poets has merit." You glance away from the road to give him a hurt look. "I really wish you wouldn't look at me as if I put a knife to your throat. Don't tell me you're one of those people who hears Arabic and thinks 'terrorist'."

    "No. What? No. I just. Actually." He wriggles his shoulders, exactly as if that imaginary ice cube were sliding down his spine. "Disturbingly sexy, that's all. Were you trying to do a sexy voice?"

    You return your attention to traffic with a grin. "No. Mostly I was just trying to remember the stupid thing."

    "Forget I said anything. God, I feel like such a tool now."

    "Don't. I'm flattered. Your turn: Russian."

    He throws you a few words, half gargle and half snarl, and you think you may be making the same face he did at your Arabic. Goodness. It is disturbingly exciting. You wonder if there's some interesting neurological mechanism to blame for the phenomenon.

    "If you tell me that was a pleasant greeting," you say, "I will be very surprised."

    "No," he half-smiles. "'You want to be human? Then act human.' Line from 'Night Watch'. There was a time when I thought watching it without subtitles in front of my roommate made me an intellectual. Rather than, for instance, an irritating douche."

    "But the subtitles were so artistic."

    "Oh, come on."

    "You don't think so?"

    "They were a gimmick. Totally over the top."

    "I thought they really added something."

    "Yeah: e-z cheez."

    You bicker mildly about movies the rest of the way home. That doesn't count as arguing in the car. Even if he is one of those film elitists who can never just relax and enjoy the movie.

* * *

    Since he didn't offer any objection to the idea of Egyptian food, you go ahead and start cooking. You're not usually much of a lentil fan, but with fried onions and plenty of cumin they're all right, and when you leave them out the rice just tastes strange. You hope Eridan's never had kushari done the usual way, so he won't know there are supposed to be tomatoes in it. Ugh, tomatoes. So squishy. And if you use tomato sauce instead it just turns into a soupy mess --

    "Okay, so, I'm still mad at you for reading it, but since you did, what did you think?"

    You turn to stare blankly at Eridan. Your spoon drips a blob of garlicky olive oil on the toe of your boot. "Wait, back up," you say slowly.

    He's sitting at the table with his notebook. He picks it up and slaps it down again. There's a flash in his eyes, something as much gleeful as angry; spoiling for a fight. Your stomach starts to roil as you realize he's probably going to get one, no matter how you try to stay calm.

    "I didn't read your notebook," you say carefully.

    "Yes you fucking did, so don't waste my time. I'm over it. Just tell me what you think."

    Slowly, taking pains to be gentle and not slam things around, you set the spoon in the pan and turn off the burner, get a dishrag to clean off your boot. "I did not," you repeat, "read your notebook. Since you began accusing me after I mentioned my dream, I assume something in it --"

    "Your 'dream' was lifted right out of my fucking novel in progress, so how about you just quit trying to play me."

    Your knuckles go white around the rag. Dirty water squeezes out all over your foot and the floor. You straighten so carefully, everything in reserve, you are not going to do this. "I. Did not. Read. Your notebook."

    "Like repeating it is going to make it true."

    "I'm not a liar!" you roar, whipping the wet rag at the sink and missing. In the back of your mind, in the pit of your stomach, you're clawing frantically for the reins, but it's no use, your anger's run away with you and Eridan doesn't know what he just started. You don't even know what you're going to say until it's out, but your voice is rattling the kitchen window. "I do not lie! I never lie! You sit there accusing me of dishonesty, after all the times I've had to -- do you know how hard it is to keep from hurting your feelings without resorting to untruths? Do you know how fast I have to think sometimes to stay honest? And now you --"

    "Well then where the fuck did you get that merman bullshit, huh?" Stalking around the table, head forward on his neck, snarl-grinning -- he's enjoying this. "Don't you come all wounded innocence at me when I caught you with your hand in the goddamn cookie jar."

    "You did no such thing, and your repeated insistence that you did is clearly just a way of taunting me!"

    "Oh, so now I'm the dishonest one, nice."

    "What else could it be? You refuse to entertain the idea that I might be telling the truth, even though I've never lied to you, you just --"

    "That I know of."

    "Eridan, God damn it!" You realize you've raised your hand, and yank it back with a gasp. Grab the edge of the counter to anchor yourself. He's too close. He's asking to get hurt. "What are you doing? You stay over there. I'll stay here and you stay over there."

    "I wouldn't hit you if you didn't make me so angry," he sneers, "is that where we're heading?"

    "Just step back out of my personal space! Fine, you've found a hot button, now stop pushing it!"

    "Or else what? Is it empty threat time now?"

    "I won't stand for being called a liar! You will stop!"

    He's so close now you can feel his breath, and the challenge in his eyes is unbearable. The linoleum facing of the counter makes a small cracking sound in your grip. Eridan pokes a single deliberate finger into the middle of your chest. "Or. Else. What."

    "Or else we can't be friends anymore," you croak.

    The vicious gleam slowly fades from Eridan's eyes. Then his face blurs, so you're not sure what expression it takes on next.

    "Oh." It's barely a breath.

    "I didn't mean to threaten you." Your voice cracks.

    "Oh, Jesus."

    Swallowing salt, you turn to look for your dishcloth. It knocked over some cereal boxes. You need to stop leaving groceries on the counter.

    "Jesus. Zahhak. I um. Equius."

    It's the first time he's ever called you by your given name. You take a deep breath, twisting the dishcloth in your hands. "I'm glad I turned off the onions. They'll be soggy but at. Least they aren't. Burnt." You give a choked laugh.

    Then you catch your breath as Eridan slides his arms around you from behind and rests his forehead against the back of your neck. "I'm an asshole," he whispers. "I'm such an asshole."

Chapter Text

    You don't know what to do. You want to press his hands to your chest, but yours are damp. "It's best to stand back when I'm angry," you say hoarsely. "I won't come toward you. Just don't corner me. It's... something I'm working on."

    "I'm a huge asshole," he gasps. Oh damn. He's crying. Just when you'd pulled yourself back from the verge of it. "I'm going to stop testing you, I swear. I won't do that to you anymore."

    "Don't make promises you can't keep."

    "I'm trying, you --" He bites that off. Rolls his head slightly against your nape. "You deserve so much better than this."

    "So do you. Eridan, can I...?" You begin, tentatively, to turn around. He grabs your shoulders, spins you, pins you against the counter with the weight of his body, burrows his face into your shoulder. You wrap your arms around him and hug him tightly. Your heart is doing its best to crack your ribs and escape. "I know you're trying," you reassure him. "What I meant was, maybe you can't stop just like that, but it's okay. We'll figure things out."

    "You're a truly good man," he says shakily. "And I'm not."

    "I think you are."

    "No. I saw you were losing it and I. Tried to make you hit me. Because... fuck if I know. I don't know why I do this shit, it's so stupid."

    "Maybe... making sure I'm not like the guy who beat you up?"

    "You say that like there was only one," he laughs bleakly. "Sometimes I think I must enjoy getting punched in the teeth. I keep going after big guys with bad tempers, and I pick fights and drive them up the wall until things get ugly. You have to stop thinking of me as some kind of... like... battered blossom."

    "Pushing limits doesn't mean you deserve to get hurt."

    "Snapping under provocation doesn't make you a bully," he retorts, and squeezes you tighter for a moment. "But you didn't. You held it together. And fuck, I'm so sorry for pushing you. Are we... you know... okay now?"

    "Yes. I... think we're probably okay indefinitely."

    He lifts his head, smiling, damp-eyed. "Fuck my stupid notebooks anyway."

    "I didn't --"

    "I believe you. Half that shit came to me in dreams anyway. Maybe we were inspired by the same thing, who knows." He takes a deep breath. Shudders it out. "I'll show it to you. My novel. I want you to read it. Even though it's kind of terrible."

    "Thank you."

    You both fall silent, and the seconds begin to stretch. He's searching your face for something, and you'd give it to him if you knew what it was. You'd give him anything. You're drowning in his eyes. Such a foolish phrase, but it's true, he's an evening sea and you're too far from shore.

    Slowly, uncertainly, he turns his face up to you and pulls you down. You kiss shyly at first, as if you've never touched. The sweetness is excruciating. Little by little, he relaxes into you. You've never felt like this before, as if your arms are full of worlds and stars, as if each parting of lips and brush of tongue and scrape of teeth is a long letter full of secrets. Such passion, but gentle, almost nonsexual. Communication by touch. He's telling you, Come into the country of my heart, but tread lightly, because we're not used to visitors here. And you're answering, I'm not an invader, but an immigrant. I've come to stay.

    Eventually he settles his head against your shoulder again. Some time after that, he says, "Just tell me you don't need to meet my parents." You can hear his smile, and your soul soars.

    "It's up to you."

    "They're appalling. The experience would benefit no one. Um. Do I have to meet yours?"

    "As you are not a nice Muslim girl from a good Egyptian family, I think it's best I continue to dodge their phone calls." You smile against his hair, cradling the back of his head with your hand, aching with happiness. "I would like you to meet Arthur someday, though. He's an extremely sensible man, and quite funny in his dry way."

    "Yeah. That I could do. So... is dinner ruined? Maybe we should just order a pizza."

    "No, I can save it. If you can stand the onions being imperfectly caramelized, because the lentils have got ahead of them now."

    "Oh, horrors," he chuckles. "Imperfectly caramelized onions. They're going to throw you out of the sleep-deprived home-cooking league." He reluctantly disengages from you, pausing to brush a wing of your hair back behind your ear before stepping away completely. "You're not going out to the garage tonight. You're at the end of your rope. We're going to eat in front of the TV, and you're going to bed early."

    "But the positioning bug --"

    "That's an order, you workaholic idiot."

    "Oh. Well then." You smile your surrender, warmed to the core by his concern. You'd forgotten what it was like to have someone look out for you. "Yes sir."

    "Feel free to salute," he says, grins brilliantly, and heads for the living room with what you're almost sure is a bounce in his step.

* * *

    After you've set aside your empty bowls, he tugs you down to rest your head on his thigh and begins finger-combing your hair. You close your eyes. The drone of the television washes over you. Your body feels so heavy, you don't think you could get up if you had to. But it's all right. He's got you.

    "When you first came here," you mumble, "I wanted to make you feel safe. I didn't think you'd turn the tables."

    "I never needed a hero, you dork," he chuckles. Then, softly serious, "Apparently what I needed was a friend. So... you know. Thanks."

    As you try to think of how to reply, you get lost in the gentle scrape of his nails across your scalp, and sleep overtakes you.

    When he wakes you, you're disoriented, groggy. The television is silent; you can't guess how long it's been. You weave like a drunk as he steers you toward the bedroom. He pulls back the covers, pushes you down, kneels to take your boots off.

    "Will you..." Your voice is raspy. You swallow. "Stay here? Just to sleep?"

    He looks up at you from under thick black lashes. You feel a sudden urge to kiss his eyelids and feel those lashes brush your lips. "It's not too soon?" he says. "I don't know how you serious-relationship types do it. Except for 'not on the first date', but where does rooming together fall on that scale, and..."

    "I know, and we've already... but it wasn't..."

    "Yeah."

    "Real life is messy."

    A crooked smile. "Yeah."

    "I just want to hold you while I sleep."

    The smile catches the other side of his mouth too. "I'll go brush my teeth. Don't fall asleep with your pants on."

    "I should brush my teeth too." You pick at the button of your shorts.

    "You can't even keep your eyes open. Your onion breath won't kill me. Fine, I'll sleep with onion breath too. Jeez, you're like a dopey little kid."

    His fingers are cold on your stomach as he undoes your fly, quick and businesslike. He undresses you, shoves your lolling legs under the blanket. Climbs in on the other side. Leans across you, and the light on your eyelids vanishes.

    You gather him in clumsily, arms like lead. He nuzzles in under your chin. He's not really that much shorter than you, and you think scootching down like that must make his feet hang off the bed. Maybe sometimes you should be the one to scootch down. It would be nice to listen to his heartbeat. There'll be other times. And you think maybe knowing that makes him as happy as it makes you.

    Arms full of worlds and stars, you sleep.

Chapter Text

    The soft sound of his voice threads into your dreams and draws you gradually out of them.

    "Oh, okay. Makes sense. Yeah, I'll tell him. Uh... actually? No, the thing is, actually, could you not?"

    You open your eyes a cautious crack, wary of the sun, but instead the room is filled with gray cloudlight. All you can see out the window is fog. Eridan is propped up on one elbow, talking on his phone. No, wait... your phone.

    "Look, I'll run it past him when he wakes up, I know it's not my call. Just. God. He needs a day off, okay? And he'll never take one on his own. No -- I -- I know -- Dr. Cook, I know you're not the one pushing him that hard but you let him push himself and Jesus Christ someone needs to pull the brake before he dies of karoshi like a Japanese banker. Yes it is. All those nights you didn't come over? Guess where he was. Yeah. Every night. Until like -- I don't now -- yeah, two, three in the morning or something. I mean I know you have kids, but still. Well, no, of course he wouldn't."

    He glances down at you as you work the sleep out of your mouth. Please don't browbeat my adviser, you try to ask. It comes out, "Pvv. Mm. Erdn."

    "Shush, you go back to sleep. I'm busy white-knighting you obnoxiously to your boss and generally being a meddling dick." He doesn't cover the phone while he says it, not that that ever keeps the person on the other end from hearing. He puts it back to his ear. "Yeah. Yeah, pretty much. Yes, even if I have to sit on him." He laughs. "Fine. See you tomorrow." He hangs up.

    "Erdn, wuh."

    "It's too foggy to go out right now, and it's going to clear up later in the morning but they're saying high winds and maybe thunderstorms this afternoon. She said it's not worth going out just for a couple of hours."

    "But. Arguing."

    "She said she'd come over to work in the garage. I said not to."

    You blink up at him, trying to figure out what you think of that. "Oh."

    Setting the phone aside, he burrows back down beside you and worms an arm under your neck. Runs the side of his thumb along your jaw, rasping stubble. He has horrible morning breath, your mouth tastes like you've been eating shoes, you feel greasy and soggy from being so warm while you slept. And it's the most perfect thing you've ever woken up to.

    "I love you," you explain.

    "I know," he smiles. Smooths your eyebrow with a fingertip. "I'm glad. Is that okay for now? That I'm glad?"

    "Yes." It really is. The way he holds himself back is part of what makes you ache for him the way you do, and you're looking forward to the slow dawning of his trust. This is only its first light, and it's so beautiful. You move toward a kiss, but he presses two fingers to your lips.

    "I should brush my teeth."

    "We've both been chewing on the same landfill. I don't mind if you don't."

    He laughs softly and moves his fingers, meets you slow and sloppy, fingers tangling in your snarled hair.

    You roll lazily together for a long time before you bother getting rid of your underwear. You're learning each other with your hands, not trying to escalate. Even when you're both sweat-drenched and breathless, seeing stars every time he grinds down on you, there's no hurry.

    Then he gathers your wrists and pushes them into the pillow, and you both go still. Anticipation tightens your chest. "You ever bottom?" he whispers.

    You don't know if he means it in the dom-sub sense or the position sense, but it hardly matters; the thought of handing over the reins to him in any way makes sparks race over your skin. "Please," you gasp.

    "Condoms."

    "In the --" You glance at the bedside dresser.

    "Lie still."

    You take fistfuls of the pillow to help you keep your hands there while he prepares you. You're nervous, but he doesn't tell you to relax. He just waits patiently until you do, every time you tense up, his eyes locked on yours, hypnotizing you.

    You haven't done this often. Never without prior plans, careful washing, supplies set out, all the guarantees the websites reccommend. Never without a capital-R Relationship, a verbalized commitment and a clear label, careful cross-checking of compatibilities -- none of which ever made you certain the way you are with him. You haven't even said 'boyfriends' but oh God you're his now and you both know it.

    He pushes into you too fast, deliberately too fast and it's perfect, the lifting of his lip and the flash of his eyes, almost his fight-face from last night but hungry for your pleasure instead of your rage. Devouring your wincing moan and the way your fists clench. He puts your legs over his shoulders, bites you just above the knee, leans into you so your back curves. You're breathing in sharp gasps. You're so hard your heartbeat aches in your cock, the intensity of his expression is killing you, if he moves you'll fall apart.

    "God, look at you," he growls. "You're delicious, fuck." He withdraws just a little and grinds back in, making you gasp. "You have no idea how bad I've wanted you --" He pulls halfway out, pauses cruelly to watch you hyperventilate, slams back in and you howl.

    He pounds you like heavy surf, relentless, with all the unexpected strength in his wiry body, and you lose yourself in it. Give yourself up to it. You hardly know whether you're clutching him or pinned by the wrists, kissing him or crying his name, rolling with his thrusts in perfect time or shaking and clumsy. Time has folded back on itself, and forever can fit inside an hour.

    Then he's stroking you over the edge, muffling his whimpers against the underside of your jaw, while you sob yesses to the supernova behind your eyes. You burn from the inside, fly apart, and there's nothing left of you but light.

    Eventually, he moves to clean up, but then he settles back in beside you. He chuckles when his fingers catch in your hair. "We made a dreadlock back here."

    "Oh dear."

    He laughs more. "Oh goodness," he mocks fondly. "Oh my stars and garters."

    "Oh, fucking shitballs," you grin, and he laughs until he snorts.

    "Stop being so stupidly perfect in every way," he says. "I wish your shower was bigger. Do we take turns or play twister?"

    "I think we'll both fit."

    "And then breakfast. I'll cook. I'm no chef, but I can scramble eggs."

    "Mm."

    "And then... I dunno, what do you wanna do? Don't say robots."

    "But."

    "No."

    "But it's what I like to do."

    "Day off!"

    "I miss taking my time. Today I'm not under pressure --"

    "Bad Equius. No working."

    "And I was hoping, if you don't mind..."

    He opens his mouth to tell you no again, but hesitates.

    "Maybe you'd sit with me and read me your story."

    His eyes narrow thoughtfully. Then they soften. "This thing where you can make me do basically anything by making big shiny eyes at me? Don't overuse it."

    "Oh my. I'm suddenly mad with power. Say, Eridan?"

    "No, stop that." He tries to cover your eyes, so you grab his hand and nibble on it. He groans dramatically. "God, you're evil. No, turn off the eye-lasers, I'll do whatever you want."

    "I want pancakes with jam."

    "You fiend." He takes his hand away and leans in for a laughing kiss. "Fine. I'm resigned to my fate. My life is garage readings and eye-lasers forever. I am karma's bitch."

    "Hush, you love it."

    He bumps your foreheads together, closes his eyes, and smiles. "God help me, yes, I do."

Chapter Text

Epilogue

    "Eridan Ampora. Does that name sound familiar to you?"

    You try to let the words skate by without catching your ear, but it's too late, you're distracted. You spin your chair to give John a full-on arms-crossed death-glare.

    Your name is Dave Strider, and your boyfriend has a frosted donut with sprinkles instead of a brain. A pink one. You have the pictures to prove it, and no, the x-ray of his skull is absolutely not a photoshop job. It is totes legit.

    He's sprawled sideways on a chair in his swim shorts, swinging one foot idly, flexing his toes to make his flip-flop go 'pap' against the sole of his foot. The light streaming in through the open French doors behind him picks out the ends of his hair and the frame of his glasses in afternoon gold.

    Every so often it just hits you, as if this is all a surprise, that you are seriously for real living in an oceanfront condo with your screenwriter boyfriend, and all you have to do with your time is make music. Jesus, this doesn't happen to actual people. Fortunately he's a giant dorkface, or you'd be convinced you shoplifted someone else's life.

    "Just because I don't have headphones on," you begin.

    He blithely ignores you, as per standard derp procedure. Procederp. "This isn't even a proper screenplay, it's half prose and half I don't even know what it is, but dude, it's intense. And I swear I've heard that name."

    "John, just because --"

    "You should read this. I want a second opinion. Wait, I'm the second opinion. Actually, I think Sal got it from Anthea, and who knows where she finds these things, so it's like --"

    "John!" You throw a desk toy at him.

    "Ow!" he says indignantly, even though it was just some silicone jellyfish squeezy-thing. "What?"

    "Just because I'm not wearing headphones doesn't mean I'm not working. You see these bars and blips? When I am clicking on the bars and making blips, I am working."

    He just grins at you. "Jeez, musicians are so easygoing. You'll never get anywhere if you just keep slacking off like that."

    "I was hearing it in my head and now it's gone. Seriously, this is my actual mad face, okay?"

    "Oh." His grin turns sympathetic. It isn't remorse, but it'll do. "Sorry, Dave. Since you're taking a break, though --"

    You fake a grab at another of your weird desk toys. He throws your jellyfish back. You catch it and give it a good stress-relieving squish. You sigh. "Fine. Yes, the name sounds kind of familiar, but I can't place it. Did you google it?"

    "Yeah, he's a smalltime actor. Model, of course, they all are."

    "Hot?"

    "Yep."

    "Jealous now."

    "Lies. Anyway, I called his agency and they said he gave up acting to be a scuba instructor."

    "Isn't it usually the other way around?"

    "I know, right? Man, I can't get my head around this thing, but I can't leave it alone." John flips through the clipped-together printout to refresh his memory. You glimpse scribbles all over the pages -- red pen, green pen, but not much of the blue sharpie he uses for these things -- and wonder what it takes to make three busy and respected screenwriters put in that much critique time. "It starts out like an effects fantasy. Innovative, some nice imagery, but no studio's gonna touch it without some kind of tie-in or a pre-existing fanbase. But then it gets real, like... I can't even articulate what's going on here."

    "Real like what, like action real? Like current-events real?"

    "No, dude, it's -- huh. It's brutal but it's kind of sweet too? Okay, so, there's this race that lives underwater, and they're always at war with the related race that lives on land, which is always dumping shit in the water and whatever. So far, so Captain Planet. Except that the sea people have this seriously unpleasant Czarist Russia thing going on, so you kind of sympathize with the land people, but that's all background to the actual story, which is about this sea people kid trying to be what his society wants him to be and fucking it up six ways to Sunday."

    "You can't sell a movie with no humans in it."

    "Unless it's Pixar," he points out.

    "You can't sell a movie with no Americans in it, for fuck's sake. I don't care if it's a masterpiece, you can't float it."

    "I think the land people could be human and it would work."

    "But it's about the sea kid. Is there even a plot?"

    "No, it's artsy-fartsy death-of-innocence stuff, but plot's easy. I could do something with -- there's this centaur that shows up out of nowhere about three-quarters of the way in and suddenly it's a power-of-friendship thing --"

    "This is sounding more and more like a complete mess."

    "Oh, and did I mention the thinly veiled homoeroticism? Very thinly veiled. I'm pretty sure he wrote the centaur's introduction one-handed."

    "John, why are we spending time on this MST3K job?"

    "Because." He grips the script with both hands, looking bewildered by his own reaction. "All the cheese and amateurism is just like... a sloppy paintover on top of something amazing. It's like some kid acting out LOTR with happy-meal toys. And if I can pull the real story out of the candy-colored goop, it will hit the box office like a fucking nuke."

    You raise your eyebrows. He waits. You think about it. You can't even see a way to tease an elevator pitch out of that; it sounds like a career-killer, frankly. But John knows what he's doing. He already has two movies and fifty-some television episodes under his belt at twenty-seven. He's not saying this stuff just to be nice.

    "Do it," you say at last. "If someone sent me a trainwreck of a track with a killer hook, hell yes I'd remix it."

    His grin outshines the sun. There's a reason you put up with him interrupting your blip-wrangling. "This is going to be so much fun."

- end -