Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Huey and Monica arrive at the library together the next morning. Even better: they arrive hand-in-hand, and Elmer’s never seen them look so relaxed. They’re not quite smiling, but Elmer thinks they’re happy.

Until they see him waiting for them. Then, Monica glares and Huey averts his eyes. They’re both blushing.

Elmer only grins. He might be the tiniest bit smug. “Did you know,” he says, looking from one to the other, “that while you were away, Renee-roo wrote ‘gullible’ on the ceiling?”

In perfect unison, they punch him in the arm, and then all together they head into class.

Chapter Text

There were two beds in the hotel room. But apparently the fact that it was Monica’s birthday made Huey somewhat more affectionate than usual, and they all three wound up in one bed snuggled together and in no hurry to change that. Elmer was the first to drift off, and he had noticed without paying it much mind when Huey withdrew his arm a little while ago. But now the bed kept giving little shakes, and there were noises coming from next to him. Very distinctive noises. Elmer glanced over just long enough to clarify that yep, that was Huey’s head between Monica’s legs alright before looking back up at the ceiling and clearing his throat.

“Uh, guys? Some people are trying to sleep here.”

Someone caught her breath and there was quiet for a moment; then Huey’s voice said, “Shut up, Elmer, at least we’re smiling.”

Elmer could tell from Huey’s voice that not only was he smiling, he was actually making a joke. So he grinned and joked back, “Is that an invitation to watch?”

Monica reached out to slap at him, but Huey must’ve done something special at that exact moment because instead of slapping she clutched Elmer’s shirt and let out a muffed shriek.

They didn’t seem inclined to stop anytime soon.

Elmer removed Monica’s hand from his chest and sat up, magnanimously keeping his gaze directed elsewhere all the while. “I think I’ll go see if the concierge is bored,” he said, smirking.

“Mmhmm, you do that,” Huey answered, with the air of a man who was being talked at while in the middle of something much more important.

Elmer got out of bed, pulled his jacket back on, and resisted the urge to say You two have fun now. (They didn’t seem like they needed telling.) Then he grabbed his key and headed out of the hotel room.

As the elevator pinged its way up to their floor, he found himself snickering.

“I love those two,” he said to no one in particular, and headed down to entertain the overnight staff.

Chapter Text

Aboard the Advenna Avis, Huey discovers a few things about his best friend’s sleeping habits:

First, that Elmer falls asleep quickly and soundly. Huey envies him for this.

Second, that he snores, almost comically loud. Centuries later, Huey will pass a television in an electronics store that’s playing some cartoon or other, and the exaggerated honk-shewww of the sleeping animal on the screen will give him a unexpected pang of nostalgia. But of course his friend would snore like a joke, lifetimes before such a joke is even made. Of course he would.

The third discovery is that Elmer has nightmares.

They must be nightmares, with the way his breath quickens, the way his body contracts and trembles. They must be nightmares, even though the corners of his mouth are still pulled back, even though his teeth are still bared in that unshaken, unshakable grin. Huey wants it to look more like a grimace on nights like those. It doesn’t. It’s exactly the same grin as ever.

One night Elmer starts awake and notices Huey before he manages to turn away.

“What are you doing up?” he asks, a laugh hiding just behind his words, but genuine curiosity lurking just behind that.

For a moment, Huey isn’t smiling. He looks at his friend, knowing more than he wants to, and wanting to know more still. But then he raises one eyebrow and feels his meaningless smile slot back into place, and he says, “You snore.”

Elmer laughs, and apologizes, and soon falls back asleep. Huey allows the moment to pass like a mediocre joke. Like something trivial, and easily forgotten.

Chapter Text

Elmer was showing one of Phil how to hang a garland when she inhaled sharply.

“Hm? Phil?”

She hunched over. “In the village…”

The smile slipped from Elmer’s face. “Is someone hurting you?”

“Y-yes.” Phil tried to straighten. “I’m alright, though. I can hang the garland, Master Elmer.”

“Nope,” he said, his voice chipper again as he whisked the pine branch from her hands. “How about all of you come in here and I’ll teach you a song to keep your mind off things?”

He took a seat and lifted Phil into his lap as the other two crept in, clutching each other’s hands tightly. “Good,” he said, ruffling the hair of the nearer with a sad smile as they sat. “Now, I’m gonna teach you a very important Christmas hymn. Are you ready?”

Three nearly-identical faces looked back at him, and he nodded his approval.

“It goes like this: Jingle bells, jingle bells…”

*

Evening

In a freezing, dilapidated hovel on the edge of the village, Phil shivered and tried to ignore the pain in her black eye and split lip. In a castle somewhat removed from the village, Elmer tucked her in to a soft, warm bed, humming the tune he’d taught her earlier that day. She knew by now that she didn’t have to flinch when he patted her head.

“I don’t want you to forget this song, now. You have to sing it with me one more time. All of you, okay?” He patted her cheek and repeated kindly, “All of you.”

Phil nodded, and Elmer smiled.

“Perfect. Alright, here we go: Dashing through the snow…”

And so, if a villager had passed by Phil’s home on that cold December evening, they would have heard two uncertain voices piping up to sing what was, in more ways than one, a song from another place.

Chapter Text

Czes is falling asleep, but he’s fighting it. There are too many unknowns here. At one point, his heavy eyelids flutter closed, only to fly open again when someone sits down on his right side. But it’s Maiza, and his racing heart calms.

Maiza just smiles and wraps his left arm around Czes’s shoulder, holding him close, and they sit like that for a bit.

Finally, Maiza speaks. “Czes,” he says, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “if you ever want to talk about what happened to Fermet, I’m here to listen. I know it must have been hard for you.”

Czes freezes, his sleepiness instantly gone as he remembers a struggle in the dark, terror, all of it doubled up and seen through two sets of eyes at once. He remembers, before that, fingers tight in his hair and his head driven against the edge of the table and his dead body twitching in regeneration and a shudder of relief, of pleasure, as light came back to his eyes and he scampered into a corner to protect himself. It makes him feel sick, and at the thought that Maiza might know any of it he feels like he might pass out with horror.

Maiza sees the way he’s shaking, and his face goes solemn. “I’m sorry, Czes. I shouldn’t have brought it up so suddenly. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Czes manages to nod, but Maiza’s arm doesn’t feel so comforting anymore.

What does he know?

How much does he know?

The question is on the tip of Czes’s tongue, but he feels like the answer would destroy him. If he only knows that Czes devoured Fermet, then he must despise Czes; if he knows what Fermet’s done to him, how can he feel anything but scorn and disgust?

“I’m going to bed,” he whispers, and he pulls himself free and Maiza doesn’t stop him. As he walks away, his head spins with despair and relief in equal measure, as if there are two different people in his heart.

Chapter Text

Another evening, another instance of Elmer disappearing directly after class despite claiming he wanted to play Mask Maker tonight. Huey and Monica were left to depart class together, just the two of them, and Huey was irritable.

“Is he doing this on purpose?” he asked, looking directly into Monica’s face.

She blushed, her eyes widening, but in the past few months she’d at least stopped stammering quite so much. “This?”

Huey flicked his finger back and forth, indicating the two of us, together, alone. “This.”

“Oh.” Monica went from pink to red and averted her eyes. “I didn’t ask him to, but…”

But Elmer didn’t need to be asked before he decided to meddle. Huey sighed and started walking, wondering what to have for dinner tonight.

A moment later, Monica ran a few steps to catch up with him, her eyes concerned. “I-I’m sorry, Huey!”

“It’s not something you should apologize for.”

“All right…”

She looked crestfallen. Which he didn’t care about, technically, but she wasn’t understanding him. “Really, Monica, you don’t have to apologize. I don’t like him, remember? So I have no interest in spending time with him. And spending time alone with you isn’t any more irritating than anything else.”

In response to that, Monica caught her breath. Huey looked at her face to see that she certainly wasn’t crestfallen anymore. In fact, her eyes were nearly shining, as if she’d just been told something very romantic.

It’s no less irritating than anything else, either, he thought of pointing out, but maybe there wasn’t any meaning to that. Instead he looked forward and started walking again, and Monica followed behind, a smile on her face that their absent acquaintance would have very much appreciated.

Chapter Text

It was a week after all the madness that Monica pulled Huey aside after class.

Her face was unusually serious. He’d seen her face like this sometimes when they were at work, a face that somehow perfectly echoed her blank white mask, but she’s never looked at him this way. For some reason, it made him wary.

“Monica? What’s up?”

“About what you said that night. The night of the mob.”

The clarification of which night was unnecessary, but Huey let it slide. He was more concerned about her manner: her voice had dropped in pitch, too, and her posture wasn’t one he saw on her often.

“Which part?” he asked, deliberately casual. “I said a lot of things that night.”

At that, Monica’s eyes widened and she lost the Mask Maker’s posture for a moment. “Ah, i-it’s nothing to do with what you told me about your past or anything! I, I was so happy you opened up to me about that, and I’ll never tell anyone, I promise!”

“Thanks. I appreciate your keeping it a secret. I’m not ashamed of it, but there’s no need for anyone else to know.”

Monica nodded and glanced down at her feet. But before Huey could remind her that she’d had something else to say, she remembered it on her own; she took a deep breath and looked up at him, her posture confident and impassive once more.

“When you pretended you were one of the Rotten Eggs, when you said that you’d ‘bought me,’” she said, her voice even and cold. “I don’t want you to ever say that about me again.”

Her gaze was unwavering and her face was expressionless. It was so different from how she usually acted around him that Huey found himself stumbling over an answer. “S-sure, I won’t say anything like that again,” he said, and then, before he’d even thought about it, “I’m sorry if it hurt you.”

“Thank you.”

For a moment, there was silence between the two of them. Huey felt bizarrely wrong-footed. He couldn’t help but suppose that Monica had a personal reason to be troubled by the lie he told, and that shouldn’t have mattered to him particularly, but the idea something like that had touched someone he knew left him with a strange, faint indignation in his chest. And he didn’t know how to respond. Was there something he was supposed to say here?

If there was, it seemed he’d missed his chance to say it. Monica winced, her posture shifting into the familiar one once more, and she looked earnestly up into Huey’s eyes. “Are you angry?” she asked.

That question was easy, at least. “No, I’m not angry,” he promised her. “I didn’t mean anything about it. I just said the first thing I could think of.”

“I-I-I know! I’m not… I was never angry at you for it, Huey, I just… don’t want you to say it again.”

“Yeah. I won’t.”

“A-and besides, I was really happy that you protected me that night, so… thank you.”

She must have meant it; she lowered her eyes with a small smile on her face. It seemed that whatever had been troubling her was no longer the topic of conversation, which was apparently a relief to her. If it left Huey a bit curious, his curiosity was easily dissolved in favor of curiosity towards knowledge that furthered his goals. Whatever had happened in Monica’s past had no relevance to Huey’s life—

Not just yet.

Chapter Text

Chane hears the sound of rushed breathing from the bedroom—the bedroom where her father sleeps. Instantly, she is fully awake and alert, a knife in each hand without even thinking about it. She dashes to the room, flawlessly silent, and pushes open the door—

—to see that her father is alone, his body coiled tight in the bed, his remaining eye squeezed shut and mouth twisted by strain.

Her mind goes blank with fear for a moment; she has never seen suffering on her father’s face before, but she knows that she is seeing it now. Her father is suffering. Something—could it be poison?—is making her father suffer, before her very eyes, and she has to do something about it.

Unsure of what else to do, she reaches out with her left hand and shakes his shoulder, and he leaps backwards with a guttural gasp. His eye flies open, and Chane sees an emotion that looks out of place on him—something stronger than panic. It might be horror, and it makes her tremble, makes her feel powerless. Her father has always been supremely calm, even when placed under arrest. Part of her has assumed that nothing could ever trouble him. So to see this now—

And then, it is gone.

Huey takes a quiet breath and the strain vanishes from his face by the time his exhalation begins. His lips form his usual smile, and his face takes on its customary semblance of kindness.

“Chane,” he says, as if identifying her for his own sake. His voice is quiet and polite. “Did I frighten you?”

There’s a scrap of paper on the nightstand. Huey sees her eyes go to it and gestures, encouraging her to use it.

You looked like you’d been poisoned, she writes.

Huey reads her message and then shakes his head with an indulgent smile. “No, Chane, nothing like that, I promise. I’m quite fine.”

And he certainly seems to be; he sits upright in bed with his hands folded in his lap, his gaze gentle. Chane fights the urge to ask further questions. If Huey wanted her to understand, he would explain; if he offers her no explanation, then it isn’t her place to pry.

“You are very good to be concerned about me, Chane. May I ask one more thing of you tonight?” And then his next words are on his lips before she even begins to nod, because he knows she will refuse him nothing:

“Forget this,” he says softly.

For a split-second, his smile is not his ordinary one; somewhere, there is a hint of bitterness to it. But before Chane can even wonder why, she understands the order she’s been given, and her mind moves away from the question. She will forget if it is what her father asks of her. Her eyes serious, she nods firmly, and Huey’s smile returns to normal.

“Thank you, Chane,” he says, and she knows she is dismissed.

Chapter Text

Lucrezia clicks her tongue over the morning paper. “Oh dear. Huey’s gotten himself into quite the pickle, hasn’t he? But even his mugshot is so pretty.”

The man standing a few feet away only inclines his head, having no answer to that particular assessment. Fortunately, Lucrezia spoke again with a more concrete question.

“Does he need some help, Sham, dear? I can pull some strings if necessary.”

“One moment, please.”

Half a world away, Huey is fortunately alone with one of Sham’s vessels. Sham conveys the question to a tolerant smile from Huey, and then conveys his answer back:

“He thanks you for the gracious offer, Lady Lucrezia, but says that the situation is quite comfortably under control.”

The noblewoman raises one delicate eyebrow, amused. “Are you sure he’s telling the truth about that?”

Sham only inclines his head. With Lucrezia, he plays Huey’s obedient servant, though by now he’s created hundreds of unauthorized vessels. He isn’t sure that Lucrezia would keep the secret. She’s a strange woman, this Immortal; she’s similar in some ways to Renee Paramedes Branvillier of Nebula, but harder to predict.

Though Huey seems confident in his understanding of her. As the noblewoman is calling his mastery of the situation into question, he is speaking again, his unflappable smile pinned in place. “Besides, Victor has taken a special interest in my case. If Lady Lucrezia were to interfere, Victor would no doubt bluster his way through whatever channels she used to free me and find his way to her. If she wishes for him to remain in the dark, it may be wiser to exercise a hands-off approach.”

Lucrezia’s eyes widen as Sham conveys Huey’s message, and she lifts a hand to her mouth. “Oh, you’re right!” she exclaims. “Hmm, Huey’s going to have to stay where he is, then. I simply don’t have time to entertain Victor right now.”

“I’ll be sure to keep him on his toes,” is Huey’s smirking reply.

“Do,” Lucrezia instructs, and then she waves Sham away.

Chapter Text

Ronnie concluded his story with a smile and a dramatic wave of one hand.

“Is that everything you wanted to know?”

“Oh, and more besides,” Rosetta responded with a smile that teetered between polite and sarcastic. It had taken Ronnie three hours to describe the events of 1935. With occasional rambling detours into analysis (fine) and efforts to remember precisely what color and cut of shirt certain characters wore on the days in question (why?).

But she couldn’t fault him for his thoroughness, and she had asked. She let her smile be genuine for a moment and ducked her head in appreciation. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

In silence, she finished the last few sips of the honeyed wine he was treating her to. It was a curious thing, to taste; not at all an unpleasant experience. She’d liked it enough to have three glasses, at least.

Ronnie spoke again once she’d emptied her glass.

“Can I offer you some advice?”

A gentle snort. “You’re not going to stop if I say ‘no.’”

“True.” Smirking, he leaned back in the booth and cast a fond gaze around the restaurant that may well have been considered his lair. “Take the time to experience things, Rosetta. The difference between experiential knowledge and inherent knowledge is a fascinating one.”

“So you seem to think.” Rosetta considered the man-shaped being across from her, her older brother or her other half or something that human words could never hope to describe. “It’s obvious which one you prefer.”

“Would you fault me for it?”

“I don’t know yet; ask me later. In a millennium or so?”

Ronnie rolled his eyes. “So sarcastic at such a young age. …Well, no matter.”

She frowned, her irritation directed more at the imprecision of language than at Ronnie now. She was as old as he was—or she was infinitely older—or she was a newborn. All of time was ill-suited to be concentrated into a single form like hers.

But maybe well, no matter was precisely the right reaction to that.

Rosetta stood and was about to take her leave of Ronnie when she suddenly felt the world tilt. With a gasp, she caught at the edge of the table, eyes widening as she tried to make her body behave itself. She took a quick physical inventory. Her legs felt wobbly, her face felt warm, her brain felt kind of… gooey…?

Wait.

“…Am I drunk?”

A glance over at Ronnie revealed that he was very amused. “Just tipsy, I think.”

Carefully, she let go of the table and straightened. Her balance was fine, as long as she moved fairly slowly. Yes. She could control her body, still. It just felt weird. Really weird. And people did this to themselves on purpose?

Ronnie raised his empty glass to her. “So, how does your experiential knowledge of drunkenness compare to your inherent knowledge? It feels quite different, doesn’t it?”

In the middle of (carefully) wrapping her scarf around herself once more, Rosetta paused to look at Ronnie.

“Ronnie Schiatto the Second—”

He raised one eyebrow, probably already suspecting the irony on her tongue. He was still smirking—but so, for that matter, was she.

“Go to hell.”

Chapter Text

Memory can strike at the most inconvenient times. Tonight Huey’s lips are on hers and she wants nothing more than for him to kiss her as hard as he can, but suddenly she is remembering a hand clenched around her throat and another groping wherever it can reach; she’s remembering kicking and struggling and being utterly overpowered by a man with an unholy leer, and she shakes and she shakes and then Huey’s lips are gone. She tries to pull him back to her, but he kisses her cheek rather than her lips and his delicate touch makes her tear up.

Monica? he says, and the question in his voice is not a demand for answers but a request for permission. For what, she doesn’t know, but she nods anyway.

Alright, he says, and runs his fingers through her long hair. And then:

Lie back for me.

Monica catches her breath. There’s no question in his voice now, no sense of request. It’s an order. And because of that, it’s… comforting. It’s secure. They both know she’ll never deny him anything he asks of her; they know that she will choose, over and over, to give him what he wants.

She chooses it now.

She lies back in his bed and sees his eyes go intent with awe and anticipation; she sees the barest hint of a smile. He rests one hand on her ankle, so lightly that his touch is barely there, and speaks again.

Spread your legs. Knees up.

His touch reinforces how he wants her to move her leg; she lets him guide her and lets her other leg mirror its position. He traces his fingertips over her ankle gently, up and down, just barely brushing the hem of her skirts aside and letting them fall back into place.

She shivers. Huey—

He looks at her, waits.

Please, she says.

It’s all he needs to hear. With both hands now, he guides her skirts over the hill of her knees and then lets gravity do its work to reveal her. Her skirts settle around her waist with a rustle and the cool night air caresses places that are usually hidden. So, too, does Huey’s gaze. There’s anticipation in his eyes again; it’s nothing like that man’s gluttony, only an eager awe.

Let me touch you, he says, not a question. But at the same time it is a question, because if she says no then all of this will stop. With one little word, she could overpower Huey and all the desire she can feel burning in the air. She wouldn’t have to struggle or scream or fight to keep him from taking anything she doesn’t want to give him.

But there’s nothing she doesn’t want to give him. Instead, she places her hand over his and pulls him to her—

and from there, she lets him lead.

Chapter Text

They untangle and fall back in the bed. Lucrezia is smiling, giggling. Victor is too stunned to do anything but breathe and hold her when she nestles into his arms. Her body is warm against his, and he can feel her heart beginning to calm. Holy shit, he can’t believe his own luck.

In a few minutes, she reaches up to trace his jawbone. “What was it that you said…” she murmurs, half to herself, and then: “Oh, right! ‘Fucking, shitting christ.’“

Victor freezes, instantly brick red. There’s only a light accent to her English, which is sticky-sweet with delight. The obscenities she just spewed sound so out-of-place that he can almost believe she doesn’t know what she’s saying, but the mischievous glint in her eyes forbids that interpretation.

She continues brightly: “I’ve heard those words before, but never combined in that manner or that order. I’ll have to keep it in mind for the future.”

“Please don’t repeat that. I’m begging you, don’t repeat that.”

“Why not?” she asks, lower lip jutting out.

“Because—jesus, they just aren’t words a lady like you should use!”

“No?” Her hand glides down his body and settles loosely around his cock, and he should probably stop her but he doesn’t really want to. “You don’t really think I’m some prim and proper lady, do you, darling?”

No, he’s just been provided with some pretty convincing proof that she’s not that, hasn’t he. (Though he’d be open to hearing further arguments on the matter. The way she’s tugging on him now is a good start.)

Right, he had a point here though. “Alright, fine, well if you won’t keep quiet for your own dignity, how about for mine? If someone finds out you’re picking up language like that from me, I’ll be out of a job again.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’d like to see anyone try to take you away from me,” she says.

“Yeah, I would not like that. Had enough of the whole exile thing back in England, frankly.”

“Hmmm, I see.” She kisses his shoulder and spends a moment or two more in contemplation before acquiescing. “Just for private time between the two of us, then.”

She concludes with a dazzling smile, and there’s no arguing with that.

Chapter Text

Claire was going on a trip.

He’d received a commission, and he wouldn’t be back for a little while. A week, maybe two.

That was fine.

Chane was prepared to see him off, to spend some time alone or, if she got lonely, to visit Nice and Jacuzzi and everyone else.

But for some reason, when it came time to kiss her husband on his way out the door, he hesitated, tracing her jawline with his thumb.

“Is everything okay, Chane?”

Yes, of course it was. Chane felt her mouth try to form a frown and shook her head to chase it away. I’ll miss you, she tried to put on her face for Claire to read.

His eyes softened. “You don’t want me to leave, huh?”

Chane froze, averting her eyes. She had tried to swallow please don’t leave—tried to keep her selfish desires from reaching her husband. But Claire, her darling Claire, always cared about the truth of how she felt.

He pushed the front door closed again and guided her to the couch. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he reassured her before she could even name the guilty feeling settling into her. “If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. You matter more than any job.”

And she let herself believe that, let her face relax, let herself melt into his arms. She let herself acknowledge what she was afraid of.

Claire smiled softly and held her. “Still worried about Huey, huh?”

Chane answered with a subdued nod. Her father had vanished without a trace after the incident at Ra’s Lance. If he had just chosen to distance himself from Chane, she wouldn’t have questioned it. She could have just waited for him to need her again. But Liza didn’t know where he’d gone, either, and sometimes Firo asked, and Claire had been expecting a payment from him that never materialized. Claire didn’t mind about the payment. He was more concerned about the effect his disappearance had on Chane.

She tried not to be affected by his disappearance.

But she had believed, still, in her father’s inviolability. Even after his arrest. Even after seeing him without his left eye. She’d believed nothing could really trouble him or exist outside of his plan, right up until he’d vanished completely, and then she’d felt like everything in her world had been proven false.

And she still believed in Claire’s inviolability, but—

She buried herself in Claire’s arms, feeling worry and apology again.

“It’s okay,” Claire said gently. “I know you trust me. It’s okay that you sometimes get scared anyway. I promise I’ll keep deserving your trust until you can be sure that you have nothing to be afraid of.”

She nodded, then glanced at his face. …Thank you.

He answered with a bright grin. “You’re welcome. I love you, Chane.”

I love you too. She leaned in to kiss him and felt his love and his certainty, and she believed in him. She took a deep breath when they pulled back. You can leave if you need to.

But his grin didn’t fade. “Nope!” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m playing hooky to spend some time with my wife.”

Chapter Text

Illness heard the trailer door open behind her and flinched. She couldn’t decide whether to curl into a tighter ball at the foot of the bed or to stand up and turn around and greet Claudia like nothing was wrong.

She didn’t decide fast enough.

“Illness? What is it?”

Urgent concern colored Claudia’s normally bright voice. In a moment, Illness heard a rustle beside her and peeked between her arms to see that Claudia was crouching next to her. Tears came to her eyes.

“No—no—you’re not supposed to… I wanted to be better by the time you got back… You can’t see this…”

“I’m seeing it,” Claudia said softly. “I’m going to put my arm around your shoulders, okay? Nice and gentle.”

Illness held her breath, preparing herself to be touched. Claudia’s arm settled around her shoulders. Nice and gentle, just like she’d promised. Claudia was always so kind, always, always…

She let Illness cry.

She didn’t ask any questions right now.

And even though that was so, so good of her, it made Illness shake even more, because she was so, so lost.

“Claudia,” she whispered, when she finally could. At the words she wanted to say, she teared up again, but she made herself keep speaking. “I think I l-l-like—I…”

When she trailed off, Claudia didn’t prompt her. She just asked, “Can I rub your back?”

Illness sniffed. “Uh-huh.”

Claudia’s hands moved in small circles across Illness’s ragged back.

Illness took a deep breath, more sure than ever.

“Claudia, I… I think I’m in love with you,” she said in a tiny voice, “and I’m terrified. What if I’m not allowed to feel that way?”

Claudia’s hand didn’t stop moving. She didn’t pull away in disgust. But she didn’t say anything, either. In a moment, Illness mustered the courage to glance over—and felt herself crumble. Tears were coursing from Claudia’s wide eyes.

“Oh no,” Illness said, lip quivering. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, I don’t have to feel that way, I-I can stop, I’ll stop, I’ll be good, I—”

She was cut off when Claudia threw her arms around her, and then all she could do was cry—first because she was startled, then because Claudia was whispering in her ear, “It’s okay. It’s okay, Illness.”

“B-b-but…”

“It’s okay. You’re allowed. I promise, in my world, you’re allowed to feel love.”

But then why was Claudia still sniffling? Illness was hugging her back, weakly, because she wasn’t strong enough to deny that was what she wanted to do, but she didn’t know why Claudia was crying, too.

Finally, Claudia gave her one more squeeze and then pulled back to look at Illness. There were tear trails down her face, beautiful ones that somehow didn’t make her mascara run at all. Illness wasn’t so lucky; her face probably looked really stupid right now. But Claudia was smiling at her like she was the best thing in the world.

“It’s funny,” she murmured. “Fans tell me they love me all the time… but when you say it, it feels like my whole world just lit up.”

Illness’s eyes widened. “Claudia…”

Claudia reached out and took her hands. Her cheeks were tinged with pink and her smile could outshine the sun and Illness was so happy that she could have melted into the ground.

“Illness…” Claudia said, joy in her voice, “I think that means I’m in love with you, too.”

Chapter Text

Huey’s ticklish. He knew this some fifteen years ago, and was not ever expecting it to become relevant again.

So when Monica’s fingertips press into a certain spot of his ribs, the way he says her name is half-yelp and—

“Did you just laugh?”

She sounds fascinated, so he doesn’t think to move away before she can come after him again. He squirms, and now the noise that trickles out of him is unmistakably a laugh. Monica’s eyes shine and she’s on him, tickling his ribs and pressing their lips together at the same time. He tries to kiss back but he’s too busy—giggling—to catch his breath. 

“Moni—ca—” he protests when he can, “that tickles—”

“Mmmmmhmm,” she answers, her voice smooth and merciless in his ear. But she belies her own composure when she giggles, too, delighted by his laughter and the way he makes unconvincing efforts to bat her hands away. He gives up on stopping her and instead does his best to get her back, his mouth against her neck and his fingers against her sides. Even if it doesn’t have the same electrifying effect on her as it does on him, they’re both laughing now, buried in each other. 

They separate for a moment to catch their breath. Huey’s cheeks are sore from laughing, and he covers his mouth with the crook of his arm. But his eyes must still be smiling; he can tell from the way Monica’s looking at him, full of admiration and awe.

“Huey, I’ve never heard you laugh before,” she breathes.

He blushes and holds her gaze. She tugs his arm away from his mouth and they smile at each other, and—

Monica opens her mouth then, one eyebrow raised as if she’s just thought of something. Huey know immediately what’s occurred to her and he tries to cut her off.

“Don’t say it.”

“You’re thinking the same thing.”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

She gives a groan that turns, inevitably, into a laugh and covers her face with her hands. “See, you are thinking it.”

“I don’t smile often enough that I can do so without thinking of his yammering. God.” Huey rubs his forehead, but he knows he’s still smiling. Genuinely. Goddammit.

“He’d love that trick,” Monica remarks with wry amusement, and Huey’s eyes open wide.

“If you tickle me in front of him—”

“I won’t, I won’t,” she promises, cutting off his strangled alarm. She wraps her arms around him and pulls him close. “This is a secret I get to keep all to myself.”

Chapter Text

As he’s looking down on his target’s mangled, bloody body, he hears the car door open and turns to see his fiancee. She approaches, her eyes lightless and calm. Ladd turns his grin towards her.

“Did you see that, Lua? This sap never saw it coming!” He kicks the corpse, which is still warm. “Imagine thinking you could escape the Russo Family by moving out to the suburbs. Uncle must really love me, giving me a job like this. He was just the kind of guy I like to kill. I just rang the doorbell, and then when he answered, bam!”

He’d punched the embezzler square in the jaw and then dragged him out to the front yard to beat him to death in full view of Lua. Judging by the light smile on her face, she’d appreciated the show. She gives the corpse a wide berth when approaching him, but doesn’t shy away when he takes her jaw in a bloodied hand to kiss her.

“Are you going home now?” she asks in her soft voice when she breaks the kiss. The blood from his hand stands out against her white skin.

“Actually, I was thinking, why don’t we slip inside and see if he’s got a nice bottle of wine we can help ourselves to? We don’t go on enough dates!”

Lua smiles at that, too, and gives a tiny nod. Ladd kicks the door in with a “Pardon the intrusion!” rather than risk leaving fingerprints on it, and looks around to get a feel for the place. Kitchen’s on the right. But as he heads in that direction, he sees that Lua is stopped, staring straight at the first door on the left instead. It’s open, and there’s a bed visible just beyond it.

A grin creeps up his face as he guesses what she’s thinking.

“I don’t think he keeps his wine there, doll,” he says.

“Probably not.” The color in her cheeks deepens, and her hand finds his, fingertips gently tracing his palm. Her eyes are still lifeless, but there’s an urgency in their depths now. She’s always been sure of what she wants, for as long as Ladd has known her.

So much for not leaving fingerprints. Oh well. It’s not like he cares anyway. Without another word, he sweeps her up into a princess carry and brings her into the dead man’s bedroom for a little affection.

*

After, she washes mussed makeup off her face while he locates the wine and a pair of wineglasses. They take them out to the porch and sit on the steps. The setting sun dyes the yard a glowing orange.

Ladd lights up a cigar and begins smoking between sips of the wine. But in a minute, Lua starts coughing, her face pinched as she waves her hand in front of her nose.

Ladd taps ash off the end of the cigar. “Too much?” he asks her.

She shakes her head, eyes lowered. “It’s okay. I don’t mind if it’s you,” she says.

“Of course you don’t.” He grins. “You love it when I hurt you, doncha, Lua? But I’d rather hurt you on purpose than incidentally. I know better methods to take your breath away.”

He thinks of stubbing the cigar out against her arm so that she’ll always have something to point to as a reminder of his promise. But it’s not the right time. He rubs it out against the porch steps instead and tosses it into the yard. It lands by the corpse. Ladd grins.

“How do you want it to be, Lua?”

She turns her lightless eyes towards him, eager.

“You want it to be like that poor bastard? A quick sock to the jaw’d probably snap your neck, dollface. One hit and it’d be over.” Tempting, he thinks, imagining his knuckles against her smooth, gorgeous skin. But then he reconsiders. “But that’s no good, is it?”

“No?” she asks. She doesn’t seem to share his opinion; in the setting sun, her face flushes eagerly.

“Nah. It’s gotta be slower than that. I want you to feel it, Lua—feel my love for you as I strip the life out of your body. It’s gotta be special. Real special.” He chuckles suddenly. Between the rush of killing the embezzler, the afterglow of being with Lua, and the wine starting to kick in, he’s feeling good.

And Lua’s hanging on his every word. He chugs what’s left of his wine and leers at her. “Here’s what I’ll do,” he tells her under the glow of the late-afternoon sun. “I’m gonna figure out something totally new. Some way that no one’s ever killed anyone before. And then I’m gonna save that just for you, and you’ll never see it coming, but when it happens, you’ll know it’s all for you. And you know why?”

“Why?” she asks.

He grins. “Because I love you.”

Chapter Text

Neither of them knows whether this trip to the theater is a date.

Monica is trying hard not to let herself think of it that way, though the possibility is tempting enough to make her stutter every time Huey addresses her as they walk together through the city.

He doesn’t say much, though, because he’s too busy weighing the possibility himself.

If it’s a date—if he is going to date Monica—he has to figure out what that will mean about himself. Who he is if he lets himself trust people again. If he’s allowed to be happy, instead of vengeful.

Or maybe (and this is the most disquieting thought of all), maybe he doesn’t need to figure that out right now. Maybe he can just wait and observe and see what happens to himself if he chooses to walk down this new path. He’s already changed from how he was. He doesn’t feel any inclination to change back. And maybe it’s okay, to not know where he’s going.

Monica is smiling, and he keeps catching her looking at him.

He doesn’t make up his mind whether he should take her hand before they make it to the theater—but maybe on the way home.

Chapter Text

–Maiza? Yes, I admit, I am very fond of him.

–I’m not sure you have any grounds to laugh at me for that, though. It seems like you’ve forged a few connections in your own time. Jacques-Rosé, was it?

–Don’t rush to defend yourself; I don’t think it’s something that needs defending.

–Well, no matter.

–Frankly, I wouldn’t be able to say how it happened. It was a gradual thing. I chose to live at his side on a whim; there was a request from another Immortal involved, but I could have disregarded it if I so chose. And honestly, I fulfilled the condition he set for me at least a century ago. I could have left Maiza behind then.

–I didn’t want to, though. I don’t want to.

–I enjoy being with Maiza. And yes, the rest of the Martillos as well, but with Maiza… There’s something different in the way I feel about him.

–…

–You say I’m blushing?

–…Hm. Well, no matter.

Chapter Text

Victor escapes outside to the balcony. He lost sight of the woman—Lucrezia de Dormentaire—a few minutes ago, and yet he’s still feeling a little hot under the collar. In the crisp night air he begins to catch his breath, but god, he’s not even sure he wants to. Even having heard ask the rumors about her, he’d never expected this. He’d never expected one glance at her to knock him flat on his ass.

Another deep breath. God, she’s beautiful. She’s—he’s never seen anything like her. He looks up at the stars, but he’s not seeing them, because even in his memory Lucrezia de Dormentaire’s smiles are brighter than the sun.

He exhales. He needs to head back in, eventually; he’s on display tonight, the Dormentaires’ newest addition to their collection of useful humans. If he fails to be seen to their satisfaction, it’ll be out the door with him. Again.

So he turns back towards the building–and freezes.

Lucrezia herself is leaning on the door, her eyes—her smile—fixed on him.

Oh, shit.

Seeing that she has his attention, her coy smile grows and she slinks towards him. “You were staring,” she observes, amusement obvious on her face.

“Um,” he says, eloquently. He can see the stars now, because they’re reflected in her eyes and he wouldn’t be able to look away from her eyes if… if nothing. He can’t look away from her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes and she is still smiling that same all-consuming smile.

“You’re adorable,” she says, and he feels the compliment’s warmth touch every inch of his skin. “What’s your name?”

Chapter Text

In December, when her father and brother pass away, the garden is withered and lifeless, and she—understands. She takes little walks through it—Benjamin ordering her to put on a coat first—and sees the gray, brittle ghost of what was a beautiful rose bush, and tears flood her eyes because she understands.

But there’s no stopping spring from coming. And when it comes, she realizes that if the gardener is gone, then she must repair the garden on her own if she wants it to be beautiful again.

So Eve Genoard steels herself, and she gets to work.

Chapter Text

Niki has both lost and gained silence.

The explosion echoes endlessly in her head, whether awake or asleep. Sometimes its roar is so loud that she fails to notice the count’s gentle words until he dares to touch her hand; other times, it is quiet, a low rumble in the darkness that keeps her awake to stare at the ceiling and haunts even her most peaceful dreams. She wishes she could remember what silence sounds like. She wishes she could hear it again, for just a moment.

And she wishes she didn’t know what silence feels like.

She doesn’t know how it happened—doesn’t remember anything but crushing heat and pressure—but she will never speak again. On good days, she can manage a few soft sounds, ah—ah or unnh or hhh? that can be heard if the people close to her take the time to listen. When the pain is bad, she can’t even manage that much. How are you feeling today? must be answered with a careful nod or a delicate shake of her head, and nothing more. When the count asks Where does it hurt most, Miss Niki? she can’t even tell him not to worry about it, and her conscience won’t let her ignore the question, either. She indicates the burn on her face or the gaping wound trailing down her arm or wherever it is today and sometimes she manages to close her eyes before she can see the desperate pity on Esperanza’s face.

She can’t read, can’t write. Without the power of speech she is trapped in her own memories and even those come and go. Fog fills her mind, and pain, and the ever-present echo of the explosion, and as much as she remembers Fermet and Elmer and Czes and the Mask Maker she knows that that happiness is lost to her. This silence-unsilence is all that is left.

And yet the count asks her every day.

Miss Niki, how are you feeling today? and she shakes her head, her vision spinning with just that effort.

Miss Niki, how are you feeling today? and she can only wince, the pain too much for anything more than that.

Miss Niki, how are you feeling today? and today, today she can nod. The roaring in her head is a low rumble and the pain can be ignored. She can offer Esperanza a feeble smile. She can cause him to sigh in relief.

But today, he doesn’t just do that; today he beckons for his steward to bring something. A notebook and lapdesk and quill. He sets the desk across her lap, gingerly, and takes her hand in his.

“Niki,” he says quietly, “may I teach you to read and write?”

And out of the silence that cocoons her she feels something new beginning to emerge, and she nods yes.

Chapter Text

“You’re truly all right?”

“Yes, milady, I’m healed.”

Lucrezia prods at Carla’s side anyway, where the bullet had lodged into her rib. She insisted on bringing in a doctor to extract it, and Carla suspected that money would change hands to make sure he forgot the way her blood had clung to her body, fretfully eager to return to where it belonged. He’d left in a hurry as soon as the bullet was gone—as soon as her wound closed and the pain disappeared.

Lucrezia should understand that bullets cannot cause permanent harm to her—but, by the same token, Carla herself should have known that they can’t harm Lucrezia, either. That hadn’t stopped her from leaping in front of her mistress when the would-be assassin took aim.

Finally satisfied that Carla is healed, Lucrezia’s touch becomes less investigative and more seductive. But in a moment, she laughs, the bright sound filling the room as she leans back to cover her mouth.

“Milady?”

“My poor Carla,” the noblewoman says, “brave enough to take a bullet for me, and you don’t even get a scar to show for it!”

Chapter Text

There should be a word for a threat that is also a promise.

He’s covered in blood the first time she sees him. Her grandfather’s blood. And her grandmother is pulling on her arm, weeping as quietly as she can manage, begging Lua to move, to run—

And Lua can’t.

She stares at the man in the parlor as he gleefully shoots the already-dead body, reloads the shotgun, shoots again. Reloads again. Shoots again. The crash of the gun hits her eardrums but to Lua everything sounds as soft as feathers.

Her grandmother can’t stifle a small scream as she watches the horrific scene; hearing it, the murderer turns. His eyes pass over Lua for the first time and her stomach lurches with a liquid heat. Her breath comes fast. She can’t hold his gaze for more than a second, but in that second, she learns everything she needs to know about him.

This man is going to kill her.

Next to her, her grandmother is weeping again, a soft jumbled no no no that’s as meaningless as life itself. She tries to pull Lua away, but Lua is rooted to the spot as the murderer ambles their way.

“Hey, you old bag,” he says, his voice boyish and cordial. “Do me a favor, would ya?”

No no no, she’s still whispering, her stubby nails digging into Lua’s arm as she stands petrified with fear.

The murderer’s lips spread in a fiendish grin and he points the shotgun in their direction. “Scram,” he suggests.

Lua’s grandmother pulls on her arm once more. “Lua, please,” she begs, but the murderer clicks his tongue.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he chides, “the little lady—Lua, you said?—is staying here with me. Aren’cha, Miss Lua?”

“No,” the old woman sobs, and she finally yanks hard enough on Lua’s arm that Lua is almost pulled away—

But for the vicious hand that closes inescapably around her other wrist. A jolt goes through Lua’s body and she imagines a bitter tug-of-war that will tear her limb from limb.

“You don’t get it, lady,” the murderer says in a gleeful undertone. “The little miss wants to stay here with me. She wants to be at my mercy. Doncha? Little Miss Lua?”

He holds her gaze for a moment and the heat in Lua’s stomach tightens. She has felt desire before—sick, filthy desire that has left her hating herself even as her innards throb with what fulfillment she can achieve for herself—but this. She feels like her heart will beat out of her chest. She feels like she will melt into the carpet, boneless with need, and the only thing that keeps her from giving in is the stronger need to see for herself where his eyes and his gun can take her.

“Scram,” the murderer says again, leering, and fear finally gets the better of Lua’s grandmother. She releases Lua’s arm with a pitiful whimper and stumbles towards the door. For a brief moment, while the door is open, Lua hears the tinkle of wind chimes from outside. Then the door slams shut and all she can hear is her own rushing heartbeat. She wonders how quickly he’ll do it. She wonders what she’ll look like, mangled and sprinkled with buckshot. She wonders if she’s imagining it, the love she thinks she sees in his eyes that looks so similar to what she’s feeling right now.

“Did I hear that old lady right?” he says in an intimate undertone. “Your name’s Lua?”

“Yes,” Lua whispers, her eyes averted as she speaks. His voice creaks when he lowers it like it’s held together with wire and grease and Lua hopes that it will be the last thing she ever hears. She wants that even more than the gunshot. He nudges the muzzle of the gun up under her chin and she gives a shivering sigh of desire. Her free hand—the one he’s not holding in a death grip—caresses the gun’s long barrel as her eyes slip closed. She’s ready. She’s been ready for this for years. At last, this is ready for her, too. Every breath could be her last and it makes them all shimmer like they never have before.

“Open your eyes, Lua,” he says, and she obeys. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s that look I love. You’re so ready to die, aren’t you?”

She nods, the gun’s muzzle digging into the soft underside of her chin.

“You know I can do it for you.”

Of course he can. Her grandfather’s desecrated corpse and the smell of iron in the air proves that. She nods again, and his grin spreads into something monstrous.

“Then tell me how you want it to be, Lua. And I swear I’ll make it so.”

Because that is what I want you to hold me down and do.

(I love you.)

Chapter Text

i.

When it snows, Chané sits by the window, watching as the countryside is blanketed in the same white as her father wears.

“Papa,” she calls when she senses that his attention is free. (But not before—even at seven years of age, she knows how to tell when her father’s focus is not to be interrupted.) “Look.”

He obliges her whimsy, joining her by the window with his unflappable smile. “Do you like the snow, Chané?” he asks, as impersonal as he is curious.

She looks back out the window and considers. There’s something pretty about all of this: black, bare trees daring out of the white hills, both set against a pale gray sky. If the branches of the old tree look sharp enough to cut, the snowy ground looks soft enough to forgive every intrusion. Soft enough to muffle every cry.

“I do,” she murmurs, but she can’t find the words to tell her father why.

*

ii.

December 29, 1931, is cold.

Chané has been cold since the arrest of her father, but there is objectively ice in the air today. When she exhales, a cloud of condensation escapes her mouth, only for the wind to blow it away.

“It looks like snow,” Goose says behind her in his dissatisfied voice. “Just our luck.”

She hears him, but it doesn’t require a response.

He doesn’t want one from her, anyway. “It doesn’t matter. Even a blizzard would not stop us from reclaiming Master Huey.”

Rescuing, Chané might correct him if she could. He refers to her father as though he is an object, invariably, and Chané never fails to notice it.

Still, she does not hate Goose. She trusts that her father chose him for a reason. Goose may be a blunted knife, ineffectual and as likely to harm friend as foe if not wielded carefully, but Huey is unmistakably aware of this, and still he chose him. So that must be his place in Huey’s experiment.

Chané sees no reason to tell him this.

In a moment, Goose loses interest in her silence—he always does—and turns his back on her. “We’re confronting Nader in an hour,” he says. “I trust you’ll come along.”

Her mouth is a line of impassive steel and she nods once. He goes inside without another word; she remains on the balcony and looks out over the city. There are no thoughts in her mind, only a honed, absolute purpose. She is a blade, as Goose is; the difference is that she will never go dull. Held in her father’s grasp, she will slice through anything that threatens him with effortless grace.

She buries her hands in her pockets to keep them warm and limber. She cannot afford to shiver, so she does not. Soon, tiny flecks of white begin to drift from the sky, pulled ever, inevitably downward.

*

iii.

She does not die aboard the Flying Pussyfoot, though she had resigned herself to the possibility. She does not die trying to rescue her father from prison; she does not die when he is free and asks for her assistance in his newest experiment; she does not die then, and he disappears, and still she lives. Winter gives way to spring, to summer, to fall; to winter again. A blanket of clouds turns the sky white, and Chané finds herself standing by the window of Claire’s apartment.

He scuffs his feet against the carpet behind her, quiet but deliberate, before sliding his arms around her waist.

“Do you think it’ll snow?” he asks, hooking his chin over her shoulder.

She nods. Even from the warm cocoon of his apartment, she can taste the snow on the air.

“Heh.” He grins; she can see his face reflected on the window. “That makes me want cocoa. Should I make you some, too?”

To that, she neither nods nor shakes her head. Everything is too strange for a moment. Too strange, that her life would come to this. Too strange, that she should find herself standing in a warm apartment with a man who loves her—a man whose eyes watch her face where it’s reflected against the window. Quietly, without judgment—without comfort, because it’s not really comfort she needs, either—he nuzzles her neck and holds her closer.

“The cocoa can wait,” he murmurs. “I’d rather just spend time with you.”

And that, she knows is true even if she can’t understand it. They stand by the window, together, until the snow begins softly to fall.

Chapter Text

It’s 1953, Lebreau calls Huey up with patently transparent motives.

“This is familiar, isn’t it?” he asks through a lean smile, once empty pleasantries are out of the way. “The Committee on Un-American Activities, McCarthyism. Neighbors and friends throwing each other to the wolves so that suspicion won’t fall on themselves.”

He remembers villagers accusing, pleading, sitting numb with despair. He remembers the horror-stricken face of a little boy, his peer. He remembers his own young heart racing with excitement as his father consigned men and women alike to the flames, and it races now with the memory.

Less pleasantly, he remembers Huey’s face nowadays: the meaningless smile he must be making as he answers. “It is, isn’t it?” comes his cordial voice through the phone, impassive and unshaken. “We aren’t the only ones to make the comparison, of course; I trust you’ve heard of The Crucible?”

Still smiling, Lebreau answers, “I have. I was thinking of sending you a ticket, in fact—it seemed right up your alley.”

“I’ve had the opportunity to see it already, actually.”

Oh, damn him. Lebreau’s eyes narrow in irritation at being preempted, though his smile remains in place. Not that Huey can see it anyway. “What did you think?”

“Miller was not subtle in his argument, and he may find himself on the receiving end of precisely the modern ‘witch-hunts’ he’s condemning soon. But I suspect he is prepared for such an eventuality. As for the play itself, it seemed rather detached to me.” He speaks blandly, and Lebreau can practically see him shrug. “I’ve seen better.”

Speaking of “detached.” Lebreau has allowed his mouth to twist with his distaste now, but before he can decide whether it would be worth it to force Huey to say which better plays he’s seen, Huey speaks again.

“Certainly, though, the comparison is apt—even if Miller himself has no personal experience to tell him just how apt it is. I am reminded not only of the effect your father had on my village, but of the chaos in Lotto Valentino just before we left.”

“Oh yes. I seem to remember that you were instrumental in provoking that atmosphere.” It’s a cheap shot, and as expected, it falls flat when Huey simply agrees.

“I was. I got a bit of a scolding from Elmer, once I’d told him the whole story.”

Of course he brings it around to Elmer. For the first time in this conversation, Lebreau hears genuine emotion in Huey’s voice, and it’s nostalgic and positive, and it pisses him off. He’s tempted to hang up the phone, but he knows that would be admitting defeat. Instead, his voice wooden with disgust, he answers, “I’m sure you did.”

Huey continues mercilessly. “I wonder how he’s doing in the current atmosphere,” he muses. “The country—indeed, the whole world—is on edge as it watches the standoff between America and the USSR. Elmer has his work cut out for him if he hopes to make everyone smile in this political climate.”

“Good,” Lebreau sneers, but it doesn’t relieve the way his stomach turns. He bites back a sigh of irritation; he’s lost this little tête-à-tête, and Huey is on solid ground and there’s little point in continuing the conversation. “I have to go. I’ve got better things to do with my time than discuss that disgusting Smile Junkie.”

“Of course. Forgive me for taking up your time,” Huey says, his voice all the more smug for how bland it is. Lebreau disregards the lie of an apology and hangs up, glaring at the phone with his lip curled. Then he reaches for the jacket he’d worn yesterday and digs a scrap of paper out of its pocket: an HUAC tip line. This restores his smile, and he eyes the number while he muses on his acquaintances and their deeds and misdeeds. If Huey won’t entertain him, it’s the perfect time to ruin someone else’s life.