Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A.B.A drags Paracelsus across a long, empty field. The tall weeds brush against her dirty knees as her body sways from one side to another. Her legs buckle and black liquid erupts out of Paracelsus like a wound, fleshy and metallic. She can taste some of him on her smeared lips. 

His deformed features gush into a fountain of self-producing ink, rendering him an eldritch-like form, unstable and unrecognizable. Behind them is a trail of black sludge. It grotesquely contaminates the wild fauna in their cross, spilling onto the leaves, soil, and her clothes.

“Paracelsus.”

A.B.A stops and drops to her knees. Against the soft teal backdrop of the open sky, they remain monochromatic and out of place, huddled together over the sickness that spills out of Flament Nagel. She compassionately lowers him onto the ground like a dying animal.

“Paracelsus-” she repeats.

She thinks she hears a tired, pained response. 

Her voice strains as her heart thrums loudly against her ears. If this is the end, she wants to kneel over and die with him. 

“Dear.“ 

A.B.A gently leans forward, allowing her hair to curtain around the ax like a pale waterfall. With her sharp fingernails, she claws at the bandages wrapped around her arm. Bright red mercury sheds from her skin. She carefully angles it into the fragments of his exposed teeth. The rest of her blood dabbles into the sludge, disappearing into the soft puddy flesh of the amorphous demon. She moves her face closer.

“I did this to you, didn’t I? I don’t know what came over me, I lost control and-“ She babbles, desperately clinging onto him as she feels him slip through her long fingers. He is cold, slimy, and heavy. Her eyes are wet. She feels sick and angry. Her grip loosens as she blinks against the stinging in her eyes.

“What I want more… in this… world, is for you to live, Paracelsus. Even if it’s away from me.”

Desperation. 

Is that what she was feeling?

Even through the madness of her words, she thinks she sees an eye twitch within the bowels of Flament Nagel. It fixates on her before becoming re-absorbed by its own saturated flesh. It’s strange to think that this creature has inserted itself into every aspect of her life, becoming the crux for everything she feels or yearns for. Letting him go is a worse fate than death itself. Her hands tremble as he bleeds through her. The drenched leather strap that binds him to her tumbles into the bushes, devoured by a wing of tall grass. At this rate, he’s going to dissolve into the entrails of the earth. A violent end fitted for a being born of suffering and bloodshed.

The puddle underneath them expands. She almost falls with him as his density lightens. Abruptly, more sludge flushes out of his body, rearranging itself into the shape of something new. It has four limbs, a head, and the traces of an organic, beating heart. 

Within the span of a few seconds, the body settles. He’s warm. 

His chest rises and falls underneath the layer of black putty.

It, or rather, he, breathes, wet and raspy. It's throaty, like a drowning larynx. A.B.A instinctively pulls away and stares at the unresponsive mass that resembles a body. Her chest remains tense. 

“A body…” she mutters, voice wavering with apprehension. 

Just like she had wanted all those years ago.

“Paracelsus...“ she trails off, her eyes unfocused.

No, She truly didn’t…

Almost instinctively, she snaps out of her trance. She braces her legs and slings him over her shoulder in one swift motion. Somehow, he’s lighter than before. Most jarringly, he feels tender, delicate, and fleshier than a bag of blood. His body slumps and folds against her shoulder blade as she stands tall. She can feel his cumbersome limbs hang and rattle against her body as she begins walking.

Her face feels hot. 

Chapter Text

Upon the cool apex of a red horizon, A.B.A rises from a pool of blood. 

It drips onto the ground as she stands crookedly over her two direly wounded opponents. Something in her chest snaps, and she feels the cruel instinct to laugh, embracing the bout of loathing that shoots up her spine like a second persona. The damp stain on the left side of her torso reveals a large, open gash. She winces as she moves, feeling it tear and unfurl with each step.

“Abhorrent, repulsive woman.” she hisses under her breath. Her eyes are wild.

She drags a deformed Paracelsus behind her as she inches closer, raising the battle ax for a finishing blow. Before her lies the unconscious body of a woman. Next to her is a man. He lays alongside her with his clothes torn and bloodied. They’re both run-of-the-mill bandits. Their bounty was high on par with their troubling history of duplicitous robberies, long evading capture before encountering the monster above them.

As A.B.A’s contorted body lifts up the ax, the man lunges forward and covers the unconscious woman with his body.

“Please.” He pleads. “She's innocent. It’s all my fault. Take my life but not hers.”

His wounds are too deep, mouth agape and hemorrhaging waves of fresh blood. His eyes are glazed over, squinting at her with a primordial sense of impending death. Despite his brave disposition, his body seemingly trembles under the shadow of A.B.A’s looming frame.

Sacrifice. 

That’s the word humans use? She recalls reading about it in her books during her time at Frasco. 

Sacrifice –  the act of relinquishing one’s own best interest for the safety of another human. It is a demonstration of love. Something she craves to understand, experience. The word tenderly burgeons in her mind, illogical and insatiably poetic. And yet, her mind spirals with thoughts of violent envy. That, which she could not have, must be destroyed. 

“A.B.A stop.” Paracelsus groans out, his voice distorted and sick.

“We don’t need the bounty. Let’s just leave.”

A.B.A carefully lowers Paracelsus onto the ground. When she turns to look down at him, he’s meshed into the grass below. Multiple eyes bulge out of him as he watches her intently. Her breathing is sharp and uneven, matching his. Her face pales as she fully realizes the state he’s in. She took one last look at the bandits before stumbling away with a malformed Paracelsus strapped to her back.

Paracelsus opens his eyes.

He appears to be in an unfamiliar bedroom. This was a place they’ve never been to before, and he wonders how they managed to break into such a calm space.

The open windows reveal an unfamiliar cityscape, tall and crawling with bustling modernity. There is a fuss of cars and footsteps heard in the distance. Underneath him, he feels the cushion of a soft, warm bed, and he turns his head just to feel the pillow brush up against his cheek. Over him, there’s a duvet that comfortably blankets over his frame, keeping him warm. His body feels tingly and neuropathic, frail and sensitive like an exposed nerve.

What a strange… dream?

The first thing he does is look for A.B.A.

“A.B.A?” He calls out, slightly twisting his frame to look around the apartment room. He hears a reactive thump vibrate against the bedroom door. His mind races as he realizes she is nowhere near his peripherals. They have never been this far apart before, and his brain wallows in the silence of her departure.

“A.B.A this is insane! Please get me out of here!” He implores, feeling unsettled by the unfamiliarity of being away from his wielder. 

His voice… sounds different. Less monotone and more throaty. A thin layer of perspiration coats his forehead as his anxiety spikes, and he feels it pool down the back of his neck. Wait, neck—?

The door cracks open.

“I brought you some food dear- I mean, Paracelsus.” A visibly distressed A.B.A mutters as she pushes the plate forward with a stick. Even though he can’t fully see it, he thinks it might be some kind of meat. Where did she even get a stick?

“Hey, A.B.A, I don’t eat, remember?” he replies in a mixture of nervousness, confusion, and irritation.

At the smell of food, his insides growl. A frightful pause as he spasms at the sensation.

“A.B.A I think I’m dying-“

Her eyes widen and she cautiously maneuvers her way to him. Her movements are shy and cat-like, cheeks and hands smattered with a layer of thick, dark ink. She peers over him. Her body leans from one side to another as she inspects his body over the bed. Her long green hair sways alongside each minor tilt of her head. He finds it oddly endearing.

“Dear, can you try moving?” She instructs.

“A.B.A, I can’t move unless you move me.”

A.B.A appears confused by that statement. Suddenly she rushes to open a nearby drawer. As she digs inside, little knick knacks fall to the carpet in rapid succession. A few pennies, an absurd amount of smaller keys, two books, and a hairbrush. Finally, she returns to his side and aims a slightly shattered mirror at his direction.

Paracelsus stares.

Oh no.

He shrieks. It comes off as uncharacteristically high-pitched, and he nearly scrambles off the bed. 

In response to his fear, A.B.A fumbles with the mirror and takes a step back. Her face crinkles up into a melodramatic sob.

“I’m so sorry, Paracelsus. I did this to you. I almost- almost…” She couldn’t finish her sentence before her glossy eyes widen.

“I can’t be around you anymore.” She snivels at the realization, placing a hand over her mouth as the other balls up against the fabric of her skirt.

Before Paracelsus could calm her down, tell her to breathe and that they’ll fix this together, she scampers out of the room and slams the door closed. Moments later, he hears a pathetic wailing noise coming from the other side of the door. He takes a deep breath and finds the strength to move his arm.

This body is... so heavy.

He maneuvers his body to the side, staring at the unattended plate A.B.A left for him on the carpet. It’s an overcooked slab of rubbery meat, over-seasoned at the top, and marred by aggressive divots of a… chef’s knife?

Chapter Text

Somewhere atop a mountainous precipice, there’s a desolate village where the stars crumble and shatter over a blanket of cool night air. The planets, ever so luminous, ebb in their distant cant, tangible to any creature whose curious eyes wander into the curtailed ends of the night sky.

It had been a few days since A.B.A first escaped the confines of Frasco. 

Everything is new.

The grass pricks her skin like tiny needles. It feels cool against the bandages that twist tightly around her body, hiding the tapestry of scars on her skin. The earth is moist and dewy, denting around her figure as she relaxes her sore muscles. She takes in the fresh air, pale cheeks and nose flushed from the temperature drop. 

“The…sky…is nice.” A.B.A mutters. Her voice is choppy and slow. 

Paracelsus is next to her.  

“…Yes A.B.A, the sky is nice.” He replies monotonically. 

“A lovely… blue.” She muses with delight. 

Paracelsus’ eyes flicker to the homunculus. There’s a big stupid grin on her face. Her short red hair is rusted by the shadows, highlighted by the moonlight that halos the bright crimson streaks of her hair. She looks childlike and content. 

A faint glint crosses her tired eyes as a reflection of a shooting star passes over them, absconding into the night sky like a shell being swallowed by a tide of seafoam. 

“You’re… lovely too, Para…celsus…” 

Paracelsus doesn’t know how to respond. In his many years of being alive, he has never been the object of affection for anyone. His previous wielders had all been blood-thirsty warriors, itching for bloodshed and war and violence. 

This woman is insane. 

Paracelsus yelps as A.B.A curls up next to him, pressing her forehead against the metallic surface of his upper shaft. He listens to A.B.A’s soft rhythmic breathing as she fades into a peaceful sleep. 

Do homunculi even sleep? 

Paracelsus found A.B.A strange. She went out of her way to simulate human behavior, developing her own interpretation of sleep, hunger, and pain. It had only been a couple of days since they had crossed paths, and she already relished in inundating him with questions about the outside world, talking, talking, talking. 

It didn't take Paracelsus very long to realize he was her mouthpiece for everything regarding the world outside of her ‘home’. 

Unfortunately, their perspectives couldn’t be any more different. This… being clearly retained a great fondness for those who’ve experienced isolation to the degree that she had all those years in Frasco. She had developed an obsessive attachment to him. 

This is a good thing. 

He won’t die.

He just needs to stick around until she dies. 

A.B.A displayed a timid and volatile disposition to those who presented themselves as humans. Her quiet stutter. The tightness on her sweaty grip when she mistook any noise for footsteps. Paracelsus found himself drawn to A.B.A’s instinctive fear of people. It's what made her obsession with his key form more vicious and unstable. 

Such traits were a consequence of the pull that Flament Nagel had over his wielders. He could bestow his vessels with a sense of incomprehensible attachment, bloodlust, and subsequent violence. It is a form of living for him, thriving off the pain of others through granting death and misery. By omission, he hasn’t chosen to mind control her… yet. 

Perhaps, it was pity? 

Paracelsus stares blankly at the sky. 

At the eastern ends of the mountain, a blood-orange shade of vermilion spreads against the horizon, blooming into the clouds and stars. Paracelsus watches the dark blue transition into a softer hue of plum, eviscerating the stars to a place where not even the clouds could reach.

Paracelsus’ body thumps on the floor for the third time that day. His sides ache as he squirms on the floor, struggling to push himself off the ground and stand up. 

How embarrassing.  

He tries to walk again. 

And again. 

And again.

A newfound admiration for A.B.A’s agility on the battlefield infiltrates his mind. That fierce adaptability to skid around an opponent while carrying an object twice her size seemed incompressible to him. With aching limbs, he clings onto a wall for dear life. 

His plate of food was set aside, half-eaten. Chewing through rubbery food with dull, round teeth was not ideal. 

As he struggles to move his feet, he glances down at his shirt and shorts. He is not quite sure exactly what he is wearing. By the seams and stitching pattern, it seemed to have been put together by A.B.A herself, who had acutely developed some sort of fixation with fashion during their lengthy travels. 

Hohenheim. 

Oh, this was absolutely A.B.A’s creation.

She had painstakingly created his matching belt straps during his time as a weapon. It feels loose and cottony, allowing for free movement. 

A shy creak at the front of the room breaks his train of thought. 

His eyes flicker toward the slightly opened door, meeting with the gaze of a disarrayed A.B.A. 

One of her hands clutches the outer door frame harshly, evoking four small dents forming on the drywall as her fingernails dig deeper into the flesh of the apartment wallpaper. She looks deathly nervous, one foot ready to lunge forward in case he falls again. 

“Uh, A.B.A, can you lend me a hand?” He asks nervously. 

Her lips begin moving as if she were whispering something to herself, but he can’t fully understand what she is saying. Her frantic self-soothing is something he had gotten used to over the years that he'd been attached to her, but it was a little jarring to not be in proximity to hear what she was thinking. 

Before he can pry, his hand pathetically slides down the wall as he begins to fall. 

“A.B.A?!?” 

At the sound of his voice, she snaps out of her trance and careens to his side. Her hand makes contact around his waist, steadying his balance. 

Her grip is strong. 

It's so familiar. 

Comforting. 

She holds him for a moment while he relaxes his diaphragm, eyes fixated on the room space in front of him. She is slow and methodical in her hand positioning. Her eyes momentarily peer at him tiredly, the darkness underneath her eyes becoming more noticeable as the sunlight beams through the open window. One hand settles firmly on the small of his back. 

He’s been in this position a thousand times over. 

Even before having a body, she already made him somewhat nervous. 

The hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

This was the first time his body felt this guttural and sensitive to being touched by A.B.A. 

Her teal hair spills as her stance widens, looking downwards whilst bracing herself for something. Paracelsus feels the hand on his back lead him astern. His body almost instinctively goes limp at the feeling of complete vulnerability and security. A.B.A exhales a deep, familiar breath of concentration. 

One she uses for battle. 

Wait no that's-

With the familiar force of a complete monster, she grunts as she pushes him forward with her entire body. He involuntarily stumbles forward into the confines of the hallway where he is certain his death awaits. 

Right foot left foot right foot- 

He nearly trips on his own feet as his sides bounce from one wall to another. His feet scurry sideways, forwards, backwards, before finally grounding onto the floor in a complete standstill. 

With the loss of momentum, he holds his hands up for balance. They tremble alongside the rest of his body. Dollops of moisture seep down his temple. He is sweating. It all becomes too real. His feet, soft and flat against the carpeted floor. The wetness of his clenched palms. In the silence of the room, he can hear his heart race against his ears as his adrenaline peaks, then releases. He is excited, fearful, and proud, all at once. 

When he settles, he takes a moment to take in his location. 

The living room is dreadfully isolated. The curtains are drawn in, quarantining the room from becoming exposed to any kind of sunlight. Alchemy and science books are scattered about the carpet, some half-open with pages angrily torn out of their spine. 

Carefully, he walks forward, cautious not to step on anything A.B.A had been tinkering with. 

He huffs in relief at the realization that he’s not dead. Once the fear subsides, he turns to glare at the homunculus in mild irritation.

A.B.A looks at him in a way that could only be described as comically stunned. Then, from her lips, a subtle and somewhat melancholic smile appears on her face. It is not fully happy, but it’s there, and his hearts twists. 

Somehow, he can’t help himself from attempting to smile back. 

It was unfortunate that he didn’t have the agility to meet her halfway before she disappears into her room, a familiar click and snap echoing from the doorknob. 

Was that…

-A lock? 

Chapter Text

Within the entrails of the Frasco manor, there is a large library brimming with books on every bookshelf. The stone walls are windowless, sickly, and hot. Around each shelf corner, there are fragments of broken wood or literary paraphernalia scattered about the floors. An expansive ribbed vault looms over the room, flaunting a behemoth chandelier that shakes every so often, inspiring the lighting in the room to flicker, move, breathe. 

A.B.A hunches over a table and lifts her scraggly legs onto a wooden chair. She flips through the fashion magazine that her guardian had brought for her. Her cracked lips are parted, eyes sunken as she absorbs as much information as she can from the text in front of her. Everywhere she goes, she leaves behind a trace of blood. It stains everywhere. At this point, it is futile to keep track of where it's coming from. 

Low-rise pants, crop tops, belt loop straps. The fabric descriptions are too difficult to understand. Her fingers trace over the images of beautiful models posing at the camera, their eyes bright and full of life. She reaches up to touch the key impaled through her parietal lobe, fingernails clinking against the hard and metallic firmness of the electrical connectors. It tickles her head. It’s evident she is not like them. 

Next to her magazine, there are books. Wuthering Heights, To the Lighthouse, and a destroyed version of Frankenstein. In a fit of emotion, she had torn apart the story illustrations because she couldn’t stand how lonely Frankenstein’s monster appeared. His asymmetrical face gazing back from a pool of water as he yearns for sameness, normalcy, and companionship.

A.B.A was the last surviving experiment left at Frasco. During the night, she would curiously observe her cloaked guardian drag the corpses of monsters that looked like her, some a little taller, shorter, or plumper. They all had red hair, limbs crudely stitched together by iron and silk sutures. Sometimes, she would aimlessly wander the great round hallways of the manor, only to find pieces of her brethren, gray and rotting and toxic. 

Homunculi were durable creations when alive. But when dead, they were just like any other organic creature; decomposable under the process of postmortem rigidity. 

As she flips a page, A.B.A’s gaze falls on the faint scar around her pointer finger. She loosely recalls reattaching her own finger one day after an accident involving the sharp end of an iron rod. In an effort to improve her motor capabilities, her guardian taught her the processes of medical reattachment, maneuvering stitches in and out of her subcutaneous flesh with minimal strain. Less than a day later, the stitches would fall off as her healing factor kicked into play. 

Her body is resistant, unlike all those people in her books who would perish to the smallest of illnesses. 

Through the empty hallways, she hears hefty, familiar footsteps approach.  

Her guardian, an alchemist and doctor, hastily enters the library. His glasses are fogged, the candlelight flame on A.B.A’s desk reflecting upon the surface of his worried eyes. 

“A.B.A,” He begins. “You need to come with me.” 

A.B.A closed the magazine with a flimsy tap. Her eyelids are twitchy, unfocused. Her tousled red hair falls down her face, hiding her cheeks as she looks up.

Her guardian leads her to an obscured corner and pushes aside a heavy bookshelf. He then takes her to a windowless observatory room, unmasking a plight of delicate stars and constellations lacing the ceiling. She stares up, her body stiffening.  

“A.B.A, I need you to listen to me carefully. Very soon, I’ll be gone.” 

The man flinches as a bang erupts from the front door. A crowd of loud footsteps scurry through the hallways. They rattle, unstable and rickety. His drowsy eyes are small and wrinkled, webbed by crowfeet and too much exhaustion.

“Somewhere in this room, there is a key that will unlock all the rooms.”

A key, a key, a key…

“When you’re ready, run far, far away from here.” 

A.B.A grunts, trying to speak. Nothing comes out. She swallows and her eyes dart from one place to another as her guardian continues to speak. Her fingers twitch, aching to cling onto something, anything. 

“Travel the world. Feed that brilliant mind of yours.”

He places his hands on her shoulder as her attention snaps back to look at him. 

“And live the life I couldn’t provide for you in here.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed. Her head dips to the side, not fully comprehending what her guardian was saying. Before she has more time to think and digest his words, he lets go of her and flees out of the room. 

A snap and click could be heard from the closed door. A bookshelf drones against the wooden floor, popping some interlaced hidden mechanism into place. 

She presses her face against the polished wooden door, tracing the gothic relief with her fingertips as she blindly jostles for the door knob. One knee bends, leaning onto the slippery surface of the frame as she does her best to listen and curb her restlessness. The footsteps of the intruders come closer, until they’re a few feet away. She hears a thump, a rustle, and a pained croak. 

Then, she hears two strangers, perhaps soldiers, conversing. 

What a repugnant place. 

Such sick creations. It’s a Good thing none of them survived. 

“Re…pug…nant.” She repeats to herself. 

It was a harsh, corrosive word. 

And it is the first word she’s ever heard from someone other than her guardian. Their tones were cacophonous, negative. Her own hands tremble. She feels so fragile. If they found her, they would undoubtedly hurt her too. 

A key. 

She lets go of the doorknob. The humans leave.

She turns around to stare at the open glass sky.

An observatory. 

Walking is a laborious endeavor on Paracelsus’ body. During his trials, he learns a little more about his own anatomy through the repetition of free movement. His new vessel was a systematic conjecture of bones, tendons, and muscles. Two bones would interconnect into a single flexible joint, allowing for extensive bending and ligament control. Horizontal bipedalism requires balance, steadiness, a familiar concept he garnered from being a giant sentient key. 

The flat tips of his fingers are centers for sensory processing, just like his eyes, tongue, nose, and ears. The gooseflesh on his skin reacts to temperature drops in his immediate environment. And his sympathetic nervous system is set ablaze whenever he hears a noise come from A.B.A’s room.

What a complicated apparatus. 

It’s been three hours since A.B.A shut him out. At first, he’d reason he would give her some space. A part of him wonders if these walls were thin enough to hear her interpersonal chatter, her loud inner monologue of half-stitched ideas and worries and obsessions. 

With his newfound independence, Paracelsus gracelessly maneuvers around the apartment with minimal assistance from the furniture or walls. His feet stumble against the carpet. 

He leans his face against her closed door. 

“Hey, A.B.A-” He begins nervously. “Talk to me.” 

Silence. 

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think isolation is necessarily healthy for either of us.” 

Silence. 

“We can work through this mess together. Just… open the door, please.” 

A rustle, and then silence. 

Paracelsus’ pulse accelerates. 

She is too quiet.

With a set of awkward, uncoordinated steps, he positions himself in front of her door. Attempting to recall his wielder’s battle move-set, Paracelsus unceremoniously kicks the doorknob once, twice, thrice, then- 

His body falls through the dingy door where it makes contact with the roughness of the carpet. His arm stings from rug burn. At this point, his body has been mangled left and right and all over and he couldn’t care any less. 

She looks at him. 

He looks at her. 

“Paracelsus?” She asks, her brows knitted into a look of concern and confusion. 

She is sitting on the carpet, her face largely shadowed by the dim lighting. From this angle, he can barely make out her features.  

Paracelsus stands up, this time with much more ease than before. The room is dark. He squints to get a better look at her. There are little gadgets and gimmicks scattered on the floor, most of them either shiny, metallic, or key-shaped. 

“You’re…” she starts. 

He opens his mouth. 

A.B.A shivers, her eyes dazed. “No, you’re not…” 

He swallows the knot in his throat. How do humans comfort each other? They talk, they embrace, they apologize. His wielder has never been a good listener, that was for sure. 

But A.B.A wasn’t human. And chances were that he wasn’t either. 

His hand reaches out, palm gently landing on her shoulder. He wanted to comfort her. Make things okay. Her green eyes lock onto his arm and something wild flashes across her gaze. She swiftly lifts her hand and-

A.B.A scratches him. 

It’s feral, protective, fierce. He flinches and pulls away at the contact. 

“S-Stay away from me!” She hisses. Her legs squirm against the carpet as she pushes herself further away from him, back flushed against the wall. 

Paracelsus stares are her, baffled. For the first time, he can’t think. His mind blanks. Something in his stomach drops, and he feels dizzy and light-heated. A new feeling. His chest tightens, and his breathing feels heavy and lethargic. 

Her familiar vitriolic leer dissolves as she realizes the three marks that run up the side of his arm, raised skin slowly opening into a bright shade of red. She brings a hand to her mouth as she chews the tips of nails and stares at his wound. She looks deathly pale, on the verge of fainting over what she had done. 

Neither of them move. 

Her frenzied eyes flicker to look at him. She looks scared of him. 

A.B.A is scared of him. 

Paracelsus steps backward, clutching his arm. It is by no means a lethal wound. And he’s not afraid of what A.B.A could do to him.  

The heavy pulse of rejection dissolves through his system, and he wonders if emotions can be viral, contaminant, invasive. He tries to speak, but his mouth is still sticky and dry. The pain is so visceral, he feels as if his insides were hurting. 

Her expression speaks a million words. His says nothing. 

Before he can fully digest what just happened, he finds himself shuffling into the hallway, pressing his back against the wall. He sinks and hangs his head low, wrapping his arms around himself to better process this state of bodily weakness. 

In any other situation, A.B.A would come running after him. She would soothe his wounds, offer compassion and kindness alongside a reassuring dosage of obsessive worrying. Before, he would find it obnoxious.

Now, Paracelsus was alone. 

An ache swells in his chest. Things are not the same. She finally got him a body. He finally got the choice to detach himself from A.B.A.  

The apartment is dark, tense. 

He waits for the tightness to blow over and subside.

Chapter Text

Paracelsus’ blood leaks onto the sink. 

It swirls down the drain, spinning into the clog like a small, dying vortex. The more the water runs, the pinker the residue gets. He watches the liquid slide down his porous hands, leaving droplets on his shirt, arms, and chest. 

The pain radiates from the three scratches on his arm. They were surprisingly deep, taking a while to fully coagulate. In his ax form, pain tended to be more of a generalized sensation, where a single rough shock to his brass-like surface would recoil throughout his entire body. It was like a strong vibration, disorienting and harsh, but never this chaotic, unless A.B.A rendered him liquid. 

She always had a habit of inducing liquefaction within him, as evident by the way the three lines marred the skin of his forearm. 

As his blood rinses off, his eyes catch his own reflection. He opens his mouth slightly, glaring at his dull, round teeth that look adept at masticating squishy foods. His eyes are black like coal, dirt, and the secretions of his sludge. He looks tired, and perhaps — unhappy. It was difficult for him to mask his emotions, never really having that many interpersonal fluctuations until he met A.B.A. 

His thoughts return to her once more. He thinks about how colorful her eyes are compared to his own, reminding him of the forest grove in which she first wielded him. The way they brighten when she looks at him with her tired, anemic gaze. 

At least, that’s how things were before. He huffs, trying to pivot his thoughts. All of these emotions were making his stomach twist into knots, reminding him of what had just happened. It all felt fictive, like those awful things humans have when they play dead at night. 

Nightmares? 

As he shuts off the faucet, he peers over at the toilet in aggravation. The hardest part of being a new human is learning about his own body. One moment, he feels a terrible fullness in the lower midsection of his abdomen. The next second, he remembers the concept of organs, and the mechanisms in which the body digests, consumes, and expels things. It’s the worst thing he’s ever endured as a creature with an amorphous biology.

Besides melting into the earth of course. 

He dries his hands. From the open bathroom window, he can see the lights of the city illuminate the roads, skyscrapers, and bridges. They’re on the third floor of the complex, not incredibly high, but in position to see a distant ocean. He inhales the cold night air.

Industrial smoke, flowers, cigarettes, home-cooked meals. It’s all so tangible and physical. 

He clumsily migrates out of the bathroom, passing by A.B.A’s closed door. He weaves past some of the books he finds on the living room floor, once again noticing the ripped and negligent state they were in. All throughout the apartment, there are stains of black residue tracked in, blemishing the carpet like a trail of spilled ink. 

That had come out of him. 

He grimaces. 

Paracelsus clumsily sits down on the living room carpet, attempting to find a comfortable position. Here, he would stay still and let time pass, finding familiarity in staring blankly at the wall like some kind of life-size haunted doll. 

Everything is quiet. 

The fire alarm beeps every so often. The clock ticks every minute. The roof creaks with a scattering of footsteps that vibrate the whole apartment. Ambulance sirens can be heard from the roads and highways. And on the sidewalks, people would chat or scream or laugh as they pass by their window.

He closes his eyes, dozing into a soothing trance. Everything darkens, and his mind begins to fizzle out. He then hears a door open. Someone is watching him. 

His eyes open wide awake, blinking at the ceiling. He turns to look at the hallway. 

A.B.A stands there, slightly hunched over like a wet, feral animal. She fidgets with a roll of adhesive wraps in her hands. Before Paracelsus can think or say anything, she stalks towards him in quiet, slow steps. He doesn’t say a word because a part of him is apprehensive that she’ll run away. 

Or maybe scratch him again. 

He watches her as she drops to her knees in front of him. She looks at him with an uncharacteristic flavor of distrust, fascination, and curiosity. And yet, her hand reaches out once more.

Paracelsus flinches as a cold thumb traces the fresh scars on his arms. He ignores the way his pulse rises at the touch of her fingers on his skin. The wounds are still bright red but less weepy than before. She pulls back, small dribbles of blood smeared on her fingers. She then positions the tip of the roller gauze flat against his inner wrist, carefully winding it up around his arm. It is loose enough to not restrict his radial blood flow, but amply secure to prevent any displacement during the induction of movement. 

Her motions are efficient, stable, and surgical. 

The bandages catch his eye. They’re familiar. Paracelsus recalls all those times she would lurch over after a battle, pressing down on a blood spurt, biting into the leather of his harness with her sharp teeth. He would watch as her unstable hands work and fasten the bandages around her limbs, tight and frenzied. She always bled so much. Sometimes, it was because of him. 

A breath of anticipation cuts his musings short. 

“Do you want my... blood?” She offers. There’s an eagerness to her voice that he doesn’t anticipate.  

His tongue licks his teeth. He thinks. Could this new, fleshy body sustain such a poison? Perhaps. A dark part of him craves to try it, his mind salivating for it like a thirsty animal. But there is no use in consuming her blood now. It wouldn’t help him heal any faster, nor would it help mediate the unfortunate situation they found themselves in. 

This is their bad habit. 

Paracelsus’ fingers dig into the carpet as he swallows the saliva in his mouth. “No, I don’t believe that will be necessary from now on.” 

A.B.A’s eyes lower to the ground, almost shameful. Her visage is somewhere between disappointed and conflicted, as if her brain was searching for something long and lost within the person she now knows as Paracelsus. 

She’s overthinking again. 

He wants her to stop thinking so much. 

“I see..” she replies. 

Paracelsus isn’t clueless. He is a parasitic demon who conditioned A.B.A to give him what he wanted. It’s almost Pavlovian, the way she visibly falls apart when she convinces herself there is nothing more for her to give him. He had her body, her devotion, and her endless supply of violence and resources. 

The gauze around his forearm tightens a little too much as A.B.A loses focus, temporarily restricting the blood flow in his arm. He shudders abruptly at the sensation, but doesn’t pull away. He bears it. A.B.A catches herself and pauses. 

“Are you going to leave me… Paracelsus?” She grits dryly. 

The way she said his name sounds forceful. Almost as if he had stolen or forsaken a sacred word. 

By the look in her eyes, the slight upturn arch of her eyebrows, the visible arrhythmia of her breathing— Paracelsus could tell she had already come to a conclusion. A.B.A may be emotional, counterintuitive, and stubborn. 

But she is also incredibly perceptive. 

“No.” He replies too quickly, too nervously. “Of course not.”

Her attention remains fixated on the gauze around his arm, watching some of his blood leak through. The pressure of the gauze disrupted the coagulation of his wounds, causing him to bleed again. 

“I just…” she begins as a shaky breath of exasperation leaves her mouth. “I find it difficult to believe you would want to stay here… with me. I’m not exactly…” 

Her fingers unintentionally dig into his injured arm. 

“-An easy person to deal with.” 

Paracelsus grinds his teeth, twitching against the uncomfortable pressure emanating from his arm. 

 “Neither am I.” He admits. “But that’s something that can’t be helped, can it?” 

It was a light-hearted response. But not a defeated one. A.B.A’s eyes peer at him and there’s a rare spark of relief in her softening expression. With a loosened grip, she clips an adhesive strip onto the bandages, securing it into place. He moves his fully-sheathed arm, surprised by the retained mobility of his treated limb.

“I suppose not.” Her tone is docile and vulnerable. “I don’t really understand what I’m... feeling.” She admits. 

Another silent pause. Her pupils twitch, as if she’s trying to translate something coded in her brain. She opens her mouth. 

“All I know is that I don’t want to be alone.” 

Is it a plea?

Or is it a confession?

It doesn’t matter now, because Paracelsus understands her needs and limits. He respects the lines she had drawn for the both of them. She doesn’t want to be touched, coddled, or treated like a child. 

She just wants his company. 

“I won’t leave then.” He reassures. 

And so, Paracelsus stays put. There’s a visible distance between them, unbreachable and unspoken. He lays down across from her, his eyes flickering from her face to the empty, textured ceiling. He lets his body become heavy and limp, pressing into the rough fibre of the carpet. He hears a rustling thump beside him, but he doesn’t look. 

All he does is stare at the ceiling. There are no blankets, soft cushions, or grassy meadows to bolster their heads. There are no visible stars under the glare of the city lights. He smells smoke, pollution, and nighttime air. 

The night is hot and humid. 

He only falls asleep after listening to the breathing of the body beside him, soft and rhythmic, like the ticking and thrashing of his organic heart.

Chapter Text

A.B.A thrusts a tired, ax-shaped Paracelsus into a pile of rocks. 

 “A.B.A, this… doesn’t look like the beach.” 

They stand in the middle of a mostly closed-off sea cave, where a thin beam of sunlight seeps through a small crevice facing the open ocean. Water flushes inwards, swashing against the rocks and drifting to the rhythm of a soft morning tide. 

A.B.A sits down on a flat rock, haphazardly shimming off her high-heeled boots. There are traces of sand smeared on her hands, elbows, and feet. As she twists her headband off, she cranes her neck to the side, revealing more sand pressed onto the dips of her bandaged collarbone. Once off, her platform boots clack against the pebbles as they roll into a crevice between the rocks. She wiggles her toes at the sensation of freedom, letting her heels bury into a uniform strip of rock. 

Paracelsus' eyes nervously dart from one corner of the cave to another. 

“If I may ask, why are we hiding out in this cave and not the actual sea shore?”

She stands up, her knees wobbling as she balances on a rock. 

“Well, there’s too many people there, dear.” She answers. Her lips then twitch into a mischievous smile. “Plus, we have all the privacy in the world here. What else could we want?” 

Paracelsus isn’t satisfied by that response. 

“You know, A.B.A, the view would be nicer from the shore. Here, all there is to see is-“ 

A drop of water lands at the top of his bow, echoing around the cave. 

“Rocks.” 

So many rocks. 

A.B.A’s enthusiastic smile wanes. 

“I’m not particularly…fond of people, Paracelsus.” She replies quietly. “You… should know this by now...” 

He does. He’s always known. But the fact that A.B.A is communicating with him about it is enough to prompt his curiosity.  

“I understand your reservations but… I don’t believe humans are all that bad.” 

It felt strange, saying such a provocative thing to the one woman who couldn’t stand other people. In a biological sense, he understands her distaste for them. Humans are weak and delicate beings. Their organs tear and rupture upon the smallest swing of his bladed teeth. One swift blow of his hard body and they’d sputter to their knees in hasty defeat. But exploring the world alongside his strange homunculus companion had become somewhat of a sobering experience for his initial assumptions about what humanness is. 

It was a fuzzy dichotomy that he could not quite yet grasp. A.B.A, seems to be in love with humanness, not humankind. He observes the way her animosity flares under her faulty misinterpretations of human behavior. Even one wrong look could drag them both into an unwanted fight. To his understanding, that violence tends to stem from some form of misaligned indiscretion, usually involving him. 

And that… 

was incredibly unfortunate. 

When Paracelsus bends to look at her, she’s staring at him with panic. 

“Darling! How could you say such a thing? After all the… the suffering they’ve put us through?”

Was it bad that he can’t recall a single time they started out as the victims? 

 “We’re not exactly pillars of compassion and mercy, A.B.A,” Paracelsus explains tiredly. “Have you ever considered that the fear and vilification people have for us is justified?” 

She pauses and stares at the blue water. She’s quiet for a moment. 

“Fear…?” She asks, struggling to sound out the word. 

Her restless hand reaches up to tinker with the key-shaped electrical connectors protruding out of her head. Her pupils twitch as she gazes into the swathing water. It takes a moment for Paracelsus to realize she is staring at her reflection. 

“Do I… truly provoke such a reaction from humans?” 

Oh. 

He struck a bad nerve. 

“N-no, A.B.A, what I meant is-“ 

He stops talking. By the empty and distant look on her face, Paracelsus can tell that she’s withdrawing back into her own head. She’s not listening to him. And even if she were, she would somehow misconstrue everything he had to say. He resigns with a sigh. 

She had already carried him all the way here, just so she could show him her version of the ocean. 

He’s not going to ruin this moment for her. 

A.B.A shifts her weight on the rocks, now visibly avoidant of her reflection. With her clumsy fingers, she brushes sand off her clothes, revealing a smattering of stubborn specks still clinging onto her bandages like little crushed sequins. Her head hangs low, with long wirey bangs shielding the paleness of her face. Her hands are never still. She picks at the loose polymers on her thigh, fidgeting with them as she enters the water cautiously. 

He watches her feet descend into the shallow shores of the lake. The water squelches against her gauzed knees, eliciting a flighty squeak from her. Would the seawater swarm into her wounds? Or would the mercury in her blood decant into the deepest parts of the cave, searing into raw quicksilver and iodine? He did not know. But A.B.A looks indifferent as she sinks deeper. Anxiously, she tugs at Paracelsus’ strap, anchoring him onto a soft and squishy part of the lake. 

Wherever she goes, he’s never far behind. 

Paracelsus doesn’t feel much. At most, he perceives the coolness of the water splash against the teeth of his blade. A strip of seaweed drifts into his notches, intertwining around his body like webbed silk. 

Inconsolable liquid. Nothing like blood. 

A.B.A shoots him a tired look before fully submerging herself into the water. Her hair is buoyant, haloing around her like a beryl membrane. Her eyes are squeezed shut, perhaps in anticipation or pain. A part of him wishes he could know for certain. 

Through the small fissure of the oceanic cave, a harsher tide drifts inbound. 

And somehow, it’s forceful enough to knock Paracelsus horizontally into the water. Like a heavy anchor, he submerges into the shallow dirt of the littoral pit. Sea water flushes into his mouth, ear flaps, and eyes. All he sees is a suspension of dust and seashells. Aside from his initial gurgling shriek for help, Paracelsus attempts to keep calm. Even if there are air bubbles expelling out of his mouth, sentient weapons can’t exactly drown, right? 

Underwater, his eyes remain open. On the roof of the cave, he sees a wavering mound of crystallized structures, phosphorus under thin contusions of sunlight. Stalactites, he recalls. A.B.A had mentioned them before. 

The inundated pebbles around him are lumpy and uncomfortable, digging into his brass-like body as he lays flat against the seafloor. From his left, a shoal of fish swim above his body, unperturbed by the movement of his twitching bow. It was mildly disappointing how little they care about him being there. 

Maybe to them, he wasn’t a living being at all. 

The water makes him feel weightless. And in a strange way, he enjoys this feeling of freedom. The sensation is airy and light. If he shifts his body to the side, perhaps a tidal reflux could pull him towards the direction he’s facing-

Two small hands fish him out of the water. 

He gasps for air.

Paracelsus’ eyes snap wide open. 

He lurches forward and begins coughing. There’s no water in his lungs, only clumped saliva against the ridges of his wet teeth. His mouth feels sticky, prompting him to hinge his jaw open as he tries to inhale more oxygen. 

Did he just hallucinate? Teleport? Was that a memory? 

What the hell is happening? 

His fingers squirm against the carpet. It’s soft. He instinctively clings to it as his mind processes the strange event he just experienced.

Everything is quiet. It uneases him. 

His eyelids flutter as he looks for A.B.A. She isn’t there, having left only a roll of used gauze as an artifact of her faltered presence. 

Gone. 

He gives himself some time to recuperate. His eyes feel itchy and tacky. He rubs them with the back of his hand, finding relief in the presence of his strange, multi-jointed carpels. The blood on his bandaged forearm is dry. A part of him feels mildly unsettled that he even bleeds. But this human body was still better than not having a physical form at all. 

The bandages were so meticulously placed. A.B.A had patched him up well. 

Well, aside from accidentally reopening his wounds last night. 

Oh, that conversation did happen. 

I don’t want to be alone. 

It was such a vulnerable request. Perhaps years ago, he would’ve perceived such a sentiment as pathetic and insignificant. Initially, A.B.A was nothing more than expendable to him. She was anemic, weak, and barely functional as a living entity. The old him would not have cared less if she wanted to be alone or not. 

But now, his throat knots at the thought of seeing her in such a state of internal anguish. Like a stray dog, he instinctively searches for her wherever he goes, finding abandoned traces of her existence within this world they call a home. And through the maelstrom of A.B.A’s thrashing and oozing mind, he was desperate to reach her. 

Paracelsus attempts to stand up, only to lose his balance. His bones and muscles may be strong, sure — but his fine motor skills are still quite underdeveloped. With one hand clamping down on the couch, he pushes himself up, successfully shuffling onto the heels of his feet. 

The rest comes a little easier. 

He drags his feet into the hallway to look for A.B.A. The door is locked. How many keys did she have? He was fairly certain he had broken the last one. From the crack underneath the door, he can see a shadow moving inside, as if someone were pacing back and forth. Maybe if he listens a little closer, he could-  

The calloused thump of an item — most likely a heavy book —  ricochets against the wall. It is then followed by a scratchy, frustrated scream. 

On second thought, he should probably leave her alone. 

Paracelsus limps into the kitchen, where he finds a red apple sitting on the counter. There is a note, written in what seemed like an attempt at cursive. Unfortunately, the calligraphy has a bit too many unnecessary twists and loops, hardly legible. It takes him a good minute or so to string together what it reads. 

My Dearest Paracelsus, 

Your body requires nutritional substances to survive. For now, have this apple. It is red, but it is not full of blood. 

- A . B . A

…Or maybe he read it wrong. 

Probably not. 

He picks up the apple and inspects it flat on his palm. There are a few blemishes at the bottom, but nothing to evoke any initial suspicion. His stomach churns. He’s hungry. With a brave resolve, he bites into the apple, surprised by how sweet and tangy it tastes. It was not acrid and metallic like blood was, nor did it fill him with large amounts of gusto and power. 

But he enjoys it. Before long, he gets to the core of the apple. He cuts into an aggregation of seeds and instinctively clamps down harshly with his molars. Hard. Bitter. He grimaces. 

This feels and tastes awful. 

He spits. 

When Paracelsus leaves the apartment, he wonders if he should be wearing anything other than A.B.A’s Hohenheim home-sewn pajamas. He looks down at his legs, staring directly at his unclothed feet. A.B.A didn’t make him shoes. 

He squints under the heft of the morning sunlight. It’s warm, like fire, or a percolating vein. Paracelsus grips onto the staircase handrails as he maneuvers down the steps. His feet wobble with each dip. Suddenly, his eyes lock onto a small, black handprint impressed onto the surface of the railing. 

She had struggled to get him up here. 

The more he lived in this form, the more it was difficult to think A.B.A would carry him everywhere with nothing but pure spite and a trusty pair of high-heeled boots. Now he understood why she always complained about bodily aches. He could barely hold his own. 

Once he gets to the ground floor, the sound of people and buzzing vehicles becomes more audible. The texture of the floor underneath his feet shifts into something more concrete and gravel-like. Tiny granites dig into the soles of his feet and he tries his best to ignore the way they indent onto his skin. 

He exits onto a sidewalk.

The man-made skyscrapers extend into the sky, towering over all the infrastructure like ghastly steel-enforced monoliths. There are stores, shops, and cafes lined up alongside the bustling roads. He’s seen these streets before in passing. And in all honesty, he didn’t particularly care for them that much until now. 

People, humans, strangers, all walk past him from both directions. They don’t even glance at him. It's strange, seeing so many humans weave around him, unaware of the true motive behind his existence. 

Paracelsus lowers his head. For the first time in his life, humans make him nervous. He tries to emulate a natural walk he might or might not have learned from A.B.A, pretending like he wasn’t just molded into an anthropomorphous entity a day ago. A few people glance at him as he sheepishly trudges through the crowd. Oh, the horrors of being perceived. 

Now, to the task at hand. 

How exactly do you locate a Grim Reaper?

Chapter Text

A.B.A’s hands search for a cool column of brass that no longer exists. Her half-contorted body frantically claws at nothing. Her eyes open. 

She’s now fully awake. The clock reads 3:34 am. Her mind is racing with repetitive little thoughts, burning hot against her skull. She can’t go back to sleep. 

In the darkness, she crawls over Paracelsus’ sleeping body. His lips are parted in a way that makes him look dead. At this point, she’s more familiar with dead humans than alive ones. Seeing him like this is morbidly comforting. He’s so delicate and non-threatening. His breathing is perpetual, natural, easy. 

He’s better at being human than she is. 

She feels bitter. 

Her cold fingers press against his temple, gliding down the curvature of his left cheek. She’s not sure why she was so compelled to touch him. Was it contempt? Fear? Adoration? 

She did not know. 

But he’s soft, warm. His skin fizzles with a heat that A.B.A lacks. She’s obsessed with it. He’s nothing like he was before, more liquid than solid, more tissue than brass. She firmly pinches the skin of his cheek, watching it smoothen out as she lets go. 

It’s unsettling. She’s never touched someone like this before. His blood is congregated inside a body, like a house. She’s seen it, felt it, smeared it against wet bandages, rosy and pink like her own. 

It reminded her of how things used to be. Paracelsus' sludge was heavy and cold, like porous metallic alloy that danced and tingled around the white of her bruised knuckles. She had come to love that coolness on her skin, her body, her throbbing wounds. Especially when she was going for that final slash. It was strangely intimate, being drenched in the entrails of your lover as you eviscerate the one thing that continuously bathes you with cruelty and rejection. 

This was new. 

Who was this person? 

As she leans in, a tendril of her hair pokes his nose. In response, his nose twitches and he inhales sharply. He flinches, visibly disturbed but unawaken. 

Does he dream? 

And if so, what does he dream about? 

A.B.A has too many questions. She desperately wants to search for vibrant gold in the red, dissect the traces of solid Midas in his blood. Something, anything, to reaffirm that he is, in fact, Paracelsus. And most of all, she wants things to revert back to how they were. She knows it’s a shameful sentiment. It is wrong of her to want him to go back to the horrifying state of dependence. But it was what was most familiar to her. He was predictable. Simple. Until he wasn’t. 

That was compounded by his rejection of her blood. 

If A.B.A understands one emotion in this world, it is pain. She knows how to tolerate it. That is her commitment to Paracelsus. Pain is not a bad thing, it is a necessary thing. Humans are too self-absorbed and egotistical to fully comprehend what it takes to truly care for someone. The stronger the sacrifice, the more enthralling the love can be. 

And all that, broken by his refusal. Any sense of familiarly she shares with him is now mangled, broken, and replaced by something far more fragile and foreign. There is no longer a necessity for the wreaking of violence, the severing of her veins for consumption, the pathological bloodlust. He turned down the only thing she could ever offer him. Whatever else remains is not enough to harness and nurture love.  

She is convinced of it. 

More than likely, he had lied the night before and was planning to leave. Humans tend to scheme. She has reason to distrust. 

A.B.A’s head hurts. 

It would help if she could find something to focus her anger at. But there is nothing. No enemies, no threats. Just a sleeping Paracelsus, and herself, in this shoddy poorly-lit living room. 

She gets up and walks to the kitchen. There was a single burnt pan on the stove. She glares at it. It is covered in sticky ash and greasy build-up. She doesn’t know how to cook. She barely has the time or desire to eat, despite Paracelsus’ constant reminders that her body requires nutritional substances to survive. 

Come to think of it, has he always been that attentive over her hunger? 

Memories are fickle things. She couldn’t think straight. The cabinets are empty, and she is desperate for food. Not for herself, but for Paracelsus. 

A.B.A opens the window. She pokes her head out, scouring for fresh air and ideas. The house down the street has a small orchard tree in their backyard. It stands out, sprawled in the middle of a modernized, suburbial street. Her unconventional mind begins to turn with ideas, until her impulsivity wins. It never takes much contemplation for A.B.A to settle on a decision. She hates it. It is nothing like home. 

The night is humid. She ignores the coldness that rushes up her spine as she walks out into the void of the night. Her body feels lighter, springier, not having to carry Paracelsus around. Despite her newfound agility, she wasn’t fond of how… empty it felt to exist without him. Her balance is a little off, and she knows it. She grips the apartment keys in a hasty squeeze, anxiously tracing the teethed ridges with her thumb. There are no stars visible from this modern city. The lights are too bright, too artificial. 

The streets are silent. The asphalt roads seem long and endless, plunging into the somnambulant horizon. She stalks over to the neighbor’s house, jumping over the fence with a newfound agility. 

Cold grass. Runny mud and stone.  It brushes against her ankles. Rising on her tippy toes, she aims for the apple that is closest to the ground, dangling it against her fingers. The tree is far taller than expected. It must have been here for a long time, perhaps even before the house was fully constructed. With a quick tug, she plucks the apple successfully. Even in the darkness, she knows it is bright red. Her fingernails dig a crescent into it. She observes how the juice leaks out of it, sticky on her bitten teal nails. 

When she arrives home, Paracelsus hasn’t moved. He’s still asleep on the carpet, occasionally twitching against the floor at the vibration of her very soft footsteps.   

A.B.A takes out a pen and scribbles down a note on the back of a flyer.

It is red. It is not full of blood. 

This was how her creator had noted the changes he observed in her. She had only known him for a few days. What was the term for that? A scientific observation? Well, It didn’t matter. Maybe Paracelsus would find comfort and reassurance in her very scientific observation. 

Once done, she steps backwards into the hallway, and falters alongside the only thing that is familiar to her. 

Isolation. 

Paracelsus stands awkwardly in the middle of a raised boardwalk, staring at a congregation of crows mingling on an empty bench. The ocean is visible, separated by railings that appear too short to provide any real protection. It’s objectively a beautiful view. But he’s not here to sightsee. 

He huffs and picks up a stone. His palms are sweating. This is not something he would ever do, unless the circumstances were dire. He raises his hand, attempting to gauge a scope of projected distance. With a minor jolt, he launches the rock at a group of crows, careful to not actually hit any of them. The last thing he wants is to be immediately torn apart by one of Testament's deadly familiars.

Clank. The rock lands right in the middle of the “murder” scene. Consequently, they all flock in a broken airborne swarm, cawing and turning to his direction. 

Ugh. 

He attempts to hide behind a tree, because running is absolutely out of the question for him. His back is flushed against the trunk as he hears the vocal shrills of the birds get closer. 

“Disturbing the wild fauna, are we? I heard from somewhere that crows remember faces.” 

Oh. Well that was a lot easier than expected. Maybe that barefoot three mile walk to the most beautiful part of the city was worth it. Something tangles into him, sharp and clawed. Paracelsus shrieks, attempting to pry a bird off his hair. All he can do is scramble, and try not to die. 

Testament crosses their arms, leisurely leaning against their scythe. Their amused eyes are fixed on Paracelsus, watching him be picked apart by birds. 

“There are easier ways to reach me. For starters, a phone works just fine.”

Paracelsus finally shoos the crow away and clears his throat. He can feel Testament staring into his soul, as if they were caught by a fleeting whiff of familiarity. Their eyes narrow in suspicion. 

Paracelsus cannot hold eye contact for the life of him. 

“Hello… Testament.” he croaks dryly. His own voice sounds tired, perhaps even embarrassed. 

Testament blinks, and their mouth falls open. With the shock, they nearly fall off their wobbling scythe. This is probably the most uncomposed they’ve ever looked. Well, at least, to Paracelsus’ knowledge. A moment of silence. Testament tugs their hat over their eyes as an amused smile spreads across their lips. 

“Oh my. Well this is an unexpected turn of events.”

A soft breeze. Paracelsus can feel it on his skin, puffing a static hush into his ears. He coyly listens to the light chatter of people. Something about school, food, or work. 

Testament beckons him over to an empty outdoor table. At the center of the table, there is a vase spilling with lovely blue lillies. The place they’re at appears to be a cafe of some sort. The whiff of food makes his organs feel queasy.

“Well, you’re certainly… different. How are you faring with all these physical changes?” 

Paracelsus glances down at his body. It was amusing that Testament didn’t even ask how such a thing was even possible. 

“I’m.. not sure.” 

A waiter comes by with a kettle of hot water, hibiscus teabags, and two teacups, placing them all on their shared table. Testament politely nods in acknowledgement and reaches forward to slip two teabags into their respective cups. Paracelsus deduces that they must be a frequent guest. 

“I see. What about your current form fuels this apprehension?” 

“A.B.A doesn’t seem to like it.” Paracelsus answers quickly. 

He didn’t even have to think about it. He needed to get those words out. Truthfully, there were so many things to hate about his new body. But A.B.A’s rejection was the first thing that festered inside his mind, like a sprawling ailment he could not flee from. 

Testament’s pigmented eyes flutter with fascination.

“Well, that is quite the unexpected development. Perhaps your newfound agency has precipitated some of her deepest insecurities?”  

Paracelsus thinks. 

“No, I believe there’s more to it than just jealousy. We had a disagreement last night and well, she-“ 

How should he word it?

“Lashed out.” 

“Ah.” Testament presses their lips together, thoughtful. Their eyes land on the bandages around Paracelsus’s forearm. “Violence has always been her strong suit.” 

Not always, Paracelsus wants to correct. 

“So, how much do you know about A.B.A’s past?” Testament asks whilst reaching over to retrieve the hot kettle. Paracelsus watches the stream of hot water fill up into his teacup, precise and regal. The steam whiffs into the air, fluid and endless. 

“I know that she was born… no, created in a laboratory in Frasco. And I know she lived in perpetual isolation for many years.” 

Ten years. 

Testament hums. “I see. That must have been a highly formative time for her development.” 

Paracelsus’ eyes dart to the floor. He knows. Her nativity and blind loyalty were some of A.B.A’s most appealing attributes. She was a new soul who just had the misfortune of meeting him. She was broken, agitated by the cruelness of her own birth and the inhumanity of her isolation. He presented himself as freedom incarnate, corporeally simple enough to draw her in and keep her submitted. It was pure manipulation. He could be anything she wanted him to be, if it meant he could drink her alive. 

“I don’t know how to help her.” 

The familiar on Testament’s shoulder cackles. It’s loud, screeching, and almost mocking. Testament hushes their companion and speaks. 

“Sometimes, our past sticks around for far longer than we wish for. Change is never easy. Can you blame her for being fearful of you?” 

No. He couldn’t blame her. 

Paracelsus glances down at his tea. A few crimson petals and dried calyces float to the top of his drink, delicately grinded into botanical smitherings. He’s drinking dead flowers. The soft clink of Testament’s teaspoon reels him back into reality. He instinctively dips his teaspoon into the tea, sugarless and bitter. 

“I… encouraged her mistrust of humans. At least, I did, when we first met. I wanted her to fight, to kill. It was insatiable, and I relished in the bloodshed that she provided for me. In an ironic way, this is almost like… a karmic punishment.”  

Paracelsus usually isn’t very talkative. But it is nice to have a conversation with someone who listens.

“An astute observation.” Testament replies. “There’s no one in this world as keen as you are to A.B.A’s emotions. So tell me, Flament Nagel, are you willing to embrace this newfound vulnerability for her sake?”

Paracelsus can’t answer. The creature part of him wants to say no. It was not in his best interest to live permanently in a human vessel. But the alternative was death or losing A.B.A. The increasingly human part of him was coming to terms with this unstoppable wave of change. Even if he were to somehow turn back, he had already experienced humanness. He was, and is, permanently changed. 

“I-I’m not sure.” He replies. 

“Hm.” Testament brings the teacup to their lips.“So, what type of query warrants my presence?” 

Paracelsus fidgets with the small teaspoon in his hands. Why is he so fidgety? Was this a learned behavior?

“Somehow, you've… embraced change. You know what bloodlust is, just like I do. But you seem to have… evolved past that urge. How did you do it?” 

Testament’s lips form into a gentle smile. “It's quite simple. I embraced companionship and friendship with those I held dearest to my heart. Not every relationship needs to be forged upon self-interest.“ 

“Oh...” 

He knew what they had was a twisted dynamic. It didn’t matter, until it did. And it started to bother him more and more. The isolation. The anger. The violence and jealousy. A.B.A bleeding out. Paracelsus bleeding out. Them both, covered in their own sick, with no stability or ground to walk on-

Paracelsus nervously takes a drink from his tea. It’s a hot, burning liquid, and it really doesn’t taste like much. Ideally, it needs more iron. Or maybe an apple. He swallows a bit too much and his hands ball into a painful fist.

Pain. 

A thought arises in his head. 

He opens his mouth. 

“I wish I met A.B.A under different circumstances.” He blurts out. 

Where did that come from? 

”An honorable sentiment,” Testament chuckles and tilts their head to the side. “However, you need to come to terms with the past in order to build a new future. The urge to rebound back into old habits— it doesn’t get easier. But you learn to cope together and live in the present.” 

Learn to cope. 

Together. 

 The words sit with Paracelsus for a long time. He can’t really change the past. Neither of them can.

Testament finishes their tea. The familiar on their shoulder sputters and clicks, hopping on one leg. 

“Well, I’m late for my town meeting with the Mayor. I was summoned to be the renovations officer for a new local tea shop. They serve hawthorn leaf and lemon balm grief tea. You sure do look like you could benefit from a cup.” 

Paracelsus nods, only understanding half of that. What exactly is Testament’s job again? 

Testament gets up, leaves the bill, and picks up their hefty scythe. The avian familiar on their shoulder flutters its wings as they grip onto their shoulder with more firmness. 

“Now, one thing. Accept the mundanity of companionship. Not every quarrel is a war, and not every body has to be claimed or own. Instead, take a leisurely stroll through this wonderful park with A.B.A, as equals.” 

Paracelsus clutches the handle of the tea cup in his hands. His mouth is numb from the hot liquid. 

“Oh and I suggest you… adjust that poker face. It’s not exactly an alluring sight.” 

Paracelsus huffs, a little irritated by the unnecessary dig.

When Testament leaves, he sits alone for a while. There are people holding hands, smiling and laughing. Some were talking on their little portable boxes, lost in an imaginary conversation with themselves. The world isn’t as empty as they had initially assumed. 

His tea grows cold. Paracelsus feels… lonely. It’s a terrible absence, to sit here alone, watching the day pass by without having any control over his emotions. 

The sky is cloudy and turning gray. Fleetingly, he realizes he wants to seek her out, like a home. 

Chapter Text

A full week had passed since he had met A.B.A. 

Dusky clouds. Black night. In the wilderness of Frasco, there are too many stars. 

Paracelsus is too irritated to care. 

“I suspect we may be lost.” he says tiredly. 

A.B.A continues trudging him along an upward hill. Her head is peaked towards the sky, sticky florid hair pinned against her pale forehead and cheeks. A strand slips in between her lips, and she bites on it with violent grit. He knows he’s heavy. And by the shaking of her bruised knees, he can tell she is nearing her limit. His chains rattle periodically as she huffs harshly into the chilly mist, inhaling a lungful of cold air. 

She’s struggling so much. She then gasps for air, and speaks. 

“Darling.. don’t you… think… Betelgeuse gleams… the brightest in the darkness?” 

Paracelsus blinks at her. Is she talking about constellations again? He could tell that her slow speech was already getting sharper, faster. 

Betelgeuse. Admittingly, he’s really never stopped to inquire anything about the stars, or wonder why they shined or dimmed or died. It was such an obvious deduction that they would shine the brightest at night. 

“Yes, uh, A.B.A — I believe the absence of the sun accentuates the glow of the stars.” He says flatly. 

A.B.A responds with a happy little hum. Clearly, she mistook his statement as encouragement. 

“Hatsya.” She enthusiastically says. “That’s the star… that dwells… atop of Orion’s big knife.” 

Paracelsus thinks she means sword. 

His unamused eyes flicker to her. He watches her fingers lift towards the lower skyline and trace a line, pointing at a system of two constellations that dipped in parallel streaks. One is more obtuse and scattered than the other. Her dainty finger lands on two stars caught between the lower dip of the bigger constellation. Those clusters of stars were much fainter than Orion. Perhaps, it was because of their geographical location. 

“And that’s… Merak… and…Dubhe. They’re pointers to… Polaris. Wherever they are, Polaris… heeds…closely.” 

Paracelsus doesn’t reciprocate her enthusiasm. He didn’t particularly care about Polaris or the fragmentation of the stars. He’s more level-headed than her. 

A.B.A had memorized all the constellations during her time trapped at the observatory, and she never missed a beat in regurgitating them to him. She tended to misunderstand a lot about human terminology, society, and idiomatic phrases. Her comprehension of the law was particularly egregious. And yet, with an impressive savance, she demonstrated a great deal of knowledge about the natural world and its subtle nuances. 

“Eh… A.B.A that’s great, but how is this going to help us find a way out of this forest?” 

A.B.A makes a low but affectionate grunt. “I’m not worried, dear. We have each other… and… that’s all that matters, right?”  

Paracelsus was growing impatient. A carnal part of him was itching for a fight, and now they were stuck in the middle of nowhere with no humans in sight. He craved for a kill. For blood. 

A.B.A stomps forward, their shared chains clattering with every dour footstep. There are remnants of broken rubble, wood, and limestone everywhere. The wiry branches extend from bushes and poke at their bodies, digging into A.B.A’s bandaged ankles and tracing little white abrasions wherever she steps. 

Terrible things haunt this forest. 

He would know. 

She continues to drag him higher, until they’re close to the hilltop. The trees engulf them less and less. The moon becomes more visible and vast. The strength of the wind is visceral, cold like stone. 

“A.B.A, I suggest we rethink where we are going-“

She stops. She looks up at the night sky, and a smile dances on her blue, chapped lips. 

“Paracelsus.” She says breathlessly.

He stops to look. 

Little distant stars flash and wink across the canvas of the endless night sky. In the backdrop, he could see smears of blue and turquoise and red, all harmonized into an amalgamation of dust, sparks, and stars. A.B.A stood at the peak of a rock, her pale skin bathed in raw moonlight. 

Paracelsus is a weapon. He doesn’t find humans beautiful or appealing in the slightest. He only cares about power. That’s what made him insatiably attentive, the lure of blood, the potential for an unstoppable wielder or host that can satiate his hunger for death. 

And yet, he felt compelled to stare at A.B.A whenever she ponders like this. This homunculus, who ostensibly calls herself his wife, his lover, his friend, was the only creature who has doted on him with genuine compassion. She acknowledges him in her own stubborn and naive way, nurturing him, caring for him, sometimes against his better judgment. 

And here she is, coated in flesh wounds and dirty gauze, smiling at something as insignificant as the stars. She does this every night. He finds it so incredibly odd. A.B.A is a girl with no sense of self preservation; just inexhaustible, undeterred curiosity in its purest form. It is almost contagious. Her creation was similar to his own, alchemical in nature, born out of an abundance of humanity's most overarching traits. 

The lust for war. 

The hunger for curiosity. 

A.B.A looks so fragile against the goliath of the large, open skies. The night is biting and harsh. But only she can shiver at its earthful persistence. 

if he really wanted to, he could abandon this form. It would difficult, troublesome, but he could. Morph into something she despises. Then, he could drive her away. Convince her to abandon him in some ditch, and find another wielder that was more malleable, more bloodthirsty, more puppeterable. 

But as much as he pines after the glory of his past, he would be lying if he said he didn't care for her. Because he does. To what extent? He did not know. He had no interest in knowing. But he will never admit it to her. It is humiliating. Sickening. A punch to his ego. 

A.B.A clings onto him, and her arms wrap around him like taut ligament to bone. She is cold, just like he is. They stay still as she catches her breath and rests. He doesn’t speak. They're on top of the hill, having already made it out of the forest. Only then does Paracelsus realize A.B.A knew where she was going all along.

He, on the other hand, did not. 

It’s raining hard. 

It’s already nighttime. 

A.B.A unsteadily unwinds the bloody gauze on her arm. With a cottony zelch, she fully twists them off, revealing unbroken, mended skin. The only thing that remain are gradients of dry blood dotted onto her skin like shredded little petals. 

Two days. 

This is the longest she’s ever gone without fighting. 

Something dark and shameful unravels at the weight of such a revelation. 

She grabs a fresh strip of gauze and lethargically wraps it around her arm again. She knows she does not need it. There’s no bleeding to stop, no wound to dress. But it’s comforting. She likes the pressure of it against her skin. It’s what’s familiar to her. 

These are the small things she can control. She keeps them safe, locked behind ritual.

Her hands are trembling. She doesn’t have the energy to move, to walk, to even open her mouth. The room is cold. She is cold. She feels her only reassurance, slipping, slipping, slipping- 

That unmistakable sound of the door loops over and over in her head. He had left. And so, she waits. And she waits. And she waits for him. 

She wants to wait. 

What are her ways to pass the time? She paces. She talks to herself. She repeats his name. She sews a shirt that she thinks would fit him. She locks and unlocks the front door. She decides to keep it unlocked. She breaks things. She bites her acrid nails. She writes in her grudge notebook, then rips out the pages that contain his name. She lays on the floor and sulks. She fidgets with keys, keys, keys, so many keys. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. What if he’s found another wielder? What if some horrid, homewrecking woman lured him away? She wants to break things, make a mess out of herself and this terrible, stiff, murky apartment- 

Tap. She hears the door open. 

A.B.A rushes out of her room in a frenzy. 

Paracelsus is standing there, hunched over and soaked. He sneezes and rubs his nose. His eyes are tired and droopy. He looks like a sickly apparition that got caught in a storm. When his gaze finds A.B.A, a hint of what seems like relief flashes across his eyes. 

A.B.A is relieved, too. 

He’s wet. If he were his old self, the rain wouldn't have been a problem and she’d simply dry him off. But he isn’t, and she can see him shivering. His hair retains so much moisture. It’s almost what she would describe as shaggy. She instinctively runs to grab a towel and hands it to him. 

Her hand lingers. She wants to hug him. But instead, she keeps her distance, and backs into the wall, where she slides down and sits. 

He dries his face. Then, he clumsily takes off his wet shirt, getting it stuck between his elbows. 

A.B.A watches him struggle, tilting her head to the side in confusion. At the revelation of his exposed midriff, she squeaks and looks away, realizing what he’s doing. Sure, she’s seen him more uncovered than this before. In fact, she even dressed him when he was still settling into his corporeal form. But back then, he was covered in sludge, barely fully-formed and soft like wet clay. Now, he is an actual human. 

His skin looks fragile and warm. That impulsiveness to touch him lurks back, like a fire, but she contains it. What’s stopping her? Fear? Unfamiliarity? There was something about his closeness to her, the quietness of the room, the air, that made her cheeks flush bright red. She’s nervous again. 

What do humans call this?

Intimacy?

He sits down next to her. A.B.A huddles her legs in, fidgeting with a silver key. She sets her gaze to anything in the room but him. The curtains are pulled back, but the window is tightly sealed to ward off the rain. Droplets from the sky tap against the window, unrhythmic and unpredictable. Still, she can see the foggy and light-polluted night sky from the apartment. From the corner of her eye, she sees Paracelsus lean back and open his mouth. 

“The stars are nice.” He says softly. 

A.B.A perks up. She… used to say that to him. Was he mocking her? No… he would never. The memories of the wilderness and Frasco start flooding back in. Her cheeks grow redder. She’s not wearing her headband, and her messy bangs fall onto her face.  

“I don’t see anything.” She pouts. The window is too fogged for her to make out the little dots in the sky. 

Paracelsus lets out a soft, sheepish laugh. It catches her off guard to see him smiling, especially in this form. 

He has a sweet smile- 

“They’re still there, A.B.A. We just can’t see them.” 

She blinks. What an odd social remark. She groans and buries her face into her raised knees. “I… don’t like it here.” Her voice muffles as she speaks. “Everything is too… unfamiliar. I feel rotten.”  

Paracelsus’ hand points to the rainy sky. “You once told me that the constellations are how we can find our way home.” 

Her drowsy gaze lands on the window. She watches the droplets of water trickle down the fogged glass. This city was too loud, too foreign. Paracelsus, the only anchoring element in her life, was forever changed.

“There's no home to go to.” She says in a defeated tone. 

Paracelsus clenches his jaw. He’s lost in thought, perhaps attempting to recall something long and lost. The question of what home was too much for them, too complex. She knew that they were both vagabonds, outcasts, pariahs, but not by choice. 

“As long as we are here, in this world, we will always have a home somewhere.” He replies. 

A.B.A sinks her head into her legs even more. At the faint crackle of lightning, she jumps and squeezes her eyes shut, so much so that she sees sparks behind her eyelids. 

The only thing that’s burned into her brain are images of death. Pain. Electricity. Fire. Metal gates. She sees it when she closes her eyes. When she sleeps. They’re in her dreams, in the essence of Paracelsus, in the fleshy silk stitches she mends in the dark. It's all bitter, salty, like the blood on her tongue after a fight. It’s as expected as breathing, as natural as living. 

Sometimes, she thinks she was created for it.  

So much so that she had forgotten how much she loves the stars. 

She looks at the window. If she squints, she can make out the faint outline of Canis Major. They’re in a different hemisphere. Different constellations, same sky. 

Her lips quiver. “I don’t know if I have a place in this world, Paracelsus-“ Her fingers twitch. “I don’t know if I ever did to begin with.” 

Paracelsus hums, his soaked shirt is wet and squelchy in his hands. His grip tightens as water drips from his fingers. “You’re more than just.. a tool for violence, A.B.A. You’re allowed to exist, just as you are.” 

A.B.A brings her nails to her mouth, and starts grinding her teeth onto them. She’s nervous. Paracelsus’s tone was far more gentler than before. She almost doesn’t recognize him. That familiar fear crawls up her spine once again. She grips the key in her palm harder until it sweats, coppery and humid. She wants to run. To hide. 

But she doesn’t. 

A.B.A closes her eyes, and pictures him. How he was before. How he exists, in her mind. Darling. Dearest. Love. His voice — it’s his voice. That’s all it takes for her walls to come down. A.B.A’s puffy eyes peer from underneath her mussed green hair. 

“Violence is all I’ve ever known.” A.B.A whispers. “That’s all you’ve ever shown me.” 

She wasn’t trying to be hurtful, spiteful, or accusatory. 

But A.B.A thinks she sees a flicker of pain in his eyes. His fisted knuckles turn white. His breathing is a little harsher, more audible. His mouth is closed, and his skin is shiny against the halogen of their apartment lights. He’s sweating, and his arms slowly wind around body again. He holds himself, just like she use to hold him. 

She tries to understand. 

What is he feeling? 

A.B.A begins to feel remorseful. Had she spoken too much? Said too much? Does he have a fever? Should she be worried for him? 

She was never good with words. It’s painful to see him like this. She aches, too. For him. For herself. But there’s an internal barrier that keeps her physically distant. She bears that weight like a virtue.

A silence. 

“A.B.A, I’m… sorry.” He laments. His voice is exasperated, unstable. He looks like he has more to say, but his lips tremble and his gaze falters. 

An… apology? 

Why is he apologizing? She’s never heard his voice shake like that. His human emotions… they’re so difficult to interpret. She just wants to close her eyes and go back to stargazing with her Paracelsus. That’s the happiest she’s ever been. And that’s the happiest she’ll ever be. 

All this thinking makes her dizzy. A.B.A lets out a soft exhale, and pushes herself off the wall. She allows her body to sink back into the carpet floor. 

Her fingers are cold. 

The hard calluses on the meat of her palms are finally going away. That was the last remnant of who she was, who she loves. It’s gone. 

She looks up at the ceiling. She doesn’t have the ability to keep her eyes fully open. She hears a rustling beside her. It’s… Paracelsus. 

This feels like giving up. They stay still. 

But he… did keep his promise, after all. 

He could’ve left. 

 He didn’t. 

A.B.A swallows harshly against the bile in her throat. Maybe— just maybe, there is still a piece of them left in this terrible aftermath. Something to salvage from the old simplicity of their shared past. Her arm moves closer to his. She takes a deep, stilted breath. 

A.B.A seeks out his hand. 

Like a tender nerve, Paracelsus flinches. But at the touch of her frigid, scouting hand, his larger and slightly damp palm unwinds. He indulges her, like a gift. A.B.A’s palm keens into his, and it’s a delicate and fleeting thing that makes her entire body come alive. It is nothing like the cold brass and sulfur she had come to love. Instead, it’s a soft, uncoordinated touch that slowly entwines into a jointful mess. She chases the warmth. Their fingers are now unceremoniously locked together. 

It is welcoming. Reciprocating. Balanced. 

She doesn’t squeeze. She doesn’t want to push him away. This thing they share — it’s delicate. But she is full of impulsive emotions and a part of her wants to unravel every little nuance of feeling that bites and bleeds at her heart. Should she expect the burden of pain? Of absence? 

What did this Paracelsus need from her? 

A.B.A closes her eyes. She dozes into a comforting sleep. As she dreams, the warmth embracing her hand lingers indefinitely. This time, she isn’t scared he’ll let go. 

Chapter Text

Another dream. 

This time, Paracelsus cannot recall what it was.

Relentless sunlight weaves through the curtains. His hand feels empty. He reluctantly stretches it open. There is a void where she used to be. It’s… strange. He’s whole. But he swears a fragment of him evancesed into the night, leaving nothing but the traces of her quiet, gladden fingers on his skin. 

A.B.A is gone. 

It is clear she woke up early again. However, there were no chains or leather straps to alert him of her whereabouts. Now, he had to deal with the fact that she could disappear any time, any day, without him ever knowing. This precarious feeling… was this what A.B.A felt when he changed? The fear of transformation. Of independence. Of newness. 

Naturally, he would do what he always did best. Bury those feelings. 

Careful, practiced footsteps. The hallway echoes with small, wooden creaks. This time around, he has an easier time maneuvering throughout the corridor with minimal injuries. He cranes his neck. It feels sore. Maybe sleeping on the carpet isn't good for his newly brittle vertebrae. He never had to worry about that before. He hunches past her door. It’s closed, but there is no lock. He expels a quiet breath of relief. She’s not shutting herself in anymore. 

Small improvements are better than none. 

The shower head hisses. He flinches at the feeling of cool water against his skin. Despite the shock it gives to his system, Paracelsus quickly discovers that cold showers are his favorite. His body feels too hot now, too alive. If he were any more aware of his body, he swears he could feel his cells dying. The iciness of the water numbs that part of his brain that is always alert, always thinking about the nature of his own mortality. 

A clean towel counteracts the coldness of the open air. He shimmies into the clothes A.B.A left for him on the towel rack. They are different then before. Although he is no expert on sewing, he could tell A.B.A had put a lot of effort into his clothes by the neat backstitching running alongside the seams of the fabric. She likes silk and iron threads the most. Silk tended to be the softest, and the most absorbent to her quicksilver blood. She always put so much thought into her designs.

And the clothes… were a perfect fit. How she was able to calculate his measurements was beyond him. 

The homunculus had left money inside a jar on top of the small entryway table near the door. The jar had a spindly crack running down the side of its body. And the money… it appears to be the last scraps collected from their last successful bounty. And that was a while ago. Even by their scraggly standards, this is alarming. Usually, they wouldn’t stay at a place for more than a few days. This place is probably where all their saved money had gone. 

She must have been really scared to bring him here. 

The first thing he needed was to get food for her. That's the least he could do.

Oh. And most definitely… some shoes. 

Hot, sizzling oil. 

It crackles and snaps. The flame on the stove is too high, so he turns it down. He has a cookbook open in one hand. He holds an egg on the other. He tries his best to figure this out without setting the kitchen on fire.  

Crack. The egg breaks in half as he pours the sticky yellow membrane into the pan. It coagulates into a white, gelatine substance, with an orange-yellow core. 

He hears a rustling noise arise from behind him. 

He catches an airy dash of mint blue hair. A.B.A is poking her head out of the hallway as she watches him with a silent intent. At the sight of him noticing her, she makes a little jittery noise. 

“Uhh… good morning.” He says stiffly, feeling his face get a little warm. 

Why is he so strung up? 

She doesn’t respond. Her sunken eyes are fixated on the food that’s simmering on the pan. Paracelsus suspects the smell may have triggered a bout of hunger. After a few moments of muttering to herself, she quietly creeps onto one of the kitchen chairs, folding her knees against her chest. She waits politely for him to finish, occasionally fidgeting with the splinters protruding out of the kitchen table. It’s strange, seeing her so inert. 

He could get used to this. 

He can feel her unmoving gaze on his back. He feels like a science experiment. It makes him all the more nervous as he flips the goey eggs. 

Once he’s done, and he’s certain he made something that was theoretically edible, he places it on a plate and brings it over to her. 

She looks at him. Then down at the food. Her bare hands reach for the eggs. 

Oh. Right. 

Those weird metal things people use to transport food into their mouth. He swiftly brings one over to A.B.A before she can cup her hot food. After that whole ordeal, he sits down across from her. She eats shyly, the food slipping out of her fork ever so often. She stabs it, clearly agitated that it keeps falling off. Her stabs progressively get more violent as she nearly breaks the ceramic in frustration. 

She can be quite feral at times. 

They relish in their mutual silence. Her patience subsists with each bite. She looks content to finally be eating something other than rubbery meats or food scraps. There’s no doubt she’s enjoying his company. 

He eats alongside her. The sunlight peers through the open window, casted upon her frame in a perfect luminscense. There is chattering of birds that serenade the streets with their wistful whistles. The ivy that twists around their window pane looks extra verdescent, wet and runny with fresh dew. The air still smells of rain and earth and breakfast. It is then that he notices that her clothes are different. 

A.B.A is wearing a cornflower blue dress. 

On her hair, she’s wearing a matching blue headband. It's a shade darker than her teal hair. A familiar black belt curls around her waist, giving form to the fabric on her body.  During their time together, he learned about her love for belts, buttons, and leather. It was alternative, yet simple. But this one seemed a little less finished then her other outfits. The sleeves drape off her shoulders, revealing the concave divots of protruding bone on her bandaged collarbone. Her knee-high stockings were all black. The bottom of her dress had pockets, alongside a tiny blue key adornment, and a few buttons. It appears practical. Less ready for battle. When she scooted in her legs, he could make out the word “salt” embroidered on the right side of her skirt. 

He wonders what the context was. She always imbued her clothing with something alchemy-related. Sometimes, it revealed an aspect of her current state of mind. Other times, she just thought that specific word sounded interesting without fully understand its meaning. 

He inclines his head to the side. The bottom left of the dress was asymmetrical and clearly unfinished. The seams and threads poked out like angry wires. The frilly helm also appeared to be hastily cut, as if she had rushed a trim. And yet somehow, it added some charm to her outfit. It was reminiscent of the strange and unconventional outfit she wore when she first encountered him. Almost immediately, he notices that her bandages are not as bloody as before. She hadn’t exsanguinated herself for a few days. Her cheeks seem a bit less hollow. 

She’s brighter, livelier. 

And yet, something is awry. Those loose fabric stitches bother him. Her fingertips are redder, almost sore. He looks at his own shirt, analyzing the intricate and consistent stitch work. 

A realization. 

She had prioritized sewing his clothes over her own. That’s what she had been doing all morning. While he slept, she was hard at work. Even after everything, the sludge, the fear, the imposed distance — she still put him first. 

Something in him aches. He feels it time and time again, within the confinement of these walls. It remains burrowed deep inside his chest, and he can't find the words to describe it. He tries to bear it. But every single time, A.B.A seems to do something to ignite those emotions. Is it some type of mind control? Is it related to this new body? Maybe. He hopes that with time, he’ll come to understand what he’s feeling. 

A.B.A turns to look out the window. Despite all the tall architecture, the lanky skyscrapers, the industrialized city – there’s a distant ocean. The numerous shades of blue and green capture her attention, and she appears to be lost in thought. 

“A cerulean blue.” She begins in her wavering voice. “After a storm, it’s always easier to appreciate the stillness of a tender ocean.”

Paracelsus is captivated by her. There’s a lingering beauty in the way she thinks aloud. Even in her shrouded darkness, there’s traces of the old her there. He missed that sweet, curious tone. It’s how she used to speak to him when he was a weapon, and she was his wielder. Those halcyon days when they would wander throughout different forests, towns, fields, and he would watch the world exist alongside her. Most days, he wouldn’t respond. But he would always listen. 

That all changed the longer he pushed her towards the path of violence. 

He has to make it up to her. 

“Let’s go explore the city together. A.B.A.” He calmly proposes. 

She turns to look at him. Her eyebrows are raised, evidently surprised. There is warmth there, trapped in the air between them. Her fingers tussle with the metal fork in her hands.

It clinks against the ceramic plate. 

A little bell sings and chimes as they open the door to a library. 

They are greeted by the smell of old cedar. Their footsteps echo against the tarnished marble walls. It’s surprisingly empty. 

Paracelsus has never been inside a library like this one. But it was more spacious and grandiose than anything he could’ve imagined. It didn’t help that his perspective had changed, now that he was human. He was a little less imposing than before. And the world seemed bigger, more daunting. 

A.B.A tails behind him. She’s more cautious than he is. He makes sure to keep a pace she can follow, as to not lose her. 

She seems to be absorbing every detail of the architecture. The curved, domed ceiling. The old Rococo-style paintings strung up on the wall. The little glass cases containing rusty artifacts from the Holy War. Her fingers run through everything. They lilt into every dip and crevice of the engraved reliefs. She seems to be lost in thought. 

He wonders if she’s thinking of Frasco. 

At the front counter dwells a familiar figure. The individual is wearing dark rimmed glasses that matched their luminous raven hair. Their outfit was slightly different, with their waistcoat resembling a dark beige rather than the usual jet black fabric of their suit. Their red eyes immediately flutter to glance at the approaching guests. 

Is that…? 

“Ah! What a serendipitous rendezvous! Please sign-up for a library card before attempting to check-out.” Testament instructs cheerfully.

Oh no. Paracelsus doesn’t not want to look over his shoulder. He instinctively raises one of his arms to prevent A.B.A from hurling forward. He stops her body at the knick of time. She’s surprisingly strong for such a frail-looking girl. He almost stumbles into the counter. 

“You… you good for nothing, fake-civility, know-it-all, prim and proper uncouth scoundrel, I will bury you back into the thorny groves from where you spawned from.” She throatily hisses, her voice twisting into a very deep octave. 

Paracelsus feels sweat flush down his forehead. That’s the longest sentence she’s said in days. 

Testament cooly stamps the first page of the book they are holding open. Their gloved fingers deftly point to a sign that reads ‘Indoor Voices Please!’. They then tilt their head ever so slightly. 

 “It’s good to see you too, A.B.A.” They reply mirthfully. 

A.B.A bites down on one of her hair strands, canines gritting harshly against it. By the stiffness in her posture, she looks like she’s about to break something. It is unfortunate that Paracelsus just so happens to be next to her. 

“Absence makes the heart grow fiercer…” 

Paracelsus is no expert on proverbs. But he is fairly certain that wasn’t how the saying went. 

“A.B.A, p-please, no violence. They’re our friend, remember?” 

“Friend? Don’t be fooled! They want to take you away, Paracelsus! Tear us apart, just like before!” 

Testament nonchalantly scoots a small box of confections over the counter. 

“Would you like some Swedish hazelnut truffles? We have some left over from a town meeting.” 

“I will never accept anything from you.” She snaps, her sharp fingernails digging into the skin of Paracelsus’ exposed arm. Any more pressure, and she’ll make him bleed again.  

Paracelsus inhales sharply. Oh god. He has to do something. 

He plucks out a piece of chocolate from the box and quickly shoves it into A.B.A’s mouth before she can say another word. She blinks, instinctively catching it with her tongue before biting down. She just stands there, silently masticating. Her tight grip on his arm slowly unwinds. Her expression is blank, yet somehow… sedated.

Testament lets out a lively chuckle. 

“I never imagined her to be one with a sweet tooth.” 

“Neither did I.” Paracelsus mutters nervously, rubbing the arm she was angrily clutching. 

A.B.A narrows her eyes at Testament. There’s still an air of pent-up anger and resentment in her lingering stare, but it’s less intense. She pouts at them as she slowly savors the chocolate in her mouth. There’s a newfound vibrance to her face. She is definitely enjoying the chocolate. 

“So, how is marriage counseling going for the both of you?” 

He wouldn’t call this a marriage. 

“Ishnoon off yor bishness.” A.B.A retorts.

Paracelsus throws her a look of mild irritation. 

“There are noticeable improvements.” Paracelsus replies. “Although I haven’t quite yet grasped the concept of marriage. Or relationships, for that matter. But I’m… becoming well-acquainted with my immediate shortcomings, and uh…” 

He looks down, no longer able to hold eye-contact with Testament. 

“I’m attempting to be better.” 

Wow. Why did admitting that feel so humiliating? 

He peeps at his own arm. The shiny gleam of three cicatrices linger there, marring the skin of his forearm. It was true that their conversations were getting better. And she could finally sleep in the same vicinity as him. He was learning to understand A.B.A through his own changing perspective, unraveling the deeply ingrained habits of their previous dynamic. It was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. But it was a much needed change. 

Things were improving. 

And their hands, they had- 

Testament nods. “Well, if you need any advice, you and A.B.A are free to contact me. Just don’t… disturb the local wildlife. I just so happen to be incredibly passionate about local conservation.”

Testament elegantly flicks their gloved hand. Like a calling, their familiar comes flying in through the open window, a small piece of paper clipped between its beak. 

“Here’s my business card.” 

That was unnecessarily regal. Paracelsus snatches it quickly before he becomes victimized by another crow. There was a high likelihood that EXE beast wanted him dead after the whole park ordeal. Do succubi take offense to crimes against birds? He looks down at the card. 

Testament (Freelance hobbyist) 

Tel. 42 42 564        

He flips the card around. His face goes pale.

Services: 

Fashion designer 
Magazine columnist
Construction worker
Cosmetologist
Renovations officer
Tea shop owner
Nail art technician
Librarian

Paracelsus stops reading. By the look of it, there is around 40 positions printed on that tiny little text. His eyes hurt from squinting. How does Testament even have time for all that? 

And why are the people around him so scary? 

When he moves to glance at A.B.A, she is childishly staring at the box of chocolates. Her mouth is slightly agape. Was this the first time she’d ever tried something sweet? Her fingers twitch against the counter as she looks restless. 

Testament pushes the box towards her.

“You can take the box.” They offer with kind amusement. 

A.B.A’s expression shifts into a shy demeanor. Slowly, she seizes the box and scurries away, hastily dragging Paracelsus by the arm as she does so. Paracelsus, almost instinctively, goes limp and just lets it happen without saying a word. They didn’t even sign up for a library card. 

Testament watches them disappear into the corridors. A humored huff leaves their lips as they sip their tea and continue to seal books with their floral stamp presser.  

A.B.A finishes the chocolates rather quickly. He’s a little disappointed he didn’t get to try them. But she looks happier now than she had before. 

That’s all that really matters to him. 

Quiet daylight. Ambient footsteps. There are potted plants on all the tables. The library was tranquil. It set his mind at ease to be exploring the world with A.B.A once again. Only this time, he can run his fingers through the books, feel the air on his face, breathe in the smell of old wooden shelves.

He willingly follows her. 

And just like before, he’s never far behind. 

A.B.A scampers through every section of the library. She flips through books, annotating things into her notebook in cursive. Studies illustrations with her fingers. She reads aloud to herself, and occasionally to Paracelsus. At one point, she begins to tear out a page before he stops her. Her posture alternates between crouching on a chair, laying on the floor, slinking against a bookshelf, or standing upright with a book upside down. 

She’s antsy. 

This is no surprise. 

He also reads. And although he’s well-spoken and his utilization of contextual vocabulary is arguably better then A.B.A’s, reading wasn’t really his forte. Unlike Testament, hobbies are not exactly a thing he indulges in. 

A.B.A bends the page she is currently reading. She is incredibly touchy with all the materials she handles. The clock ticks. Before long, he notices they’ve been here for hours. 

During the span of that time, A.B.A amassed a pile of thirty-two books on the table. Paracelsus kept count. They range from astronomy to alchemy to romance novels to encyclopedias to pop culture magazines. She turns on her heel to grab more, but Paracelsus meekly stops her. 

“A.B.A, we… can’t carry all of those.” Paracelsus advises. 

She looks at him and scraggily leans against a bookshelf. 

“I see.” she replies, disappointed. 

Paracelsus stays silent. He’s not really sure if he should try to comfort her. 

“We’ll come back for them tomorrow.” he assures. 

The grip on the book she’s holding tightens. Her eyebrows are knitted into a look of hopefulness. “Do you promise?” 

A promise. 

A pact, amalgamated from trust. 

Of course. Paracelsus learns that A.B.A requires constant reassurance on the smallest of things. Because as trivial as it may seem to him, it matters to her. He really never thought to provide that for her until now. As a human, he begins to appreciate the weight that words hold. It’s nothing like Foci magic, battles, or death. It’s mundane, small, simple. 

Not necessarily bad. 

He smiles. 

“I promise.” 

She still looks downtrodden, but less so. He helps her put the books away, one by one. It takes more than just a few minutes, hunting down the bookshelf genres that house a specific book. Occasionally, their fingers brush together when they reach for the same book. But not a word is spoken, and each brief touch ends before there’s an acknowledgment of their enclosed proximity. 

They’re down to the last few books. In his hands, there’s one about marine life and the ocean. A memory comes to mind. A.B.A’s perpetual avoidance of public spaces. Curiously enough, her fear and distaste of humans now overpowers his own. But maybe in this current form, she might be more open to travel with him, considering that he is more than capable of helping her work through the flurry of defensive behaviors. 

An idea arises. 

“I want to see the ocean with you.” He says spontaneously. “Will you take me?”

A.B.A looks flabbergasted. She drops the book in her hands, letting it fall on the floor with a soft thump. Her expression is that of someone who just received the most romantic love confession in the world. It’s no wonder she appears so affection-deprived. It makes him feel a little worse about their last conversation. 

She stumbles backwards. Has she forgotten how to breathe? With his own questionable motor skills, he braces himself to catch her. But she holds her ground, simply swaying from one side to another. She looks to be… swooning?

“Y-yes.” She answers, her lips curling into a happy little thing. 

Is she.. actually smiling? 

Chapter Text

The beach is empty. 

Paracelsus approaches a large black sign that seals off the entrance gate. 

‘Closed for the Annual Celebration of Humankind’s Triumph’

“It’s closed. They’re celebrating the day in which the Crusades ended. I believe it’s a… festival...” Paracelsus trails off. 

A sense of dreariness bubbles within his chest. 

Well then, this is the worst day for him to explore the world. 

He knew A.B.A was cognizant of his role in the Crusades. But a part of him suspects that she never truly grappled with the severity of it all. Did she understand how reprehensible his actions were during that time in his life? She appeared to be too fixated by his key form to truly absorb the weight of his past. 

The memories of war linger in his mind, violent like an infection, sparse and untouchable. He remembers red skies. 

The dead wasteland. Bodies rising out of metal hinges, crawling out of collapsed buildings. Smoke and rubble wafting around their contorted silhouettes. Blood spouting out of his puppet’s cackling spit. The insistent mind control. The sharpness of his shapeshifting blade. Crimson spatter on their collective bodies, moving like a natural disaster, shedding wielders as one dies and another rises from the ashes. By proxy, he has embodied multiple warriors throughout his existence. And yet, he persistently failed to achieve anything close to humanness. He vividly remembers the noises. The screams. The cries. The pleas. The wet, metallic slip of blade against flesh. 

His own horrid and mad laughter. 

It was the same one A.B.A had inherited. He never realized how truly scary he could be until she came along and projected it back to him. 

“-Paracelsus?” 

He snaps out of his trance. He tries to stay emotionless, just like would when he was a weapon. He never had difficulties keeping a blank stare, even at the most dire of situations. 

“Yes, A.B.A?” 

“Are you… okay? You look…” she pauses to think, tilting her head slightly in an attempt to assess his expression. “distraught.” 

Paracelsus catches a glimpse of his own reflection on the black glass sign. His eyebrows are knitted into a pensive scowl. His hands are sweaty. Crescent marks are formed onto his palms. His body language — it’s too transparent, too reflective of his current emotional state. 

Then again, A.B.A is nothing short of intuitive when she wasn’t blinded by rage. And it helps that he can’t hide behind his usual stoic facade anymore. 

He swallows. 

“I-I’m alright, I’m just… disappointed the beach is closed. That’s all.” He lies.

A.B.A nods, then shuts her eyes. Even with her dreary and tired posture, her body began swaying ever so slightly. Unlike Paracelsus, she looks at peace. At the subtlest of movements, her hair resembled a cascading river, with a few strands uplifted by the oceanic breeze. It was always slightly frazzled, clumsily tucked behind her fitted blue headband. Her countenance softens, and a small upwards curl crawls onto her lips. 

“Can you hear that?” She says softly. “Those gentle, harmonious sounds…  they’re playing music.” 

Ah. So those distant sounds are… music? 

He would’ve never known, if it weren’t for her. 

Before Paracelsus has time to compose himself, A.B.A grabs his arm and pulls him along. He lets out a small protest as he realizes his body is being dragged once again. 

Incandescent fairy lights dangle from the street poles of the boarded sidewalk, bestowing the wooden path with a sense of illumination and a welcoming arrival. The skies are a dark blue, fully vibrant with a subtle after-shade of teal and pink clouds. Shops and food vendors line the streets, with people of all kinds scattering the boardwalk holding gifts, toys, and treats. The air smells like… molasses and seafood?

Paracelsus isn’t quite sure what he smells. All he knows is that his senses are heightened. Seeing so many people puts him on edge. 

They follow the source of the sounds. There is a discrete section of the boardwalk where a group of people are playing music. Paracelsus wonders if it’s some type of magic, the way they can conjure up sounds in such a euphonious manner. He finds it… enjoyable. 

A.B.A’s short-lived confidence fizzles into thin air. He could practically see it exit her body like a comically agitated ghost. She hides behind Paracelsus, her face turning from one direction to another as strangers maneuver around them. They both hadn’t realized there were going to be this many humans at the festival. 

Self-soothing whispers exit A.B.A’s lips as people continuously weave past them. Her eyes peek from behind his shoulder every so often, twitching and alert. If any transient woman dares to glance at their direction, A.B.A’s heady grip on the back of his shirt will turn hard and rigid. Paracelsus can’t see her, but he suspects she’s glaring daggers at complete strangers. 

Well, at least she hasn’t initiated any physical fights. 

The music continues to play. It’s a soft combination of plucky strings, prettier than the starry lights that hang from the streetlights. The sound is airy, warm. It reminds him of the green hillocks A.B.A and him would pass through during their travels. By the warmer coloration of the blood-orange clouds, he can tell that the sun will set onto the horizon soon. 

“Hey A.B.A, let’s try to join in.” Paracelsus suggests in a flimsy attempt to cheer her up. 

She doesn’t say much as she comes out from behind him and positions herself right in front of his body. From her downwards tilted face, her eyes look up at him with a splash of sheepish uncertainty. The reflection of warm lights make them look translucent and emerald-like. They remind him of spring. Long vines. Seafoam. Crystals. Stalactites. All the pretty things on earth he could never hold, touch. 

A.B.A shifts her weight. In an attempt to get closer to him, she steps on his shoe with the sole of her heeled boot. 

-And pain. 

“Eow!” Paracelsus whimpers.

A.B.A freezes, her face going pale as her hand comes up to cover her mouth. She appears to be frenzied by the fact that she had hurt him. Her head slinks down to look at their clumsy feet. This dancing thing is clearly foreign to her. 

“Gwah?!? I- are you okay?” 

“Y-yeah.” He says slowly, still recovering from the sudden influx of pain. She’s too strong for her own good. These past few days have certainly proved that. 

A.B.A looks from one side to another, glancing at the people around her. She bows her head. “We should leave.” She timidly proposes, her fingers tinkering with the uneven frills of her dress. 

Give up, after coming all the way here? 

Paracelsus shakes his head. 

“No.” 

He will not accept defeat. If there’s one thing he’s learned during his time as the Sanguine Gale, it is that surrendering is a worse humiliation than death itself. No amount of fear or pain will make him back down. 

A.B.A’s happiness is on the line. 

His ego is on the line. 

Absolutely not, he refuses to give up now. 

He takes a moment to observe the humans around them. They seem to all be grouped into pairs of two. Their movements are slow, purposeful. This is nothing like the wild flailings of war. People seemed to be laughing, smiling, joking. After taking in the atmosphere, he tries to mirror what he sees. 

A frazzled touch. His left hand clasps into her smaller one, slowly raising it up. She’s cold. He’s warm. By now, the feeling is familiar. Their fingers lock perfectly together. 

His other hand finds the underside of her rib.

A.B.A cheeps. 

“P-Paracelsus?!?” She stutters nervously as her body goes taut. Usually, she’d be the one constantly touching him, grabbing him, slinging him around. Physical contact was never a problem for them in the past. If anything, she would over-indulge in it to the point of obsession.

But now, they are living in the present. 

Their lives are different. Paracelsus is no longer Flament Nagel. A.B.A is no longer his wielder, his source of blood, a body whom he could leech from. She is his friend, his equal. It changes everything. 

He looks apprehensively at her. His heart is palpitating. Is this the right move for either of them? It is entirely possible that he was in over his head. He can sense her restlessness, the slight waver in her breathing as the side of her ribcage expands against his palm. Underneath his hand, she is a living, breathing person. He wants to keep her calm. And so, he decides he will practice gentleness in the ways A.B.A’s idealism has taught him. Those soft, little words she used. What were they? 

Dearest? Love? Darling? Beloved? 

His arrogant side always found those endearments inane. Stupid pet names. Professions of meaningless and shrill affection. 

But by god, how he missed them. 

Such expressions mean something to him now. And although A.B.A didn’t always practice gentleness with him, he begins to grasp what it means to show kindness to a body that is not his own. It’s the opposite of what he knows, what he was reared for. 

He needs to make her feel safe again. 

His pulse quickens. Her hazy dark eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t push him away. She’s wide-eyed and her pale lips remain slightly parted in a questioning gaze. She wants to trust him. Despite her frigidness, A.B.A doesn’t push him away. 

He needs to say something. He can feel the tightness in his throat, like an echo of a sentence that haunts his larynx. But he is not very good with vulnerability. This is not something he would ever imagine himself doing. A.B.A is still tense and unmoving against his hold. He needs to speak, before this spark loses its cadence. 

How does one communicate trust? 

He leans in. 

“I won’t let you fall, A.B.A.” He says softly. “You can let go.” 

A pause. 

“I have you.” 

A.B.A’s breath hitches. Her shoulders lower as one of her hands reaches up to shakily cup his shoulder blade. Suddenly, her body feels a little heavier in his hands. It’s what he would imagine he’d feel like in hers. Malleable. Putty. Heavier than the an ocean. She shakily sways with him, letting go of that hard rigidness in favor of a docile flow, beckoned by his pull. And just like that, he feels like he’s carrying the weight of two. 

He’s patient in all the ways the battlefield doesn’t allow. This curiosity is more than just an impulse. It ebbs and anchors him to her, and he embraces it, like a breath that’s been buried in his sternum for too long. He finally can guide A.B.A. There’s no dominance, no dishevelment for power, no mind control, or the weltings of war. Just them, existing, in this world. 

Whatever they’re doing is clumsy. It’s nothing short of an entanglement of wrong steps and slow, unflattering movements. It’s just like everything they do, together, in this life and drawn-out companionship. It won’t ever make sense to anyone but them. 

A.B.A’s wandering eyes finally settle on him. There, he finds some reassurance and familiarity. She slopes into his body every few seconds, unable to keep her balance with the loss of control. Each time she wobbles, he is ready to catch her. He acts like her pillar. Her mouth slips into a very faint smile. It’s not a sadistic one, nor a mean one, like those she would display after the submission of their foes.

It’s jovial. Fun. Full of curiosity. Maybe even playful. A hush of moonglow glints across her eyes, obscured by the darkness of the night. She looks at him the way she looks at the stars. 

Those feelings of peace-

are mutual. 

Paracelsus feels himself get more and more distracted by it. He never took the time to care for that smile. Nurture it, like a human in “love” would. The conversation he had with Testament sizzles in the back of his head. 

You learn to cope, together. 

How could he make peace with all the pain he has caused her? Now, he understands the visceral nature of it all from her perspective. The bleeding spells. The silent whimpers of pain. The cold storms. The heaviness of his brass body. The uncertainty of living. The fear of dying. It’s a terrifying ordeal, to be human. Each minute is fleeting. Each second is precious. 

He now shares her burdens too. 

The endeavor of pain. It’s not pleasant. Paracelsus feels a sense of dread rise into the pit of his stomach. He wishes he had acknowledged this side of her sooner. Maybe then, she wouldn’t have said those words. 

Violence is all I’ve ever known. 

Paracelsus hesitates. His secure grip loosens. Suddenly, A.B.A stumbles forward into him and he doesn’t know how to catch her. There are too many thoughts in his head and his hands feel heavy and unreliable and- 

They both yelp as they fall. 

A.B.A lands on top of him. Her unfinished skirt ruffles on top of his body, bunching everywhere into a heap of loose fabric. 

She pulls back almost immediately. “D-darling! Are you okay?” 

Paracelsus’s mouth hinges open. He is too stunned to reply. His heart skips a little louder. Did she just-? 

“I mean- Paracelsus.” She hastily corrects herself, bringing her nails to her lips so she can clatter on them. 

Oh. Well, now they’re both embarrassed. A.B.A stares at an empty bench. Paracelsus looks at a decorated street pole. 

It’s difficult to fit in. They tried their best. 

The movement around them continues. Here, their bodies lay, defeated on the ground, surrounded by crowds of rejoiceful and festive humans. No one really stops to notice them. Strangers dance around them, occasionally side-stepping to avoid tripping over their entwined limbs. All during the day the Crusades ended. The day Flament Nagel lost his godhood and became a relic. 

How… funny. 

Paracelsus snickers. 

A.B.A blinks at him. She stares at him in confusion, evidently not understanding why he is humored. She coyly flattens her dress as she sits on her knees. 

“D-did I do something wrong?” She asks with a slight tremble. She looks too self-aware as she fidgets with the bandages on her wrist. He could tell she’s withdrawing into her own state of thought, convincing herself of faults that are not there. 

But Paracelsus is done having misunderstandings. 

“No, A.B.A. You were..  perfect.” He reassures. 

You are perfect. 

Where did that delicateness in his voice come from? 

She looks at him. Something glimmers across her tired eyes. Is it trust? Is it care? He desperately wants to believe it is. He’s seen it a million times before. But he never embraced it in the ways he should have. From the first day they had crossed paths, Paracelsus avoided getting into her head. And yet, now, he wants to, more than ever. Not to control her, but to understand her. 

The uncertainty of change looms over them.

It reminds him to keep his distance. To avoid repeating the same mistakes over and over again. 

With his own frail balance, he helps her up. Their touching hands linger, but it’s a brief, scant thing before he pulls back. The sky is dark. The world is alive. The stars are more visible here than they were at the apartment. 

They walk into the darkness together. 

Somewhere along the way, A.B.A clings onto his arm. 

It’s a long walk home. She doesn’t let go. With A.B.A by his side, he finds the trek much more enjoyable than the first time. This place is unfamiliar. Frightening. It brings back memories of the terrible things he had unleashed onto the world. 

These new emotions… they demand him to reflect on his past. The legacy of the destruction a monstrous death god left in his wake. If it weren’t for the Crusades, he would’ve never come into existence. And yet, something perturbs his mind. 

Is it…

Regret? 

It must be. Regret for what he did to all those humans. Regret to what he did to A.B.A. Regret for who he was before Slayer ordained him into a life of isolation. That terrifying part of him that still exists somewhere within this transforming soul, ever so dormant, ever so changing. 

A.B.A shivers against the cold air. Her grasp on his arm tightens, trying to extrapolate his warmth. These bonds run deeper than a shared broken past. Her embrace is soothing. The night takes, and it takes, but they walk side by side without a fear of what they’ll lose. 

A patient full moon. Illuminated skyscrapers. Cotton clouds. The stars reflect onto the distant ocean. The city buzzes alight. This time, they guide each other home. He knows she doesn’t have to carry the weight of his past anymore. 

It’s a relief how after all of these unbearable years, A.B.A is still his silver lining. It is then that Paracelsus makes amends with a simple fact. 

She is the best thing that has ever happened to him in this cruel, twisted existence. 

And from now on, he swears; he’ll do right by her. 

Chapter Text

Twenty years. 

Lauriel slick. Ivy. Faunal degradation. 

Plants. So many plants. Vines crawl up him in a horizontal succession, sprouting from the dirt in rivets of thick, fibrous weeds.

Beetles. Spiders. Ants. Everything that crawls from the earth is here to consume him alive. He can feel the mites nab at his dusty blade. There are birds overhead, lurking about like giant, famished beasts. Their hooked beaks are a dark russet brown, worn down by years of scavenging over the bones of his bloodied trail. 

Do vultures eat gods too? 

He hopes not. He decays under the sunlight. He’s starving. He’s heavy. A part of him begs for the wind to knock him over. Anything that will remind him that he is alive. But nothing comes. 

He feels small. 

He’s been here for so many years. He’s lost count. Time has meshed in itself, a blur of day and night and day and night and day and- 

He stopped caring long ago. 

Time has changed him. A brutish vampire casted him to this hell, as a punishment for all the skeletons that lay barren around him. Most days, he shuts down. He pretends he’s not alive, or sentient, or whatever state of existence he’s currently in. He’s surrounded by remnants of dead humans and gears. He doesn’t move. He remains perfectly still. 

A tussle of sticks. A wild crunch of leaves. Someone approaches. He’s too weak to use his mind control, lure the body to him. He pretends to be dormant. 

Short, uneven steps. A woman with a body totters forward. She is covered in stitches. Eyes are sunken and hollow. Her lips are without pallor or color. She has a clumsy gait, her bony knees wobbling against one another. There’s a metallic thing impaled into her skull, but she doesn’t seem to be bleeding from it. Dirty bandages. Pink specks on her gauze. She looks like she’s on the verge of death. And yet, the glint in her eyes is fierce. 

Is she a ghost sent by those slain? 

Or is she a death god too, ready to lead him into the afterlife? 

He does not know. 

She approaches. The corpses of shrubby leaves stick to her legs. He catches a better glimpse of her. No, she is not a god. She is … a real, living human. Or at least, she looks human. She stops. She stares at him, raw crimson head dropping to the side. Her eyes open wide, and her parched, sticky lips part into a gasp. He can see her shiny, wet teeth, coated with red stains. She is red, and she is full of blood.  

Her gait increases. It’s a little terrifying, seeing a person contort their body in such a manner. Her pale hands reach out. She is going to pick him up. 

Yes! She is going to wield him. Finally, he will have a body again. He can finally leave this miserable, empty place. The years of slumber are over. He can restore his name, go back to the life he’s always known, regain control- 

“You’re… a….key.” She mutters slowly. 

Yes! Wait- what?

“I’ll……name…..you….Par….aaaaa…celsus.” 

No! 

She slinks forward and wraps her scrawny arms around him. She is cold. In an attempt to prop him up, she tilts him with her body weight. The tip of his blade slices a clean line on her shin. It bleeds. It dribbles onto his blade like shy rain. She doesn’t flinch. She is clumsy, bedraggled by some invisible air of misfortune. By the brashness of her closeness, it’s evident she’s unaware of her own limb placement. 

“My name is not… Paracelsus. My name is Flament Nagel! I am a death god, do you hear me?” 

At the sound of his voice, she looks at him with awe. Her lips ease into a smile as she clammers with excitement. 

“Hus…band!” She exclaims with an unhinged grin. “You’re….my…dearest…husband…”

“A-are you even listening to me, woman?” He fretts, beginning to panic.  

Flament Nagel is baffled. In the past, he has met many formidable opponents on the battlefield. He’s inspired bouts of madness and bloodlust within his vessels. His wielders lose their mind and essence of self under his spell. Some fall under the wrath of revenge. Others simply want to conquer. Their worst attributes, their biggest insecurities; he feeds on them, turns them into reasons to kill.

All that… and he still believes this woman to be more deranged than all of them combined. 

He doesn’t even have to get into her head. He’s only known her for less than a few minutes. But it seems like she’s convinced he is a… key? 

She already trusts him. 

This woman. Is she aware of the disease he brings upon humanity? The judgment of punishment he embodies? She looks so weak and frail. Her skin is scabbed, pricked, shiny with sweat. It is entirely possible that she has gone mad from wandering in the wilderness for so long. 

It doesn’t matter. She’s on the verge of death anyways. All he has to do is let her free him, take him somewhere far away from this no man’s land. 

Then, he’ll find a real wielder. 

Her embrace lingers. She touches her own gauzed leg, and brushes her hand against the wound. Fingers dabble in blood. She rubs her face against his body. He can faintly taste her blood. There’s something not quite right with it. But it’s enough to satiate him. 

A tug. She works him out of the peckish shrub he’s trapped in. Bugs scurry and scatter at the loss of their old home. There’s roots tangled underneath him, anchoring him down to the hot earth strumming beneath him. 

Who knew that dead bodies made for good fertilizer? 

Too many years. In that time, he had become a part of this ecosystem he helped reap. Sod and soot. Silky, plump clusters of mud. He is covered in dirt, leaves, and fauna. There are spiderwebs on him too. The woman’s hands are covered in bloodied silk and stabilimentum. She reaches down and plucks something from a tiny crevice near the bottom of his staff. 

A flower. 

He had grown a flower. 

It’s destined to die now, in the woman’s hands that are now bright red. She looks at it, studies it with wonder. She plucks out one of its petals, shriveling it between her fingers like wrought, thick mist.

Paracelsus’ arm has gone numb. A.B.A’s hold is tight. Her warm face is buried into his shoulder. Her legs shuffle awkwardly with each step. It makes it all the more difficult to walk. 

He pretends like her death grip doesn’t affect him.

But it very much does. 

It’s painful. But that’s not the issue. It’s the fact that he doesn’t fight it. In all manners of speaking, it’s completely illogical for a weapon to allow such a thing. It’s frightful to think this woman wields so much power over him, that he could let her suffocate or necrotize his arm without fighting it. 

She always had a way of stirring all types of emotions within him. Things he could not pinpoint. They bled into each other, smeared by a past that has left him withdrawn from fully introspecting on his own emotions. Instinctively, he tries to ignore them, push them aside. But even that was getting old. 

This feeling. It was tiny, inconspicuous, like a bug crawling up the artery of his heart, waiting to bite. 

He was letting A.B.A crawl under his skin. 

This connection they had. 

It felt decadent. 

Soft footsteps. He helps guide her up the stairs. With an unsteady balance, he makes sure to keep one hand clutching the railing. Finally, they arrive home. The door rustles open, and he instantly feels a sense of dread pool into his belly. The lights are on. The air is constrained, tight. There’s someone in their apartment. 

A woman sits on their counter. Her legs are crossed idily, swaying in bored anticipation. She is wearing a scarlet cocktail dress. A lavish black coat drapes over her shoulders, secured by a chained silver brooch that winks under the gleam of the moon. Her hair is long and silky, dark as the shadows from where she seemingly arose from. Her velvet-silver eyes narrow at the sight of them entering. Bats encircle her frame, drifting in the air before finding a spot on their ceiling. 

Those creatures… She must… 

“Is Slayer with you?” Paracelsus hurriedly asks. 

The woman tilts her head. She seems almost surprised to hear that name. 

“No. But I can summon him, if that is your wish.” 

Paracelsus’ body freezes. He hears crackling, shattering, snapping. A metallic drone soon follows, combusting from within him. His body aches, like a fire burning under his skin. It hurts even more than before. The pain radiates from everywhere. It’s fibrous, expansive. The severing of nerves and bones and flesh. His mouth falls open but nothing comes out. 

A.B.A. 

Her grip is gone. She’s rushing forward, her hair flickers in the air. The last thing he hears is A.B.A’s violent, unhinged shriek. 

The last thing he sees is his own hand dissolving into black sludge. 

That bleak, bellowing fire. 

A.B.A hasn’t felt it in days. It’s back. It’s a familiar, swarming feeling. It’s what she knows. It drenches over her, twisting her into a powerhouse of pure, relentless emotion. She feels it on her body, like a cold, metallic liquid. It seeps inside her body, invigorating every survival instinct she has repressed in her life, every single time she’s ever felt jealous, rejected, or abused. This catalyst, it possesses her, makes her forget who she is. Who Paracelsus is. 

Bloodlust. Soft and tender flesh. Pulverize. She feels her chest fill with emotions she cannot hold back. Nothing feels quite real. Her thoughts become instinctive. Her body burns, hot, hot, hot. Her throat hisses and wheezes. 

Her hands are empty. She has nothing to fight with. She feels naked. But that doesn’t stop her. The rush of wind dashes across her skin. Her hands come up and she’s ready to claw, kick, hurt the woman who threatened them. 

Sharon reacts quickly, dodging A.B.A’s attack before kneeing her in the stomach. 

“No hands, please.” She warns while still holding onto her tea, not letting a single droplet spill as the liquid blinks into the air and plops back into her cup. “This tea will grow cold. And so will your husband.”  

A.B.A lurches forward onto the carpet, coughing, gasping. Her insides hurt. Her heart feels so heavy she can hear it rattle and twist against her ribcage. She snaps back into the moment, staring at the shiny red heels of the woman that looms over her. 

Paracelsus.

She got so carried away she hadn't realized he was gone. She looks down at her knuckles. They’re covered in black ink. Feeling a rush of sudden adrenaline, she pushes herself up to seek him out. 

On the stretch of carpet behind her, there’s a black mass of sludge. It’s humanoid, but visibly oozing strange, thick liquid. There are long, moving tendrils. Eyes, splitting into different shapes. A hissing noise, crumpling from inside him like sizzling acid. His human form wavers, barely holding shape. Small, yet sharp edges of a blade protrude from his body. They don’t fully materialize. 

He looks like he’s fighting it. 

A.B.A drops to her knees and flails her arms around him. Her dress is ruined. Strands of her hair are tainted black. She buries her face into his impermeable chest, clenching her teeth a fit of seething, burning pain.  

“Fix him. Fix him fix him fix him-“

She pleads. Her voice progressively becomes more frantic. 

Then. 

A.B.A screams. His malformed body thrashes at the spike of her emotions, fueled by the rage she feels, the intelligible pain that wreaks her soul. It’s long, guttural, winded, muffled against his unresponsive body. Her lungs sound wet. Each breath morphs into an elongated whimper. Her face is twisted into a dark, horrid thing. She holds onto whatever parts of him remain. 

Sharon crossed her arms. She looks concerned, watching the woman in front of her completely fall apart.

“This is exactly what I came here to warn you about.” She replies, bringing the teacup to her bright red lips. “You’re a tantrum away from causing a tragedy for us all.”

A.B.A feels a hatred buzz inside her body. It is unkempt, like a rampant fire, elemental in her veins. Her fingers itch to hurt the woman, unmask what’s underneath that charming facade. Sharon is so beautiful, elegant, and perfectly composed. There’s an air of divinity about her, the way she carries herself in front of her. Obviously, Sharon is everything A.B.A is not. A pang of jealousy flares into her chest. 

She feels threatened. 

Threatened by the idea that she and Slayer would try to take Paracelsus away again. Threatened by the idea that someone would just waltz into their space, make a mockery of her home. Threatened by that righteous air of self-importance they hold. 

Despite the anger bubbling inside of her, A.B.A. doesn’t speak, but her body slinks forward as her grip over him tightens. 

“Go away….please… just… leave …”

Sharon watches her with pity. She lets out a quiet sigh and sets the tea down onto the counter. She pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“Listen… I didn’t come here to hurt you or… that creature.” She gestures at the lump of sludge that made up Paracelsus’ body. “But my husband and I have made an effort to keep tabs on all Foci artifacts, hostile or not.”

Of course they couldn’t mind their own business. A.B.A can taste the traces of sludge that pester her lips. It's acrid. Incomprehensibly bitter. Similar to her own blood. Her cheek and jaw are smeared with jet black fluid. Her sharp eyes glare at Sharon, unmoving as she feels soft tendrils convulse against her body once more. 

Sharon’s more calm and collected disposition shifts into a tentative one as her hands fold over her lap. “I believe that body… is his last mechanism to save himself from you.” 

A.B.A’s hold loosens. Her chest feels taut. Breathing becomes difficult as her shoulders slump and she trembles. 

 “No… you’re wrong. You’re… lying. I love… Paracelsus. I-“ her voice dies out, throat seizing with a soreness from her earlier outburst. 

This woman must be lying. Paracelsus didn’t need protection from her, right? How would a human form make things any different? 

That day, he was on the verge of death. He was bleeding black ooze. He had no form. He was nothing more than black tendrils, amassed eyes, disemboweled blades, and teeth. She was too blinded by jealousy and rage to realize she had mangled him, deformed him, shattered pieces off his blade. 

Could it be… that she had projected her own fears onto him? She always wished for him to be human. Or at least, she thought she did. She remembers that day. Her own words. She wanted to give him the option to save himself. To walk away. 

To leave her.  

Her lips quiver. Was that what this woman was referring to? 

A last attempt to live. 

Away from her. 

What I want more… in this… world, is for you to live, Paracelsus. Even if it’s away from me.

Their desires had resonated. Paracelsus wanted to live. A.B.A wanted him to live, under any circumstances. 

The choice for a weapon to abandon his wielder.

Sharon put a finger to her own lips. She seems pensive, watching the black ooze drip from A.B.A’s forearms, staining onto the carpet. There was a seemingly endless supply of it seeping through. 

“Now that I think about it, that sludge. That must be his true appearance. As of now, he’s drained of magic just from retaining a human form.” 

Bright red blood. Bleeding scratches. Paracelsus’s mortality. Was this his resignation of godhood? And yet, he remained by A.B.A side. He chose to prolong that connection to her emotions. He trusted her enough to risk disfigurement, irreversible change, death. 

A.B.A squeezes her eyes shut. She wants all this to go away. She wants Sharon to go away. She wants everyone to disappear, leave. She hates people. They always find ways to hurt them. To hurt her. In Frasco. In the outer world. Even in their own home.

They were finally happy.

“What… does it matter.. to you anyways.” She replies in a broken voice. 

Sharon presses her lips together. “My husband caught wind of your antics. You’re not exactly a discrete… duo in the bounty hunting world.” 

Husband. Of course. That terrible, arrogant, self-proclaimed fool is her husband. Their bond must run deep, if they can trust each other with any information. By Sharon’s raw strength, it’s evident that she is immortal just like him. Another wave of jealousy bites at her chest. She wants that with Paracelsus. That tranquility, that trust, that endless devotion. Instead, they’re bestowed with this terrible mess. She was in so much pain.

“Everything….hurts.” A.B.A mutters against the body in her arms. Once again, he’s escaping through her fingers. There’s nothing she can do. She has to relive the memory of losing him again. 

It’s almost pathological. She thinks they’re okay, until the cycle starts again. Whatever she feels, he becomes. That connection. That cosmic line between emotion and real, fluctuating matter. 

“I can sympathize with how you feel.” Sharon replies, her face garnering a sliver of empathy. She then looks away with a nervous grimace, her eyebrows creased into a distant gaze. “I have done a lot of awful things for love too.” 

Love. That is the ardent emotion she feels for Paracelsus, right? From the very beginning, that fixation on him was all-consuming. It made her stay awake at night. Similar to those weeds that had devoured him during their first encounter, she snared him to a life of companionship. Seeing him as a weapon… no, a key, was the only thing she ever wanted. That way, she could keep him by his side, forever.

A.B.A wets her lips. “No one knows the throes of our love like Paracelsus and I do. I doubt you’ll ever come close to experiencing something so pure.” 

Sharon’s eye twitches. She looks annoyed and evidently regretful of her momentary vulnerability. She composes herself as she sits upright and coughs into her fist. 

“Just this time, I will forgive your egregious lack of manners. But…as I was saying, I’m simply an informant who took pity on your plight. I know the fear of loss when I see it.” 

A.B.A is fearful. She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. That anger… that pain. She lets it subside, little by little. Without realizing it, a wispy tendril seeps upwards and wraps around her finger. It is so soft, so airy, that she does not notice it. 

“I’m…I’m afraid of losing… Paracelsus. I don’t want to be…“ her teeth chatter. She shivers. “Alone.”

She couldn’t go on without him. 

A.B.A had been in isolation for more than ten years. Paracelsus had been the only creature on this earth who truly wanted to be her friend. He was her only connection to the outside world. 

Sharon hums in acknowledgment. 

“If you continue to fall into the shackles of obsession, you might find yourself chained to that loneliness forever.” She replies, her eyes flickering to the open window.“Then there will be no saving you, or him.” 

Shackles of obsession.

A.B.A doesn’t have the energy to respond. Instead, she just slumps over Paracelsus’s soft and drenched body. This conversation was making her head hurt. She felt sick once again, just like had at the very beginning. She wants this woman to go away. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have ever lost his form like that again. 

Right? 

Her eyes sting. She sniffs. The temptation of violence quells and dies inside her, and she now feels helpless. She worked so hard to become stronger. To become whatever he desires, to shape herself into the warrior he wanted her to be. 

This is just like before, it always ends like this — 

Sharon reaches over and hands her something. It dangles in front of A.B.A. It’s the leather strap that she had worn to carry him around. 

“I believe this belongs to you.” 

A.B.A quickly takes it. Her black inky fingers run over the punctures of the stained leather material. She clutches her fingers around it, a mixture of sludge and tears trickling all over it. Despite the warmness dripping from her eyes, a reassuring sense of calmness overtakes her at the sight of the leather. 

This memory. She wants to hold onto it, forever. 

Paracelsus’ body feels harder. She can see the structure of his human self slowly return. She looks away. She can’t stand to see him in so much pain. His head rests on her lap. The flow of ooze has slowly mitigated. 

“I truly hope this will be our last encounter. Next time, we might not be on amicable terms.” Sharon says as she snaps her fingers and the teacup disperses into a cloud of strange, little flying creatures. 

Bats. A.B.A remembers seeing them lurking over the concave walls of Frasco. She likes them. Although admittingly, they weren’t very nice to her. 

“Ooh, and if I could suggest— don’t start fights without ending them. That’s how you become a target.” She points at the piece of mangled leather in A.B.A hands. 

The failed bounty. The heap of uncontrolled, unhinged violence. The woman they never killed. That must be how Slayer got wind of their tracks. Unfinished business. The word must have spread. 

Sharon leans onto the ledge of the open window. The curtains drift into the air, suspending them upwards and thrashing against the night breeze. Her hair sways elegantly as she leans back with her chin propped over her pale white knuckles. She takes a cursory glance around the room before rubbing her temple in mild irritation. 

“Please clean your apartment.” She says with finesse, dispersing into a flock of hundred little bats that abscond into the open night. 

A.B.A is starting to see a pattern in the people they encounter. She wonders if Testament and her are friends.  

A faint, thin beam of light. No rain, just transient clouds and a shy moon. She leans back onto the foot of the couch, watching the stars, cradling his shapeshifting body. 

The threat is gone. 

And yet, she remains devastated. 

Maybe… a part of her did grow to hate the fighting. These emotional outbursts didn’t make her feel good. But it was comfortable, rehearsed, easy to fall back into. Paracelsus had been the one to egg her on. He pushed her to her limits, prompting a dark, brute strength she never knew she had. And tragically, it became a way of life for her.  A learned response to a cruel, destructive world that had left her unloved. 

 Rejection. 

This is a world that never even gave her a chance. 

The outcome was only natural. Intuitive. 

A.B.A looks down at Paracelsus. She reaches for her bandages, staring at her healed skin. There are shiny scars and marks all over her body. They remind her of the astral paths forged by collapsing stars. She presses a sharp nail against her skin. 

Just a prick. Just a drop. Just like they use to before-

That won’t be necessary anymore. 

She stops herself. He thinks of his voice. His words. The way he seemed hurt by what he had done to her. That helplessness creeps back. Her nails divorce from her own arm, and instead, she outstretches her hand towards his face. Shaky, pale moon-dipped fingers brush against his cheek. It was now solid, fleshy, just like before. He is coated in a sticky black liquid. This version of him is already growing familiar to her. And yet, it’s still difficult to think of him the same as before. 

A formless, eldritch being. A key. A weapon.

 A human. 

She presses her forehead to his. This violence. This fear of humans. It brutalizes her heart. She’s afraid that one day, it will burst, alongside Paracelsus. Shrivel up the beauty left inside of them. But these angry, torn, and bloodied hands are capable of inciting love, too. 

His raspy lungs fight to inhale. She exhales. 

She could shed it all for him. Become anything he needs. That’s where her heart lies, against her temple, buzzing with change and life and cells and shifting black ooze. The heavy black liquid has been on her skin for so long she can no longer perceive its coolness. It’s so heavy, she wishes he could drag her down into the bog with him. 

He coats her skin.

She accepts it. This is her Paracelsus. 

She tries to stay awake with him all night. She blinks in and out of consciousness. The moon is her companion, the stars are her lamps. At some point, she curls up next to him. Tries to keep him warm. She doesn’t allow herself to sleep. It’s obsessive, the way she pinches and twists her skin to keep her eyelids from closing.

One permeating thought races through her disquieted heart. 

No matter what form he takes, she’ll always find the best in him. 

Chapter Text

Cold. 

He is so cold.

Paracelsus finds himself in a… maze?

One rusted, jagged door leads to another. It is all black and browns and monochromatic blues, pale and lifeless like the marble columns that plunge into the heart of the damp, concave roof. Something’s not quite right. 

He can’t find a way out. 

This… is a different type of prison. It was not green or spindley or endowed with wild fauna. There are no trees, no birds, no wooden crevices containing remnants of a fought war. It almost seems undeservingly cruel for any living creature to be kept here, the way everything seems confined, lined with cobwebs and dead animals and dirty floors. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

He can’t hear much, except for the echo of his own feet against flat marble tiles. He comes to realize something. 

 Everything here is dead.

Paracelsus treks along the endless branches of interconnected corridors. Water slinks and drips from open gashes on the rooftop. Each piece of intricate furniture is covered in a superimposed layer of dust and mold, careened by years of trapped humidity and indefinite abandonment. He follows the bloody footsteps of a stranger, navigating him to a plethora of tall, half-open doors, each distinct in their own design. An office. A library. An observatory. A dining hall. Each room is different, unique. He notices something else. Someone has made an effort to unlock every single door.

Occasionally, his eyes will dart towards the sight of dried blood and chunks of decaying flesh matted onto the corridor floors. Dead bodies have never made him squeamish before. The egotistical, sadistic side of him had always been inclined towards inflicting such brutality. 

Gradual change. That all began changing the longer he spent time in the company of A.B.A. 

His gut twists. There is something about these bodies that makes him feel sick. Chunks of familiar brown, prickly hair. Spongy, decayed, and deformed bone marrow. He avoids looking at them. His heart begins racing, and anxiety comes to a head. He remembers her. 

His pace gets more frantic. Suddenly, he knows where he is. This is her first home. 

Her prison. 

He comes across a grand door, doning complex and arabesque engravings on its hard, wooden surface. The doorknob is loose, pathetically squealing as he turns it with a frantic grip. 

Cold. It’s freezing.

The room is expansive, architecturally designed to be reminiscent of a church or temple. A beamy husk of light bleeds through stained glass windows of the room, projecting a bleak and clinical blue hue onto the moldy tattered floors. It is more lit up than the corridor from which he descended. And yet, there’s something dreadfully dark about this room. Distributed throughout the place, there are broken pews, messily sustained in a horizontal decompression by their worn and rickety legs. He tries to not step on the disarrayed wood chunks that litter the ground. Neglected food scraps are scattered all over the floors, mushed together like a feverish cocktail of inedible substances. Dried blood peels off the foot of the bench legs, rotted by time and famished termites. 

There is a woman approaching him. 

“A.B.A?” He asks nervously. 

It’s her. But she doesn’t acknowledge him.

That’s right. He’s not a key. Why would she care? 

Her head hangs low. Her shoulder grazes him as she walks past his frozen frame. She’s talking to herself, reciting measurements and strange nominal sequences. In her hands, she cradles a plethora of mixed copper items, with some being keys, and others appearing more wire-adjacent, taking the forms of crafty self-made contraptions. Her body seems heavy like that of a broken marionette, and she falls to her knees, clumsy hands getting to work opening a grand door. A little chain holding various keys hangs off her belt, dancing against her thigh whenever she makes any abrupt movements. 

Clinks and metallic ticks jostle again a lock. She shoves a vaguely key-shaped metal wire into the hole of a lock, listening to the tinkle of clicks syncopate as she tries to angle it just right.

Paracelsus wants to help. He begins to step forward. 

A.B.A freezes, peeking at him through the clumps of red that covet her eyes, grimacing under his presence. He can almost sense her discomfort. It’s a fierce, misshapen strain of agitation. It’s clear she doesn’t recognize him, and she shudders away, making an effort to keep her distance. 

He knows that look. He doesn’t push it. 

Another violent jab. She grunts in frustration. 

That isn’t going to work. 

It simply isn’t the right key. 

“Key……. way out.” She says, her voice slow as she talks to herself. 

She shoves the wire in deeper, and angles it upward ever so slightly. Throughout her bout of steep concentration, she’s methodical, practiced, collected, to the point where Paracelsus hardly recognizes her. 

A lock clicks into place. 

She almost jumps up as the heavy door creaks open against the nudge of her blistered hands. Rising from the ground, she wobbles from left to right, watching the outside world with an astonished and childlike interest.

Paracelsus expects her to run. To break out. But she stays still. Her mouth is aghast as she stares into the depths of the clear and open sky. She is breathing hard, panting against the wild foliage that peeks into the open door frame. Everything, from the pollen to the wet dirt, is beckoning her into the new world. 

Hesitation. She stumbles backwards. When he turns to look at her, something perturbed and fearful flashes across her eyes. 

He recognizes it. That’s the look she gave him when she first scratched him. She collapses onto the hard marble floor, and curls into herself, looking like an ensnared animal. Bitten lips. Cold, purple fingertips. 

Before Paracelsus can do or say anything, everything dissolves into black liquid. 

“Don’t use an overcast stitch on such a frail piece of fabric. Here, try a French seam. Fold it here and loop the cloth-“ 

“Auuuughhjj!! Ackkkk! Its… just…not… binding together… properly! Gawwwh!!” 

A tinny rustle of metallic instruments echoes off the kitchen walls. 

A pause. 

“Oh no, now look at what you’ve done. The needle is impaled to your thumb now.” 

Paracelsus wakes up. He’s face to face with a red-eyed crow that sits atop his chest. It cackles at him, opening its horrid beak and basking him with a sputter of avian spit. He flinches in disgust. 

Ack. 

His body feels heavy. He stares at the ceiling of the living room, eyes darting from one corner to another. That… dream was strange. It felt like he’d spent a lifetime there, in that dark place. It felt too familiar, like a memory that wasn’t his. 

Sore ligaments, frail body. He can’t really feel much, besides the irksome weight of his body. Paresthesia crashes through each nerve, evoking a bout of sharp muscle spasms. His skull feels constrained, pulsating with turbulent waves of pain and light sensitivity. Something about his skin feels clumpy and sticky.

It takes him a few minutes to regain his senses. Finally, he takes a deep breath and sits up. He has a human body again. He's wearing clean clothes, but the skin underneath is drenched in a strange, black fluid. 

It all comes back. He remembers everything now.  

A relapse. 

Paracelsus slowly trudges to the kitchen. There’s no sign of Sharon. Was it all some terrible nightmare? He was terrified of what Slayer was capable of. That vampire would probably haunt him for the rest of his life, which was a fact that Paracelsus long accepted during the time he rotted as an artifact for twenty damn years. 

He stops at the kitchen entrance. 

What a peculiar sight. 

Testament is holding a pair of tweezers, pinching the wispy needle impaled into A.B.A’s small thumb. She is turned away, visibly aloof. In her other hand, she furiously grips a cracked measuring stick, not even acknowledging the angry needle sticking out her hand. 

Oh god. She looks agitated.

“My, my, well good morning!” Testament chimes as they pluck the needle out. “How was your prolonged hibernation?” 

Prolonged…? 

“How long was I out—?” Paracelsus asks groggily. 

“Five days.” Testament replies. “I was beginning to suspect you had turned sleeping into a hobby.” 

Oh no. 

Paracelsus turns to look at A.B.A. 

She is now staring at him as if he were a corpse that had risen from the dead. She drops the ruler in her hand, letting it clack against the wooden table. Her shocked, unflinching gaze is shiny and she rubs her red, sniffly nose. Her lips are cracked and more blue than ever. She appears dehydrated. The underside of her eyes are more hollow, dark and unrested. She claws her nails against the edge of the table, pawing at splintery wood, having a hard time containing her symptoms of emotional distress. 

It worries him to see her like this. 

The hour hand on the clock strikes six. 

This is when Paracelsus would have expected her to come running to him. Wrap her arms around him. Or at least, grip his arm like she did that night. Call him those sweet, tender endearments, ask if he’s okay, shake him insistently, clutch him tight against her frame- 

She doesn’t budge. 

Ah.That hurt. Paracelsus swallows and pretends like it doesn’t affect him. But the vulnerable, open divot of his heart floods with a familiar emotion. It makes him dizzy. He aches. It’s so visceral, so real, this feeling — it thrums underneath his sensitive skin like a toxin. By now, he’s experienced it enough times to understand what it is. 

It’s yearning. 

He yearns for A.B.A. This sentiment… it borders on desperation. It is a different flavor of insanity. It induces anxiety within his strange and wiry nervous system, so much so that he almost believes it to be physical malady. It staggers him, the way they come close to a breakthrough before something else tears them apart and wedges another distance, over and over again. Disappointment. Rejection. A.B.A’s habitual need to default back into her patterns of fear and isolation. Every day, he comes to miss her more and more. 

Is this what A.B.A felt like when he acted impartial towards her? When he pretended not to care? When she would douse him with affection that he felt too ashamed and proud to reciprocate? 

He wants their hands to touch again. He wants to move and dance with her. Explore the world in their strange, unconventional way. Live every moment with her in the present, leave behind the bounties, the violence, the fits of rage, and every inkling of suffering they’ve endured. Start anew, far away from here— 

Paracelsus closes his eyes. It’s getting more and more difficult to ignore and repress this feeling of… want. God, he feels so pathetic. This is not what he was made for. How low he’s fallen.

Softened, dulled edges. She has rendered him helpless. He knows he would give up his ego in a heartbeat for her. 

A hum erupts from Testament. 

“Sorry to interrupt this lovely reunion, but I must take my leave.” They turn to look at A.B.A. “I appreciate you confiding in me. We will finish these designs another time.”

A.B.A doesn’t respond. She just observes Paracelsus, blinking lethargically like a sleepy cat. 

Wait.

They are friends now?!? 

Testament doesn’t seem bothered by her muteness. It’s clear that they’ve developed some strange kinship during the time he was gone. That was evident by A.B.A’s lack of immediate hostility towards them even being inside their apartment. He’d almost find it sweet if it weren’t so jarring. 

Testament’s attention then turns to Paracelsus. “I assume you both have some prudent things to discuss. I would hate to get in the way of that.” 

So they know. A part of him is grateful that Testament was around to keep A.B.A company. By the looks of the patches of fabric on the table, the rulers, the scattered needles, and sewing machines, it seems like they did their best to keep her distracted. They must have experience in playing the role of nurturer and caretaker, aptly able to deal with someone as volatile as A.B.A without immediately perishing to her violent outbursts. 

The ability to nurture. That… was something Paracelsus idly lacked. 

A dash of envy pulses against his ribcage. 

Testament picks up their supplies and leaves through the front door, ducking EXE beast on the way out. The lack of theatrical exits was a much needed change for Paracelsus, considering that everyone out in the world wanted to kill them in the most stylistic way possible. 

The apartment creaks with emptiness once again. A.B.A looks guilty. There’s that distance between them again. Paracelsus is tired of it.

He clumsily lowers himself on a chair, holding onto whatever furniture he can to retain his balance. A.B.A instinctively appears on guard, hands ready to reach out. And yet, her movements are sluggish, slow. She wobbles, appearing like she’s on the verge of passing out. 

“Have you been sleeping, A.B.A?” He asks, concerned. 

Her lips tremble into a wrinkled and forced smile. 

 “Of course I have, I just-“ 

She’s a lousy liar.

“Please… don’t lie to me.” He interjects quietly, his tone laced with a thread of disappointment. 

It’s not directed at A.B.A. It’s self-imposed. Yet again, he put her in a position where she felt the need to sacrifice herself for his sake. It’s such an ingrained dynamic. One that he helped sculpt. These were the consequences of years of perpetual fighting and their shared indifference towards A.B.A’s bodily harm. 

A.B.A winces. Her eyes are getting shiny again. Fragments of light flutter and disperse in a world of green, trembling like water. The dam breaks and she bows her head. 

“It’s all my fault, Paracelsus. I thought she was going to take you away…” She grits her teeth. “I wanted to protect you.” 

“You don’t need to do that anymore.” He replies. “I promised I would stay by your side, didn’t I?” 

A.B.A nods through trembling shoulders. 

“I wasn’t sure if you would wake up this time. You seemed trapped, constrained. I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t save you, I-“ 

She continues, her voice spiraling into a stream of desperate and intangible babble. Her distressed fingers spasm and curl, scratching at the wooden table again. She looks right through him. Her expression is distant. 

Paracelsus reaches out for her restless hand. He clasps it inside his own, housing it. He slowly nudges her fist open, tingling fingers dancing over the branching heart lines on her palm. These hands, which were so calloused and bruised from fighting, feel terribly frail against him. There are scars on her fingers. The ghosts of buried stitches, coagulated blood clusters, prickles from angry sewing needles rest there. Years of his life has been spent being held by her tired hands. Her nails are brittle, uneven, bitten, and cracked. 

He brings her hand to his lips. It’s instinctive, like a built-in mechanism that facilitates physical bonding. What is this called? 

A kiss? 

He presses his lips against the inside of her palm. It’s chaste, but lingering. She goes rigid. 

“I will always find my way back to you.” He mutters against her skin. “I just need you to trust that I will.” 

Just like the stars. 

Another promise. 

Her attention snaps towards him once again. She stares at him. There it is. That reassurance. She seeks it out. Basks in it. Her hand trembles before settling, trusting that perhaps this time — they won’t hurt each other again. 

Her sleep deprivation rears its ugly head. It is further lulled by Paracelsus soft’s touches and gentle words. He can feel her body become swayed by gravity. Like a broken spell, A.B.A slowly keens her head onto the flat wooden table. It’s a little titled, propped up by the metal key that adorns her head. 

Her stare is hazy, eyelids fighting to hold his gaze. Then, she finally closes her eyes. The creases of eyelids are wet and smokey. She lets out a belated sigh as her breathing stabilizes. 

It happened so fast. 

She lost consciousness. 

Five nights. She had stayed awake for five long, uncertain nights. 

He watches her with concern, ready to jostle A.B.A awake. But she looks… at peace. He pulls back. 

Paracelsus doesn’t consider himself particularly strong in this human form. After all, articulating his body is still a struggle. Every tiny sensation leaves him asunder. His body sways and plummets to A.B.A’s emotional vulnerabilities, becoming all the more delicate than that of a regular human. 

But despite his shortcomings, he decides he wants to protect her the best he can. Placated by a faint caress, he lets go of her hand and pushes himself up, taking a long, deep breath. With all the strength he can muster, he picks up A.B.A’s limp body, supporting her back and legs with his arms.  

Their living room is practically destroyed. The couch is a soaked heap of black ink, crystallized and hardened. 

So instead, he brings her to the bed, where her body sinks into the cushion with a cradling hush. Her hair scatters everywhere. It’s a perfect mess of teal, deluged in light and sunsets and agitated little dust specks. 

Before he pulls away, a nervous hand reaches out to grab his wrist.

“Stay…. with me.” she pleads slowly, desperation slurring against her tired tongue. 

She’s scared. 

Paracelsus is speechless. 

He lays down beside her, facing her body. A.B.A crinkles her eyes before returning to her profound sleep, with the hand around his wrist staying taut and spasming every few minutes. Even in her most weary state, she checks that he is still there, searching for his warmth. He doesn’t really know how to reciprocate affection in the ways she does. But he craves to learn. And so, he holds her the way she used to hold him, as an ax, as a weapon. 

His arms wrap around her frame, sliding an arm underneath her body. On cue, she buries her face into the crook of his neck. He can feel her electrical connectors indenting into the couch. Her jaw moves against his neck, and she sleepily whispers something into the hidden depths of his stained skin. Like a faint hum, or a ghostly note, it’s too soft for him to hear it. 

He doesn’t need to know. 

Thin locks of long teal hair tickle his cheek. They engulf him sweetly, like the green plants from which she had rescued him from. That day, she had saved him from the prison of his own doing, the grave he had buried for himself in the vast wasteland of an eternal hell. Only this time, there is no blood. There are no wounds. The past is out of their control, subdued under the tumultuous bond they’ve nourished over the course of so many years. 

 It all culminated to this.

Maybe, he is capable of change. 

He buries his nose into her hair. Through weakened limbs, his embrace gets a little tighter. Finally, he can hug her back. A warmth floods in, cozy like the sun, deep and endless like the moon, complex and trembling like the blinking night stars. 

He wants to nurture her, like a garden. 

Chapter Text

Paracelsus awakens first. 

He inhales her scent. It’s earthly green, like the rocks that kiss a quiet sea, only decanted by the faint whiff of metal and soot. While she sleeps, his fluttering gaze lingers down on her for a bit. He can have somewhat of an odd, cold stare, and he’s very aware of it. Even in passing, he knows his uncanny presence can be somewhat jarring to humans. But A.B.A never seems to mind, always able to retain his intense stare, meeting him halfway through kitchens or corridors or blood-soaked dirt fields. 

Paracelsus studies her sleeping form, like he sometimes would when he was an ax. She looks at peace, shoulders and face highlighted by crescent-shaped sun beams. The grip around his wrist is looser, but it’s still there, anchoring him to her. He feels a little guilty about prying her damp fingers away the circumference of his wrist, watching them twitch in sleepy tumult, so warm against his diverging arm. 

This feeling of… closeness.

A bashful, yet tender urge strikes. He touches her cheek. He’s not sure what compels him to do such a thing. But he brushes a wayward strand of hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear. Ghostly, rhythmic breathing. She exhales against his hand; and he feels like an observer, so methodical and curious. Her pale lips look soft, illuminated by light. 

He doesn’t want to leave her side. 

But he does, nonetheless, carefully adjusting her pillow so the connectors don’t press into her head at an improper angle. He quietly shimmies out of the bed, hoping not to alert her of his absence. It’s surprisingly easy. She doesn’t seem to budge. 

Huh.

It’s unusual to see A.B.A sleep so profoundly. 

Normally, she agitates easily, always on guard for any threats, sounds, or jostles of metal that might alert her of a potential foe or threat. But there is no more chains. Paracelsus is free to move away from her whenever he pleases, and it fuels him with a sense of uncertainty, knowing that there is nothing physically tying the space between them. She looks oh so tired, fingers spasming as she recites a string of sleepy psychobabble against the mound of her pillow, seeking out his absent body. 

He lethargically steps out of the room. 

With a wavering balance, Paracelsus gets around in the ways he can. He glances at the clock with a trace of groggy apathy. It’s been ten hours since they both fell asleep, and he already feels better than he did before, only slightly put off by the mess he left during A.B.A’s breakdown. He attempts to clean and tidy the living room as a way to compensate for the mental anguish he put his companion through; but the sludge, it’s messy and it sticks everywhere like a stubborn omen of what could happen if they let their guard down again. It’s difficult to remember what exactly happened that night. But the pain… 

It crawls under his skin, like an essence that just won’t go away. 

Testament left so many things in the kitchen, it is hard for Paracelsus to not gawk and stare. Nonetheless, the half-gear left the dishes clean, decking their shelves with fancy ceramic and kitchenware that was most certainly neither his or A.B.A’s. There is a plethora of recipe books littered on the counter, each one with a different theme, all carrying diction and wordings that were entirely foreign to him. He never had much interest in consuming anything that wasn’t blood, so looking at the sea of potential dish ideas was a bit overwhelming. When he flicks through one of the books, he notices horizontal tears imprinted onto the pages, reminding him of a certain short-tempered girl who adamantly refused to file down her “fashionable” claws. 

Did Testament… attempt to teach A.B.A how to cook…? 

He’s not sure if he should be concerned or amused.

His eyes fall onto a certain recipe. 

Tomato soup. Appealing. Easy. Fast. 

He gathers the ingredients, and he feels sheepish, realizing that perhaps A.B.A has influenced him a little too much, because he doesn’t outright hate this in the ways that his prideful self should. But he finds this simplicity… quaint, pleasant. 

He rattles a drawer. 

Finally… a knife. 

How ironic. A former weapon using a smaller, more domesticated blade. He can’t help but feel somewhat pitiful, bolstering the knife with an overly-tight grip as he angles it just right. Cutting into things should be easy for him. He starts with tomatoes, garlic, and onions. They’re so easy to chop, and he relaxes a bit too much at the sensation of splitting fleshy herbs and vegetables. Familiar movements, except he is not being wielder by her, and maybe he should slow down a tad— 

The knife clinks on the counter. 

Ouch. 

He stares at the pad of his thumb, watching the skin cleave into a small, weeping wound. It gushes down his finger, and his first thoughts come back to A.B.A bleeding, over and over and over again. He brushes it off, attempting to stay calm. The area is more numb than painful, and his first concern should be to keep the food sanitized, fretful hands searching for a rag to soak the blood. He swathes his thumb in a white cloth, adding a speck of pressure as he leans against the counter. He expects to see red, just like before. 

He repositions the cloth against his thumb, revealing globules of inky dark smears. 

It grounds him to the present, and reminds him of what he is. 

When he returns back to the room, A.B.A is awake. 

Her hands tinker with the belt strap she used to carry him around. She fidgets with it, her thumb running over the leather with a tired apathy as she peers up to look at him. Her melancholic expression brightens at the realization that he is back.

“I brought you something to eat.” He says, not quite confident enough to make eye contact with her. 

She smiles. 

“Thank you, dear.” 

There it is. Paracelsus can’t help but let out a breath of relief. Her words, her endearments, her vulnerable tone; it’s all too indulgently sweet, and he feels like something in his soul just arrived home, to her, and just her. 

She accepts the bowl in her hands, watching the warm vapor sweep into the air, blowing softly against it. Before she eats, she looks at Paracelsus’ hands, a worried look slowly overtaking her countenance as she notice. She drops the spoon and reaches out, attempting to touch his hand in an overprotective manner. 

“Your hand…” she says, alarmed. “Are you hurt—?” 

Paracelsus flinches his arm away before A.B.A can touch him. He doesn’t want her discovering that he’s still not fully morphed into his human form, because he knows she would spiral, blaming herself for all the things that unfolded that night. 

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” He answers quickly. 

She retreats her hand with an air of hesitation, then timidly nods. 

A.B.A sat idly on a bathroom stool, crossing her legs in anticipation as she watched Paracelsus fumble with her hairbrush, attempting to pry out the knots tethered to the teeth of her comb. He positions himself behind her, tilting his head ever so slightly as he palms a streak of silky teal strands. 

“Hold still.” He instructs. 

Her hair is a tangled mess. Some of it is twisted around her headkey, weaving into the little slot adornments that puncture the metal bow. He works through her hair with his hands, attempting to detangle what he can. There’s a feisty knot he cannot undo. He zeros in on it, raising the brush and attempting to comb through it with a little more force. He pulls, and he pulls some more, causing her head to jerk back.

Through gritted teeth, A.B.A lets out a squeaky hiss, her nails digging into the flesh of her own thighs in sudden pain. Her shoulders are tense, and she looks behind her with a tinge of hurt, never daring to verbally complain because she trusts that he knows what he’s doing. 

He immediately feels awful. 

Paracelsus is aware that breaking away from bad habits take time. The hot-headed part of him bubbles up with frustration. Maybe this whole experiment at being kinder to her isn’t as easy as he assumed it to be. Sometimes he can let his ego get the best of him, and he can get rough, aggravated by a strain of impatience to get things done efficiently, quickly, promptly. 

“Darling, maybe it’d be easier if my hair was… wet.” 

Oh, that’s clever. Maybe he could take a spray bottle and moisturize the area with lukewarm water— 

“You should shower with me.” 

Ehm—?!?

Well, that was an option. Not one that seemed out of the ordinary when he was an ax. After all, he had become well-acquainted with spacing out during her showers, especially when she would unceremoniously undress herself near a lake or pool of water, and pull him in near the edge of a shore. At the time, he never paid much heed to it. 

But now, he was no longer an ax. 

He remains quiet. The hand holding the hairbrush shakes ever so slightly. 

At his lack of response, A.B.A cranes her neck back to catch his stare, mussed long hair dangling down like a waterfall. She bends herself into an upside down pose, hands hinged onto the sink. Her slippery grip makes it all the more hazardous, and he wants her to stop acting so precarious. But before he can say anything, she brings the back of her hand to her mouth, and a hint of familiar naught flashes across her eyes. 

“After all, that’s what a husband and wife would do.” 

As embarrassed as Paracelsus was, it was not something he felt readily inclined to do. He was still getting acclimated to his body, and the mere idea of being in such a compromising position was… a little distressing. At least before, he was not human. But the idea of her being so close, in this form— 

“I-I don’t think I’m comfortable with that, A.B.A.” He replies nervously. 

A.B.A pouts her lips and looks away, her eyebrows knitted into a slight look of disappointment. He knows that look. By the stillness of her expression, it dawns upon Paracelsus that he had hit a nerve. 

Her concept of intimacy can be… rigid. It’s easy to fall into patterns of misinterpretation and miscommunication with her. She idealizes the way things should be, whilst failing to compromise for what they really are; and Paracelsus knows this well, so well in fact that it doesn’t particularly faze him that the explanations behind his reasoning fall into deaf ears, mostly because A.B.A is stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.

He tries to mitigate the situation, like a partner would. 

Paracelsus sets the brush aside, and instead runs his hands through her long hair, attempting to placate her evident disappointment at his rejection. Long, tangled streams of hair. They escape through his rough fingers, like quicksilver. She seems to enjoy that, her frown smoothening out into more of an eased look. 

Finally, he speaks. 

“Although, I do have a proposal, if you would like to hear it.” 

Chapter Text

While preparing the bathtub, Paracelsus might have doused a tad too much soap into the tub, churning out a large quantity of foamy, bubble-stirred bath water. 

He sets up everything while A.B.A observes idly, balancing her tired weight from one side to another as her stare narrows in confusion. The dark rings under her eyes are prominent, looking particularly smokier than usual, deeply marred by too much worry and an endless bout of bothersome insomnia. Paracelsus wants to implore her to get some more rest, and focus on recovering from all those sleepless nights. But she seems insistent on following him around like a little lost critter, always curious to stick her nose in whatever business he had. 

Once the tub is brimming with hot water, he leaves the bathroom so A.B.A can undress. From inconspicuous small talk, he’d understood the concept of bubble baths, attributing most of his knowledge to a certain eccentric hobbyist that had infiltrated their home not too long ago. He found the concept quite childish. He didn’t really understand the appeal of bathing in a puddle of chemically-soaked water. 

A.B.A, on the other hand… 

“Ready.” 

He slowly turns the knob, squinting against the vapor that proliferates the room. Misty steam inundates the corners of his vision. 

He is careful to not step on her discarded bandages. They look a lot less bloody than he is used to. After so many years of traveling with her, he began associating bloodletting with her body; and it became strange, not seeing her tend to an open gash on her torso, or migitage a percolating vein with a makeshift tourniquet. She would brush off his concerns, tell him it was nothing; and he would just accept it all, because what could he do besides worry, sigh, scold, and ignore it. 

Just a flesh wound. 

You worry too much, dear. 

She has a body. She’s always had a body. 

And now, he does too. 

The water makes a crackling noise. The faucet drips in uneven spurts, reverberating throughout the whole bathroom like an angry, malfunctioning clock. 

A.B.A is inside the tub, hugging her legs and pouting ever so slightly. The water and excessive bubbles cover each crevice of her soaked body, hiding much of it from sight. Her knees plunge up from the water like shiny, lanky mountains, and it dawns on Paracelsus that she’s quite tall in her own regards, shivering like a wet stray that had been abandoned in the rain. 

It’s very…  

What’s the word? 

Cute. 

She squeaks as he takes a wet cloth and douses her head, key connectors, and shoulders with lukewarm water. Her eyelids crinkle and flutter excessively at the water that scurries down her forehead, eliciting a rather excessive amount of blinking from her. She squeezes her eyes shut as the water drips off her opened lips, tilting her chin downwards. 

Gooseflesh decks the back of her neck. Glossy streaks of misshapen cicatrixes plummet as far as the foam allows him to see. Her body is a canvas of scars and blemishes, all sunken into her skin like physical memories of who they once were. He had never noticed. They had always been covered in too many gauzes, and her rapid ability to heal made it seem like she was fine. They remind him of the pieces of brass he had sheared along their long, extensive travels, always collecting scratches with each battle like some sort of reward for embodying the spirit of a merciless warrior. He can still feel those scars on his skin, rugged and bumpy. 

They're both too alike. 

“Paracelsus.” She says.

His attention snaps to her face. 

“Do you find me… attractive?”

Paracelsus squirms, his eyes falling to the wet protrusions of her sharp collarbone before fixating back onto the empty wall. 

“Well, by human standards, I would say uh… sure, you’re… adequately pleasant to look at.” 

Human standards? What the hell is he saying? 

She tilts her head at him, looking somewhat confused by his reply. 

“O-oh...” She says, not particularly enthusiastic. 

She goes silent, scooting her legs closer to her chest and playing with a hill of bubbles clumped to the corners of the bathtub. She looks unfazed, watching her own hand lazily plop into the soapy waters, resulting in a small splash. A few bubbles disperse into the air, flying in all directions, causing him to squeeze one eye shut. 

Why is he so bad at this? 

He watches the frothy water scurry down her shiny, porous skin. With an alien intrigue, he studies the bony protrusion of her thoracic column, the jut of her relaxed shoulders, and the forest of spindly scars wrapped around her slumped body. They resemble the thunderous branches of the storms they would shelter from, hardened by time and handwoven ironsilk stitches, excessive, violent, and permanent. Her past was entwined with his, and he resents his shortcomings that prevented him from doing something to stop her from hurting. 

His mind can’t let it go. 

Regret. Pride. 

Two feelings that couldn’t coexist. 

He gently exfoliates her skin with the cloth, running it down her back in a perpetual stroke. He makes sure to be mindful of his pressure this time around, watching her sigh against her knees as she renounces all ownership over him, and allows him to care for her. 

Quiet, uninterrupted vulnerability. He is infatuated with the endless strands of dark green hair that sop onto her small frame. A strip of hair wetly covets the right side of her face, and she almost looks like that intense red-headed woman he met years ago, ever so curious with an edge of youthful callousness. 

He finds her more than just pleasant to look at. 

Truth be told, he could stare at her for seconds, minutes, hours. Of course, this is not something his past-self would readily admit. Never. These feelings of care— he instinctively wants to drag them to the grave, where they can remain buried under layers of denial and pride, tucked away from the light of day. 

But he’s attempting to be better. 

Faint, timid pulses of warmth. 

He wants to be better, for her sake. 

Paracelsus squeezes the cloth onto A.B.A’s sudsy shoulders, methodically rinsing off all the bubbles with a keen eye. She shivers ever so slightly, continuing to tap her fingers on the buoyant water, watching the bubbles cling onto her sheeny skin like fresh, waterborne snow. 

He shills out another smattering of warm water onto her key-shaped connectors, letting it drizzle off the glossy metal like the unraveling hiss of a tiny rainstorm. 

He swallows.

His throat feels rigid. 

His jaw is tight. 

He speaks, nonetheless. 

“You’re very beautiful, A.B.A.” He says quietly.

His voice is timid. It is quiet enough to be inaudible. A part of him wants his words to be swallowed by the void, never to be perceived by anyone but himself and his overthinking brain. That sentence… felt more intimate than any of the things he had said to her before. He was learning vulnerability. But this… 

This whole experiment might be the death of him. 

Pale, pruning hands sink into the water, disappearing into white foam. 

A.B.A’s eyes flutter open, and she turns to him in surprise, studying his expression. Her eyes are shiny, but not with sadness, regret, or shame. There’s a certain life that returns to them, and she squints in sincere contentment, searching for something within his stilted gaze. Words hold so much meaning to her, even when she struggles to fully understand them in context of the outside world. These past few days have been filled with constant reassurances. 

Only this time… 

Her lips form into a smile. 

“I… find you very beautiful too, darling.” She cooes and giggles. 

The echoes of water drip into the placated foamy tub. 

The water ebbs and squelches against her body as she sinks her knees into the bath water. The pool of water raises, overflowing onto the tiles below. Even with the stool, his knees feel cool, wet, slippery. A dull, sudsy ache crawls onto his wounded thumb. Water races down his forearm, dripping off the wrinkles of his elbows.

He is at a loss for words. 

Paracelsus has always thought of himself as a death god. Or rather, he used to. At this point, his own physical form seems arbitrary, discombobulated by the spiraling emotions of his wielder, and his never-ending supply of black, chemical entrails. But that primordial drive for inflicting violence; it use to consume him, day and night, leaving him salivating for it like a rabid animal, craving the engorgement of blood and the butchering of sweet, pliable meat. 

A.B.A was perhaps the only creature that continually saw the best in him, even when he was undeserving, even when he was cruel, even when all he wanted to do was harm. 

Harm, harm, harm. 

Harm her, harm their foes, harm the world that had exiled him into this horrid state of existence. 

She finds him…

Beautiful? 

He feels his face get warm again. How is she doing this to him? He can’t think and he simply looks away, too embarrassed to even be in her presence. She’s holding his heart in her mouth, biting ever so gently with each word that dangles off her pale lips. 

It makes him question everything. 

Something, quaint in nature, unravels. 

It's a primal fear. 

A.B.A is his biggest weakness. 

Maybe she is a death god, attempting to kill any trace of the entity he was. And to think that his fate would have been drastically different if it weren’t for her mangled body stumbling into those thorny woods, covered in earth, salt, and blood. 

He washes her hair with shampoo. His fingers dig into her scalp, clumsy and unceremonious and perhaps too rough. Faint traces of blue-green drip from her hair. When she cranes her neck and grimaces against his hands, he eases his distracted massaging, once again ringing some warm water onto her head. 

“Dear.” She says, looking down at her pruning fingertips. “I think I’m ready to get out.”

He blinks at her. Oh, right. He hinges the cloth at the edge of the tub, taking her words as his cue to leave. As he gets up, he turns away from her, listening to the eager slosh and splash of her body rising from the water. The towel rack squeaks. He doesn’t look. He knows better than to do so. But he can sense her presence behind him, bare, divine, unearthly like the dour hands that pried him out of that stubborn thorny shrub.

He closes the door. 

His heart is racing. His skin is shiny, mist-ridden by the steam of the water. 

He tries not to think too hard about her words, or the way they made him feel.

After he helps her dry off her hair, he brushes through it with much more ease, watching the little clusters of green come undone with minimal prodding.

A small victory.

Clumped and silky gauze. It is soft and spongy, like cotton and clouds and too much medicine. They both know she doesn’t need an excessive amount of it anymore. But he understands it’s a habit, it’s what makes her happy. 

The bandages covet a lot of her scars. 

Deep, embedded rituals of safety. 

The ones on her torso are the most noticeable. She stares at him as he unspools the gauze, attentive for any signs of revulsion or disapproval over her marred body. She looks unsure of the whole ordeal, and he wonders if his new form makes her squeamish or nervous. 

Is she hiding? 

He loops the cotton cloth around her knee, her shins, and her scarred ankles, mimicking the movements she had taught him when he was injured. With too much movement, her bandages tend to come loose, and he does his best to secure them taut without restricting her blood flow. She catches his wrist, slowly gliding the pads of his fingers up his palm with gentle ease. He shivers.

She’s becoming so touchy. 

“Your skin…. It’s so… warm.” She murmurs. “You’re like a…fire, so gentle and patient.” 

“I think fire is a rather corrosive descriptor for something that should hold a positive connotation.” He replies sheepishly. “Perhaps, another noun is more fitting?” 

Something less destructive. 

A.B.A seems pensive. 

“I think it suits you well, dear.” 

A silence. A defeated Paracelsus sighs and dips his head, because he had been anything but gentle and patient with A.B.A and this conversation isn’t making him feel any better. But she appears content, humming to herself as she traces the veins on his wrist, pressing her fingers into his arm and mapping the white indentations of his skin. Her eyes land on his darkly-scabbed thumb, lashes fluttering with a quiet and mellow realization. Something about that prompts her to swiftly crawl over him, and he instinctively cowers because he’s anxious over their current proximity, trying to come up with a gentle way to tell her she’s too close. 

“Uhh… A.B.A?” He begins, but is stopped by her serious countenance. 

He instinctively squeezes his eyes shut and scrunches his nose as both her hands come up to cup his face. Her hands… are surprisingly warm, emanating heat that reminds him of sunbeams filtering through leaves, fragmented and colorful and so very alive. With her invasive fingers, she traces the outline of his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw, before her fingers settle on the wrinkles of his peeking eyelids. Then, her fingers find his gritted mouth and pry his upper lip open, glancing at his canines too. He holds back a protest, his eyebrows knitting into a brief look of irritation because he can’t understand what she’s doing. Her observations are methodical and oddly serious, that scientific and curious streak within her glinting with a dose of concentration. 

She’s analyzing him. 

It makes him extremely self-conscious. 

Wait, self-conscious? 

Since when did his ego become vanity? 

She inches over him even more, until she’s practically on top of him, and he feels a bead of sweat scurry down his temple. 

Too close, too close! 

A creak. She lets out a soft breath as she snakes her arms around him, dropping her weight onto his body with her cheek pressed into his chest. Her legs curl inwards, making herself the perfect fit for him. He makes a tiny little noise, holding in his breath. He wants to tell her that he’s not an ax anymore, and he can feel the metal of her head press into his squishy body, hard and cold against his upper sternum. But his mouth won’t budge. She looks so relaxed, embracing him with such fervor and determination, that he can’t help but let her get away with it. 

The closeness of her body feels… nice. This isn’t the first time she’s hugged him. But it’s the first he could feel it, and he is flooded with saccharine emotions of comfort, cracking through the layers of hardness he built over the years of too much isolation and infernal vagabonding. 

This, and more. 

He could let her get away with a lot of things. 

Over and over and over again.

Chapter Text

The weather is gray and gloomy, cascading through the window in a shy, monotone overcast. Whatever was left of the night dangles by a cord of a flourishing violet morning. 

It’s early in the day. Physically, A.B.A already feels better. Maybe it was the regenerative capabilities that her body held. And yet, her eyes still feel clumpy and sore. 

Lately, she can’t stay asleep.

Her body lethargically slumps forward. Her skin is warm in a way that feels fuzzy and anew. She is reminded of the times where they would sit underneath the sunlight-weaved oak leaves, basking in the crunchy sheddings of falling foliage. A.B.A was very aware of the fierce sparks she felt whenever he touched her, held her, or weaved his hands through her scalp. A drag of fingers here. The weight of her body over his. His quickening heartbeat against her ears. The tension in his lungs whenever she conjured his name. 

The soft kiss on her hand. 

The memory causes blood to rush to her head. Of course she took notice of every little thing. He could be so kind during those moments, not at all like the reckless and bloodthirsty fighting spirit he had claimed to once have been. A.B.A thinks hard about each moment. They replay in her head over and over again. 

This is what she wanted, right? 

Despite everything, Paracelsus seemed apprehensive about this newfound closeness. It was disappointing to know that he didn’t really seem to reciprocate her feelings in the same way that she did. Before, she could live with it. It was cruel, the way she continuously ignored his pleas to stop fighting, to be less violent, and to listen to his wants and needs. She repeatedly put his life at risk, all because she couldn’t bear the idea of him being taken away from her. The dark scab on his thumb and the way he hid his strange, inhuman nature were proof enough of this prevailing uncertainty. 

Could he… 

Ever love her back? 

A.B.A leaves a sleeping Paracelsus behind in bed, quietly sneaking out of the room. She takes a final glance at him, her eyes fluttering in a spell of sudden adoration. He twitches a lot in his sleep. It’s endearing. It reminds her of the way he would complain whenever they took shelter in itchy fields, murky buildings, or prickly hay-ridden boxcars. His hair scatters around the pillow, illuminated by too much wintry gloom, and the corner of his open mouth is shiny with... drool? He tends to grind and clatter his teeth in his sleep, especially when she rests her head on his chest. Maybe he's cold.

It’s moments like these that she feels a sense of familiarity in whatever this new dynamic of theirs entails. A stubborn trace of them always remains, no matter what they endure together. 

A.B.A sits at the kitchen table, meandering with whatever fidgety contraption fits in her hands, making a habit of leaving scratch marks on the rough wood with her sharp nails. It’s not her intention to damage things. A part of her is agitated that she continuously breaks things, no matter how hard she tries to be gentle. 

This is all she’s ever known. 

She pretends like she wasn’t waiting. 

But she certainly was. 

A rhythmic knock on the door. She apprehensively opens the door, shyly hiding behind the crevice of light that filters in through the opening. 

It’s her... friend?

Could she even call them that? 

Testament visits her once a week, always stopping by with different scrapped knickknacks and key-shaped items A.B.A would find appealing. As of recent, homemade sweets have also become somewhat of a recurring surprise, her favorites being the hard and textured kind that she could roll (and angrily grind) in her mouth for long periods of time. 

For someone she initially found so contemptible, Testament’s interpersonal world was miles apart from what she could have ever imagined. Their elusiveness piqued her. As a half-human of sorts, A.B.A aspired to understand why they embodied such a nonchalant outlook on life when the outside world was cruel and evil and full of awful humans. 

She was also lonely. 

Talking to herself or inanimate objects could only get her so far. When Paracelsus became unconscious, this became even more apparent. 

Little Miss Foul Mouth. 

That had become their nickname for her. Begrudgingly, perhaps this was deserved. A.B.A did nothing but insult Testament’s appearance, their mannerisms, and the rather eccentric way they carried themselves, criticizing everything that she could to drown out her own insecurities. And yet, compared to Testament, she felt flavorless, dull, and far too reliant on Paracelsus for an identity and purpose. Without him, she would be void of a reason to exist. 

Fraught codependency. 

She knew it wasn’t right.

Testament was diligent about confronting A.B.A’s misguided notions of the world, and she continuously found herself butting heads with them over the smallest of things. Broken dishes. Spilled ingredients. Stabby needles. In the long scheme of things, her bickering became more and more docile, slowly mellowing out into a quiet ambivalence as she grew more tolerant of their presence. Still, it scared her that someone, other than Paracelsus, could see right through her destructive facade. 

“You seem on edge.” They comment as they pluck a ceramic teacup from the kitchen cabinet.

A.B.A tilts her head to the side. 

“On…. edge…?” She asks slowly, clearly confused by their remark. 

She wasn’t quite sure what “edge” they were referring to. 

Testament lets out a soft laugh and pours her a cup of hot rosemary tea. It’s her favorite, and she enjoys sipping on it carefully, having learned to be patient with the steam so as to not burn the roof of her mouth again. The half-gear seems amused by her lack of refined courtesy and unceremonious mannerisms, quietly listening to her agitated bouts of elongated noisemaking or raspy ramblings. 

Even if it’s hard to admit. 

Their company is tolerable. 

A.B.A is not sure of what Testament went through in the past to become the strange entity that they are now. But they talk warmly about the people in their lives. A kind and soft-spoken woman who now governs Vialattea with her radiant and diplomatic presence. A scraggly pirate named Johnny. A group of ragtag orphans who coexist on a giant floating ship, taking hold of the fierce, bright skies with valiant dreams of changing the world. An alliance of kingdoms to the east. A lone traveler to the west. 

Testament is like a book full of stories. And despite a history of mutual distaste for each other, she finds herself listening to their tales, processing the information with an edge of curious interest. They talk, and talk, and she can’t help but feel as if she’s listening to an action-adventure book, making mental notes of all the little details just in case she ever happens to become a jellyfish pirate or an immortal nightwalker too. Perhaps she’ll write about them in her notebook and cross out all the frustrated fantasies about Testament disappearing in some comedically terrible way.

Humans are… strange. 

Testament seems to have a fondness for them. 

A.B.A aches to know why. 

Friendships. 

Family. 

A.B.A has no family. She has no friends. She has no reason to care about anyone other than Paracelsus.

Why would she? 

She methodically organizes her workspace, viewing it like a laboratory of sorts. A persistent thought rolls in the back of her head. Has her attachment to Paracelsus dissuaded her from exploring the world in the ways Testament has?

“May I suggest we rework the sleeves?

A.B.A peers up. Her eyebrows crease into a look of exasperated disappointment. 

“But we... already... worked so hard on it.” 

“We won’t let the materials go to waste, if that is your concern.” Testament clarifies. “But this is not an enduring strip of fabric. It will come apart at the slightest of ails.” 

A.B.A sinks her head against the table and makes a low, throaty noise. She starts tinkering with her electrical connectors as Testament takes apart the sleeve she worked so hard on. She looks frustrated and tired, staring at the dangling unwoven silk seams with fretted disillusion. It all falls apart. Her dedication, her efforts, her enthusiasm. The seams unravel. She can only watch in helpless futility. Testament’s gaze flickers to her. 

“What has your mind so preoccupied?” They ask. 

She doesn’t look at them. She only stares at their gloved hands and their long, pale fingers that bend with each rhythmic pull and twist. It’s not the fabric she’s distraught over. 

“I’m afraid this happiness... isn't going to last.” She reflects, her tone fluctuating with apathy. “It feels like it’s too good to be true, and that sooner... or later... he will disappear, or leave, or find something better, or... or...“ 

She might ruin something so delicate.  

Testament raises a brow. 

“Were you any happier before?” 

Blood. 

Overbearing rage. 

A fractured, double-sided ax. A.B.A’s shattering mind, rearing into a dark place where not even his voice could reach her thoughts. It all became an addictive spiral of jealousy, blood-ink spilling from their distorted forms as they lost any semblance of who they were. It was a sick and twisted way of living. 

Get a grip, he would urge. 

Now, it was all too clear. She wasn’t happy then. She wasn’t made for fighting. But without the violence, who exactly was she? 

What was she? 

A simple question. And yet- 

“I don’t know.” She mutters against the table, and she buries her face into her bandaged arms. Her hair smells nice, thoroughly and tenderly rinsed by his hands, and she’s reminded of verdant empty fields and overgrown ivy. His wispy, fleeting touches—

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don't.“ 

You’re allowed to exist, just as you are.

She growls into her arms, her voice growing muffled as she kicks her legs under the table. “I don’t know.” 

Could he ever truly love her, knowing how destructive she can be?

Testament gracefully wraps over the excessive thread onto a cylindrical spool. 

“All that matters is that you’re happy now.” They softly reassured. “Things won’t ever be the same. Not for you, not for him. But if you continue to project your insecurities onto your relationship, you may find yourself ensnared to a self-fulfilling prophecy of your own making.” 

A harsh truth. Testament hands her a needle, a spool, and a new patch of fabric. 

“You have everything you need to try again at your disposal.” 

A.B.A scrunches her nose and takes the items. The needle is so sharp in her hands. She adeptly handles it, wielding it between her pinched fingers like an extension of herself. The first time she ever used one, it was in Frasco. Her clumsy body kept falling apart like a poorly attached puppet, and all she could do was contemplate her own existence, her own purpose, and the fragility behind her soft flesh. 

She found it all in Paracelsus. 

A reason for living. 

Over the spark of a dreamy pink and red morning, she starts her stitch pattern once again, this time on a new foundation of black fabric. Soft, easy threading. New punctured holes. Piles of little scrapped items she found and collected along their travels. She reuses the leather from the belt she had used to carry Paracelsus around, carefully trimming and measuring the length. This time, she is careful with her stitches, easing into a relaxed trance as she takes Testament’s advice and stops overthinking. 

With a newfound friend by her side, she is in no rush to get it done.

Chapter Text

When he finds A.B.A in the kitchen, she’s leaning over the table with something in her hands. Her hair is tied into a messy braid, a few strips of awry bangs slipping through her headband and falling onto her tired eyes. By her body language, she appears more chipper than usual. As soon as she spots Paracelsus, she instantly scrambles forward to meet him halfway.

“Ah dear! I made you something!” 

Before he could open his mouth, A.B.A steps forward and reaches for his wrist. She timidly fits something black and elastic onto his lanky hand, slithering her fingers over his knuckle with each careful adjustment. He curiously watches her repeat the same process to his other hand, shimming the elastic through every finger, allowing the soft leather to press against his skin. By the unique design, he recognized it as her old glove, visibly altered to fit his size. The back of the glove is adorned with a locket, gold and glimmering under the shine of the morning light. Rivets of familiar leather curl around the cuffs, and he instantly remembers where it was from. 

It was the old belt she used to carry him around. 

"…Thank you, A.B.A.” He responds, staring down at it with a dash of surprise as he analyzes his now gloved hands. 

At that, she suddenly grasps his gloved hand. She fidgets with it, furrowing her brow as she lifts his hand towards her face. He scans her concentrated face, worried by her hesitation, watching the material of his glove be pinched by her strong hold.

“Is there… something wrong?“ 

A.B.A hesitantly presses her lips against the soft fabric of his gloved hands, and she attempts to hold his hand in between hers, quaint fingers shaky and not quite secure. She seems unsure, as if she were performing something new and unnatural. And yet, she does it with such care, he hardly recognizes her. 

It was no secret that she had the habit of mirroring his mannerisms. Their constant state of perpetual isolation didn’t help the fact. The occasional empty stare. Her violent inclinations. A slight, sadistic edge during battle. Traits that were initially his. 

Now, a loving touch. His breath hitches, because he didn’t expect that, and the way her pouty lips drag on his hand feels too distracting, too—

She pulls away, and her vibrant green eyes flicker upwards to meet his. 

“You fit me perfectly, like a glove.” She says before her voice breaks into a wavy and somewhat unhinged giggle, and he can’t help but smile at that because she seems way too swoony and excited over such a thoughtful gift. 

He looks down at the glove, and he can’t stop thinking of her face, her smile, the happy curl of her lips. Something that had been previously meant for fighting was now repurposed to be something to keep him warm. This item must have meant a lot to her. Before he got lost in thought, she pulls him out of the kitchen, holding a strange pink flyer in her hand. 

“Where are we going—ah!” 

A downcast sidewalk. Grey weather.

He can feel the moisture in the air, heavy with mist. Frigid fingers clasp around his wrist, softly sliding up his forearm before settling on his bicep. A.B.A’s nose and cheeks are rosy, and she sniffs up a storm before letting out two weary sneezes. She buries her face on his arm, and he tilts his head at her, ever so curious as to why she is shivering so much. Puffs of cold air filter out through her gritted teeth. 

“Ahh, Paracelsus.” She chitters softly, her eyes droopy as she looks up at him. “It’s cold."

“You’re the one who insisted on going outside.” He replies deadpan. 

She clenches her teeth in annoyance.

Those words. That subtle trembling.

On days like these, he would feel her shiver against him, seemingly more affected by the cold than him. By the way she complained, he knew winter was her least favorite season. It was on those halcyon days when they didn’t have a shelter or home to go to, and they would make due with whatever was around them. Her thin limbs would wrap around his lanky ax form, attempting to extrapolate the warmth of his blade, his chains, and his cold and flat bow. At first, he struggled to understand why a stubbornly enduring homunculus would dread the colder seasons so much. Then, that slant of indifference evolved into concern when he realized she was biting back her discomfort. 

Now he could finally do something about it.

Without an inkling of hesitation, he breaks the distance between them, quickly wrapping his arms around her smaller frame. At the sensation of his limbs entwining over her body, she squeaks and looks down at their feet, too stunned to meet his gaze. After a second, he hears her let out a sigh of relief, and she dissolves into his embrace, burying her forehead into his chest as her hands snake around his waist. 

In many ways, this closeness wasn’t anything unfamiliar. She’s hugged him plenty of times before. But whenever he even thought of reciprocating, his physical limitations would always stop him, and he would find himself bending his bow in unnatural ways to accommodate her. Even back then, he knew such a gesture wasn’t enough to keep her warm. 

One hand weaves through the back of her head, delicately holding her as he caresses her scalp. She smells nice, less like iron and blood and more like the wet and dewy trails they would traverse through when she had to pull him around. He associates the greater world with her. The one she had helped him explore. 

Just like before, her embrace is pleasant, and he wants to lean into it even more, as if such a thing were possible. These unnatural emotions... seem overtly vulnerable and unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. Her hands bunch against the back of his shirt, clearly adverse to the idea of letting go. The tremble of her shoulders diminishes as a newfound warmth seeps into the both of them. 

His eyes flutter and close. This is... comfortable. They’re in no rush. In the middle of a cold street, he’ll hold her for as long as she needs him to.

As A.B.A leads him forward, Paracelsus analyzes the poster that she had given him. There was a pink skull stamped on it, relaying the details of a metal band that was said to perform nearby. By her apprehensive body language, he can tell she is more curious than excited. 

They meet Testament under a streetlamp, their black parasol tilted at a downward angle to cover their eyes. Their scythe now takes the form of a little cyan succubus, sitting on their shoulder. The other stays as a crow, hovering above them as the streetlamp outlines the shiny black plumage of their outstretched wings. 

The entire time, A.B.A seems to be quiet yet amicable. She so rarely speaks to anyone but to Paracelsus. He observes the slight downward tilt of her lips as her eyes inspect every crevice of the venue, scouting for any threats, foes, and adversaries. After traveling along together for so long, he knows that her alertness never rested, always looming over every unfamiliar area they explored. She wraps her arms around herself, slumped over and visibly anxious. 

His hand clumsily glides over hers, uncoordinated fingers struggling to entwine cohesively. In response, A.B.A presses her hand against his, and it’s an awkward little struggle before they lock into each other. Her eyes slowly find his dark ones, startled and brightened by the sudden gesture. That slight frown on her face eases. Something in her placates. Paracelsus can’t help but sheepishly smile at her, hoping that it’ll be natural enough to be infectious. 

It doesn’t take much for her to smile back. 

Their little moment is cut short by the squeak of fast, scurrying boots. Almost spontaneously, a strange woman pops up from behind them, causing A.B.A to emit a high-pitched gasp and reactively cowering behind Paracelsus. 

“Elphelt Valentine, at your service!” The girl puffs her cheeks and salutes them playfully. 

“A-A witch! A fiend! Dear-!” A.B.A melodramatically yelps as she points an accusatory finger at the girl. 

Elphelt blinks at the hand being waved in front of her. Her jovial smile only widens as she clasps her palms together in elation. 

“Ooooooh, you two make such a lovely couple! How did you two meet? Was it fate? Perhaps, it was destiny that brought you here! Eeeek! As a super exclusive thank you, I’ll make sure to dedicate you both a song!" Elphelt exclaims with a wide grin, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leans into the three of them. 

The first thing Paracelsus notices about Elphelt is her unrelenting enthusiasm and rather subtly menacing presence. Regrettably, he has a knack for spotting potential hosts, even when he’s not engaged in battle, and this casual situation was no different. Such an eye for identifying power was nothing more than a relic of living too long as a parasitic deathbringer and a weapon. The second thing he observed was the poster Elphelt was holding in her hands, which strangely enough seemed to resemble a—

“M-m-marriage certificate?!?” A.B.A exclaims before her body freezes and collapses limply onto the booth table. 

Testament covers their mouth in amusement as Paracelsus quickly begins to shake the homunculus insistently, feeling a dash of concern override his initial confusion.

“Methinks the chains of adoration are strong between the two of you! Oh, to be a girl in love!” She supports her cheek against her clasped hands, swooning as she watches A.B.A’s unconscious hand twitch against the table. 

After Testament engages in formalities with Elphelt, the girl scurries back into the crowd, holding a pen with one hand and her “poster” in the other. Paracelsus does his best to jostle A.B.A back into consciousness. 

The venue was a peaceful space. The vibrant colors of the bar reminded him of the chemicals in A.B.A’s books, ranging from ruby to plum to startling neon greens. 

His forceful and abrupt integration into this world has led him to become ambivalent to coexisting with humans. The strangers around him seem to intermingle and get along, conversing and laughing. Such clumsy beings, feasting on their strange drinks as if they did anything to elongate their fleeting lifespans. His eyes flicker from one side of the room to another as he takes in all the details of this place. The necessity… and perhaps, thrill, for war had come and gone. He felt… at peace, embracing this new wave of calmness, where his body could ease up without the threat of being dragged into another fight. 

“This is a tulip glass, not to be confused with a coupe glass. Mature champagne, such as Rosé, should only be consumed in tulip glasses.“ 

Paracelsus had no interest in learning table manners or wine etiquette. He tuned out most of what Testament had to say on the matter, more focused on observing the humans that filtered in and out of the bar area. 

A.B.A, on the other hand, seemed to have a textbook fascination for learning about human behavior, including formalities and social rules. Her hand unclasp from Paracelsus’, moving to instead fidget with a pink tulip-shaped champagne glass, attempting to mimic Testament’s elegant flask hold. 

“Like this?” 

He catches the glint of her teeth against the neon lights, with the corners of her lips curled into a crooked and awkward smile that wasn’t directed at him. And then, started feeling bothered. This place is too crowded. The strangers around him are too loud. His chair creaks too much. Everything is getting on his nerves. For the past ten minutes, she hasn’t even glanced at his direction. A capricious realization arises. 

He wants her attention. 

His years as a weapon were filled with memories of his wielder’s grievous possessiveness. He didn’t understand why she anxiously sought out his presence, with her attachment to him seeming almost illogical. Now, everything is certainly different. Paracelsus finds himself on the other side of the coin, pining after her, seeking the attention that he wasn’t receiving, dangling on the verge of being bothersome in a way that almost felt... degrading. He clicks his tongue and looks away. 

It doesn’t bother him, he tells himself. 

His hand feels empty without hers in it. 

Testament places down their own empty glass. Their hands reach out for A.B.A’s as they guild her thumb and index finger into a proper champagne glass hold. It was nothing more than a quick lesson on etiquette. And yet, Paracelsus tentatively waits for her to strike, claw, and do that feral thing she does when anyone gets too close. 

Nothing.

She just lets them?

At this point, Paracelsus doesn’t realize he is sulking in the corner, unable to integrate himself into their conversation. He didn’t know anything about human culture, except for the small things he had ascertained during their vagabond travels whenever they weren’t in perpetual isolation or getting into random fights. Once again, Testament was more well-equipped to teach her things about the world than he was. 

Fine. He was willing to learn firsthand. 

He stares at the alcohol. Such a grotesque, lowly human invention. It has no bearing on increasing strength, only weakening its host by provoking self-induced chemical toxicity. What a foolish vice to indulge in. 

Paracelsus reaches for the gin and carelessly flicks off the unscrewed cork. With a dash of impulsiveness, he awkwardly chugs the bottle. Testament and A.B.A stop their little etiquette session and stare at him in mutual horror. 

“D-dear?” She asks apprehensively, her hands lowering the tulip glass as she leans in to gawk at him. 

“That’s a rather primitive way of consuming such a fine gin.” Testament comments with a look of mild repulsion. “Here, I urge you to at least use a flute champagne glass—“ 

Paracelsus ignores them as some of the liquid drips off his lips. He is not listening. He was currently experiencing the worst humiliation he could ever bear, as a former god, feeling turmoil over a woman who has completely and utterly submitted him into this docile strain of domesticity. Why would he need such meaningless etiquette? His mean streak rears its ugly head once again. His nerves are agitated, and he doesn’t understand why this is happening to him of all people. 

Jealousy. Is that it? It doesn’t matter, because his throat is aching with bile and he wants to cough up a storm. But by the grace of everything that is good, he suppresses those reflexes, finally pulling back from the drink, bitterness and revulsion scrunched all over his face. By the burning in his stomach, he’s fairly certain alcohol should not be consumed this way. 

The alcohol is tart, barely sweet. Tacky. So beneath him.

This is nothing like blood. 

When he finally pulls back, he blinks excessively at the dizziness that overcomes his body. The aftertaste sizzles at the back of his throat, and he’s too grumpy to speak, simply holding back his tongue in an attempt to quell the inadequacies racing through his mind. 

His hazy eyes fall onto A.B.A. Even in the ambience of a busy and full room, she stands out, her big eyes searching for meaning in his. She tends to bear this soft, emboldened stare, always full of curiosity, thoughts, ideas, and emotions. Sometimes, he can’t quite understand what she’s contemplating or planning, especially when she’s frazzled by dark inclinations, sometimes violent, sometimes sweet. A.B.A is an impulsive creature at heart. It’s no secret his wielder has a talent for keeping him on his toes. She puts the glass down. It is then that she looks back at him with an unspoken resolve. 

Oh no. 

She reaches for the bottle of gin. 

What has he done—?

Paracelsus is too light-headed to stop her, only muttering a meek no wait before watching the gin bottle tip over into her parted lips. Her eyes flutter wide open. She immediately chokes it out, looking incredulously at the alcohol before attempting to drink it once again. Testament defeatedly lowers their top hat, ready to duck in case she sprays it out again. 

Stubborn woman—!

She squeezes her eyes shut as she swallows it forcefully, looking like she’s in so much pain. A large portion of it spills down her lips, dripping off her chin in a strangely feral way. Testament simply takes a sip of their tea, refusing to acknowledge either of them. They seem to be completely nonchalant about the chaos unraveling around them, simply minding their own business as A.B.A nearly chokes on the consequences of her own indiscretions. 

Well, the night has taken a messy turn. 

As expected, it’s A.B.A who starts flushing up first.  Her nose and cheeks turn a vibrant shade of pink. She didn’t even seem to have drunk that much, with most of it spilling down her chin and onto the bandages around her neck. Despite the redness of her face, she seems eerily calm, her eyes narrow and zapped of any emotion. 

Then her nose starts bleeding. 

She barely reacts. 

Paracelsus, in his subtly tipsy state, looks at Testament with immediate worry. “Is she…?"

“Oh, how curious.” Testament thinks for a moment, narrowing their eyes as they place their gloved hand underneath their chin. “I suppose the alcohol didn’t react well with the mercury in her blood.” 

“Will she be alright?” He asks quickly. 

Testament takes another moment to think. 

“With her healing abilities, this... shouldn’t be a cause for immediate concern.” They reply coolly, their voice laced with a soft tinge of humor.  “but I wouldn’t be surprised if she temporarily became a little...” 

Noticing the warmth from her nose, A.B.A wipes the blood off her face, letting it smear across her lips. The ambient lighting from the bar makes her appear dark and otherworldly, bathed in neon reds and pinks that refract off her shiny, glimmering skin. Her eyes are half-lidded, no longer interested in anything but him. 

"Unhinged."

“Par…ah..cel…sus.”

A.B.A clicks her tongue. The way she conjures his name makes him shiver, and he doesn’t want to acknowledge the way his blood pools into his cheeks. He looks away as a dash of uncertainty paints his face, realizing that he’s no less childish than her for pulling such a stunt. He got his wish, and now she’s probably never going to leave him alone. 

Before he could suggest they go home, someone from the crowd careens towards them at an alarmingly fast speed, racking up a trail of clouds and dust. It was that girl again. Elphelt eagerly arrives and slams her hands on the table, her face shadowed in urgency. 

“Emergencyyy meeting!” She squeaks, her eyes sparkling with unfettered determination. 

They all turn to look at her. 

“We have a very serious situation on our hands! My backup vocalist hasn’t arrived yet! The show starts in five minutes, and I’m in urgent need of a replacement!” 

What awful timing. Testament angles their head to the side and flicks a strip of hair off their face. The little succubi on their shoulder begins braiding it. 

“I’ll pass. I have an audition for Le Grand Macabre tomorrow, and I'd rather not strain my vocal cords.” 

Paracelsus turns to them in disbelief. Out of everyone sitting there, Testament was probably the most qualified to be on stage. 

Elphelt turns to Paracelsus. He reciprocates by giving her a soulless, empty look. Immediately, she offers him an apologetic glance. 

"Uhhhh, I’m so sorry Paracelsus, but I don’t think you’re really fit for the part!” 

A reasonable conclusion. 

She then looks across the table. A.B.A is glaring at Elphelt with pure, unfiltered rage. She looks terrifying, with blood smeared all over her lips, quietly wheezing in drunken irritation as her teal-painted nails grip the underside of the table. Elphelt beams and grabs her stiff hand. 

“Oh, may the burning flames of untamed passion overcome the barrier of stage fright! You’re perfect, A.B.A! We just need to get you... uhh... cleaned up!” 

Testament stifles back a little chuckle. 

Oh no no no. 

Paracelsus reaches out for A.B.A, but he’s too dizzy to catch her, barely missing her shoulder sleeve. The homunculus just lets herself be dragged into the crowd by Elphelt, stiff, intoxicated, and quietly fuming up a tiny storm of mumbled insults. 

Was Paracelsus the only one who felt mildly concerned?!?

Chapter Text

There’s no trace of Elphelt or A.B.A. 

Paracelsus finds himself looking everywhere. The alcohol isn’t exactly making the search any easier, with him bumping into strangers with each frantic pivot, becoming more and more desperate to catch a glimpse of teal green hair. In the midst of weaving through a crowd of people, his eyes flicker to the stage, where a clumsy figure emerges from the darkness, thick platform boots clanking against the polished wooden floors. 

Red lights flicker on. 

A.B.A attempts to hide behind the microphone, flinching under the blinking taps of the colorful stage lights. She’s unsuccessful because her frame is tall and lanky, and she’s not exactly good at camouflaging with her surroundings. Her slouched form leans onto the stand, seeking for something to hold onto as she does her best to maintain her balance. Thin fingers coyly wrap around the microphone as her flighty gaze scans the room, perhaps searching for a trace of Paracelsus amongst the crowd of onlookers. 

The stage lights dim before bathing her in a dark hue of crimson, and she nervously basks in it as her head turns from left to right, looking more confused than she’s ever been before. Consequently, she grips the stand a little too hard and bumps into the microphone, eliciting a wretched squeal from the speakers. Her sweaty and nervous fingers unlatched from the boom stand for a split second, revealing a hand-shaped dent on the pole. She sucks in a deep breath, squeezes her eyes shut, and leans into the microphone. 

A pause.

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaauggghhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaa……aaa…… ah …”

A.B.A screams, her voice dying out at the end until it’s nothing but a soft, breathless husk of a shout. She’s out of breath, huffing loudly, teal hair flopping onto her face as she hunches over. She almost looks possessed. 

A cascading crackling noise ricochets across the stage. The stand she’s clutching snaps in half. The halves collapse onto the ground in a little metallic jingle, rolling across the stage in a pathetic attempt to escape her. Paracelsus winces, because he viscerally felt that. 

A.B.A is strong. Unassumingly, she is also the strongest wielder he’s ever had, and the self-preserving part of him has developed a subtle fear for what she could do. His small worries are cut short by the sound of a crowd breaking into a cheer. On cue, Elphelt takes the stage and does her iconic introduction, continuing to sing her number. Something about marriage, the eternal flame of love, and... a samurai vampire? 

At this point, he doesn’t question any of this madness. 

When the song ends, A.B.A quietly shuffles off stage, looking incredibly embarrassed about the whole ordeal. When she finds Paracelsus somewhere among the crowd, her expression floods with immediate relief as she collapses into his arms and groans. 

“You did great, A.B.A. I actually...didn’t think you had it in you.” 

“You have so little faith in me, dear.” She drowsily replies as she bites her cuticles, letting her weight drop on Paracelsus. “This place isss too... loud .” 

He replies with a hum, oddly charmed by the entire ordeal. He’s gotten used to hearing her vicious screams on the battlefield; this whole situation felt entirely lighthearted. It was nice having her take out her anger on something so mundane and silly. 

“Let's go home.” 

The alcohol had put him on edge. Each sensation felt too vivid. The wind on his cheek. The bitterness stuck to the roof of his mouth. The humidity of the air. A.B.A’s powerful handhold, pulling him forward, leading him in the direction of their place. He stumbles with each awkward pull, and he’s reminded of the times she would stomp forward holding him in chains, feeling the teeth of his blade drag across rocky and sparse terrains. It almost felt similar, so much so that his legs occasionally stilted, too heavy to walk at her speed. 

They’re halfway home. The street lamps barely illuminate the path of the sidewalk, and she reminds him of a ghost with the way the streetlights cyclically obscures her body with each parting step. 

His wrist begins to ache. 

“Hey—slow down, will you?“ He protests, shifting his weight onto the balls of his shoes to create friction. 

Silence. 

He furrows his brow, worried by her silence. 

Suddenly, she stops and stares to her left, her eyes fixating on something in the distance. Is it the empty beach? The sleepless ocean? Whatever it is, she seems captivated, her hair slowly blowing against the sway of the subtle breeze. She pivots her body and pulls him towards the direction of the empty beach. His shoes sink into the sand, and he nearly trips. 

“Maybe we should stay on the sidewalk.“ 

Before he can advise her again, she tugs on his arm, this time a little too harshly. His feet drag across the sand, attempting to wiggle his wrist out of her grip. He trips over a mound of dirt and lands directly onto the shallow end of the shore. 

Water! 

A splash. Paracelsus groans and rolls onto his back, body covered in muddy and sticky wet sand. He tries to get up, but A.B.A falls on him, her half-bandaged knees smudging with dirt on either side of his torso. There she is, straddling him against the freezing waves, and he looks aghast, staring at her with confusion. Before he can ask what she’s doing, both her hands box him in. Her skin is so flushed, so full of life, that it fills him with a sudden rush of nervousness because she’s unpredictable in this state. 

She leans in. Even in the freezing cold, he can perceive that same heat radiating from his own body, buzzing alight. Paracelsus squeezes his eyes shut, not knowing what to expect. His lips part slightly in anticipation, perhaps awaiting something he didn’t quite understand but intrinsically craved. Her dirty and grainy hands slowly erode off the sand and crawl onto his chest, where they press him down with more rigor. 

The water is shallow. It isn’t enough to seep into his airways. And yet, all he can taste is the seawater, salty against his tongue like cold iron. The water sloshes against his cheekbones, his nose, and his rapidly blinking eyes, and a part of him is grateful they’re not in the nick of a big tide, where his lungs surely would have given out under A.B.A’s powerful restraint.

So cold. 

Teeth. He feels teeth skimming over his neck, like a blade exploring the trails of his arteries. Her breath is the only hot thing against his skin. Even in his intoxicated fog, he can perceive her damp weight on top of him, tangled up in the pull of an insistent sea, flushing their bodies with cold pulses of seawater. His knees jerk up because her weight is pressing down on him, and this position is so intimate, so vulnerable, so compromised—

A.B.A bites down. 

He thrashes against the water as the pressure on his neck becomes sharp; a small yet strong jaw clamps onto him like soft clay. In response, he sinks his nails into the wet, soft sand underneath them, burying them deep into the entrails of the loamy, wet shore. 

“A.B.A—!” He grits, but it’s a plea that sizzled into a quiet resolve, body limp against her angry press. 

He breathes wetly against the seawater, his tight jaw hinging open as water flushes into his lips, and he swallows the droplets of liquid salt that spill into his throat. Before any of these corporeal changes, he had the one taking her blood, using her for power, hellbent on gaining the upper hand over his wielder by any means necessary.

That’s no longer the case.

Whatever this is, he’s not fighting it. He wants to give in. Her mouth leaves his neck, and she presses her forehead against his, disheveled wet hair clinging onto his damp skin. There’s black liquid scurrying from her mouth, dripping onto his cheek. He tilts his head back and attempts to catch his breath against her lips because he can’t help himself. Soft, intimate breaths that drag on for what feels like an eternity. They're so close he can taste the saltiness of his own blood, and yet—their mouths never touch. She has him pressed into the sand, adamant on keeping him down and submitted. The tongue poking behind her teeth is stained black, but she doesn’t seem fazed, as if she’s known the entire time of his little secret. 

“You’re…” she grits, voice shaky, hurried, and low. “My everything, Paracelsus. It doesn’t matter what form you take, what you are; underneath that layer of soft and delicate flesh, I will always take you as you are, unravel every interstice and crevice of your being, I will follow you wherever you go, I... I—” 

Her frantic slew of slurred words becomes drowned out by the violent sounds of waves crashing into the distant cliffs. The seawater sizzles into his freshly bruised wound, flushing out the sludge into the frigid veins of an angry sea. He aches, feverish under A.B.A weight, and he can’t help but lie there, captivated by the way the moon silhouettes her wavering frame, part of him staining her teeth like a bitter reminder of his monstrous nature. 

On top of him, she’s beautiful. Dangling above her, he can see the stars, clouds, and sky, too. He can count two, maybe three constellations. He never cared for the outside world until she came along to show him another side of life. And somehow, the myriad of stars pressed against the deep black sky cannot compare to her. It took too much time for him to understand that. This… little thing. It has a name. A meaning. 

It’s that word that A.B.A used over and over again. 

Devotion? Care? Affection? 

Love?

So it’s a real thing, after all. Not some fantasy she conjured up during their nights of stargazing. It exists, fierce under layers of repression and his own habitual inclinations towards reasoning with his emotions. 

This feeling… burgeons with intensity. Full-bodied, yet fragile, unlike the brute violence of battle. He could let her drown him right here, right now, and he wouldn’t fight back at all. He finds himself at the other end of the blade, claimed by her, calmly waiting for the ax to be lowered by his executioner. Is she a retribution for all the horrible things he’s done during his sick, awful existence? It’s all so ironic, so utterly pathetic; he could laugh, cackle into a fit of bitter madness and resentment for her role in making him so weak.  

But he doesn’t, not this time, because she holds him steady against the ocean’s tide, his delicate life in her hands. It will always be this way, until he perishes or stops existing. The old him would have despised the groveling creature that he has become. 

He’s made peace with that. 

His hand comes up to push a strand of wet hair off her face, deft fingertips gliding over the side of her warm cheekbone. At the feeling of his hands on her face, she leans into his touch, and her fierce hold on him loosens. Her gauzes are soaking wet, heavy with saltwater, and they sop against her skin, gracelessly hanging onto her disheveled form as her chest rises and heaves. She pulls away, a drowsy clarity spilling over her sobering countenance. She realizes the black mark on his neck, and a glint of worry overtakes her face. 

“.. A-are you okay, darling?” She asks, her words still slurred and breathy. 

Ah, he’s not okay. But he meekly nods, pale as the moon, attempting to regain his senses. Water lingers inside his throat, coating the tip of his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He tries to cough it out, appalled by the horrible aftertaste. She helps him up, soaked, sandy, and shivering violently against an icy night breeze. 

He’s quiet as they make their way home. His neck is sore, and his head hurts. She left nothing more than a bite mark, already coagulating into a black inky bruise. He couldn’t help but feel like her blood bag. 

A.B.A stumbles every now and then, her impaired gait becoming more evident with each tired step. She looks confused, weak, and fragile, and he does his best to keep her close, safe in his peripherals. When she’s too disoriented to walk, he kneels down to carry her on his back. She quickly obliges, tired arms wrapping around his neck, and she presses her face into his shoulder, meek and visibly embarrassed. He lifts her up in one swoop, easy. 

Water drips from the tips of her damp hair to his clothes. From this angle, he can’t really see her face, but he can feel the soft kick of her legs, the firm grip of her arms. She opens her mouth against his ear and huffs.

“I love you, Paracelsus.” She croaks weakly. 

This wasn’t the first time she’d said it. She pondered that… word too many times, so much so that he suspected it had wrung out its meaning. And somehow, for some strange, unforeseen reason, the air shifts, and nothing feels like it used to, when they first met and she proclaimed her unyielding affection for him as if it were nothing. 

This was something else. 

The way her soft voice echoes in his mind makes his blood run cold. His knees shake with a sudden heaviness. Certainly, this was a dangerous condition to be in when he’s carrying her slumped and wet body, nearly losing his balance as he attempts to regain focus. His heart insistently pounds in his ears. hyperaware of the way his own dissonant blood rushes through his veins, fast and agitated and so very anxious. 

It’s unfortunate that he doesn’t know how to respond. 

So, he does what he knows best. He stays quiet and stares blankly ahead, only focused on the route home. Neither of them says anything else for the rest of the walk back. Through the cold mist of the hazy night, A.B.A’s hold around him tightens, and his mind races with loud thoughts and feelings he knew he needed to confront. 

Chapter Text

Life as an ax was simple before her.

His emotions remained primitive. 

His greatest obsession was how easily a body could crack under the winded collision of his blade. The exhilaration of snapping through bone. The squelch of tendons tearing apart. Oh, and the blood, which got everywhere, on his wielder, on himself, a solemn reminder of his purpose in this world, never failing to leave a trace of destruction wherever his mindless puppet took him. 

Things changed when she found him. 

“I’ll do anything for you… Paracelsus….” 

He should have been desensitized to all the blood. It is not like he cared for humans—or faux humans—for that matter, right? 

A.B.A slumps against a wall, bony shoulders losing their tension as she breathes in short and ragged huffs. There’s a gash on her chest, leaking through her bandages and wetting the thick cotton helm and belt loops of her shirt. She’s blinking aggressively, head nodding off every few seconds, eyes bloodshot and squinting under the shiny mixture of blood and sweat. It’s evident that she’s struggling to stay conscious. He can see the blood dribbling out of her nostrils, scurrying down her quivering downturned lips, and onto her chin, staining her shoes like red snow.

“Husband…It hurts...” 

“Reckless woman.” He chides, attempting to hide the wavering concern infecting his voice. “You left yourself completely open to the enemy. We barely escaped!” 

“I did it for you…. I wanted to… make you happy.” 

Paracelsus doesn’t answer. 

For the entirety of their travels, he continuously begged her to satiate his bloodthirst, get into fights, find a way to engage in violence, and utilize him for what he was made for. That whining got them here. She was looking for a blood bag and picked the wrong enemies to fight. 

“It hurts…” she repeats. 

He watches her clumsily remove her patchy shirt, now ruined and painted bright red. She worked so hard to stitch that short-blouse and make a wardrobe from the upcycled patches of tattered and abandoned fabric. Now, it is nothing more than a rag to soak up her scurrying blood. 

“A.B.A, let’s stay here for the night. You need to recuperate.” 

 “I just need to get stronger….” She heaves, not acknowledging his suggestion. “Those… bumbling, insolent brutes are worthless to our cause.” 

“Listen to me—“ 

“—Anything…” She interrupts, disoriented. 

Rosy liquid drips from her mouth. It smears pink. From what he knows about human anatomy, she’s most likely hemorrhaging, and the corrosive side effects of mercurial blood spilling into ruptured organs must have been astronomically painful. 

Once again, her eyelids begin to flutter excessively. She tries to stand up, but her knees are too shaky, and she sags back onto the tree, begrimed and torn bandages collapsing to the ground. Her exsanguinated body rests against a tree, smearing blood everywhere. He can only watch the scene in front of him, feeling immediate unease with the sight of her blood spatter covering the foliage around them. He doesn’t salivate for it like he once did. 

All he feels is concern. 

“Hey, A.B.A? T-This isn’t funny. It is just a tiny flesh wound; you’re not going to let it get to you -–"

No response. Her chest rises and falls with each wet and phlegmy breath. Her red hands are folded over her stomach, coppery and russet like her hair, the blood coating her like a harrowed cloak of death. She almost looks like she has accepted whatever is happening to her, and all she did was stare at him. 

What was that flickering, wet sting in her narrowing eyes? 

Why does she look at him like that ? 

For a while, he stays alert. The world is too quiet without her. He feels alone again. He tries to rationalize with his emotions and tell himself that wielders come and go, and he should’ve expected this outcome from the day she pulled him out of those thorny shrubs, offering him that petulant and childish little smile. Emotions are signifiers of weakness. That was the first time he ever saw someone smile, laugh, and beam at him—him, of all creatures. 

He reminds himself that he’s an ax. 

These emotions of care are unfitting for a powerful being like himself. 

She’s just a girl. 

To his surprise, she wakes up a day later, groggy and dismissive of her emaciated state. The air lays thick with a coppery metallic scent. The first thing she does is reach out for him, deliriously conversing about something relating to the places they’ll visit, the loose-ended dreams of building a home in the places they explore. A life of endless travel.

The entire time she talks, Paracelsus wonders how many wounds and scars rest under those shredded bandages. At this point, he lost count. For the first time in his life, he begins to perceive death in the same way as a mortal would.  

Something about Paracelsus seems different. 

At times, he would enter the room, stare at her, open his mouth as if he were about to say something, and turn on his heel to walk in the other direction. He barely looked her in the eye, choosing to remain dodgy and avoidant. The soft glint of his black eyes appeared pensive, thoughtful, maybe even distracted. Conversations and interactions were brief and curt. She did her best to prod, ask, or act bothersome to gauge some sort of reaction. 

Nothing seems to break him out of the spell. 

Had she done something wrong? 

She found herself sulking over it. She doesn’t remember much about the night before, except for Testament’s quiet nonchalance, fizzy, colorful drinks that made her head spin, and a horrid, loud girl who had declared A.B.A an honorary member of Speothos Venaticus, much to her confusion. There was a chance she might have done something impulsive that night. The anxiety gnaws at her brain, so she begins growing nervous around him, not knowing when he’ll bring it up. 

Her only clue was a black splotch lingering near the roof of her mouth. She did her best to rinse it out with water. 

The afternoon was slow, yet peaceful. Honey-colored light spilled in through the open windows, flooding the kitchen in warm air, a welcomed change to the pattern of overcast and frigid weather patterns that kept her shivering for warmth. Still, it was cold, and A.B.A meandered about in a blanket, chattering her teeth and occupying herself with mundane house tasks. It was nice having a place to sleep in without worrying about scouting and scavenging the area for food and shelter. 

Of course, this wasn’t their home. She was well aware of how temporary it all was, an impulse rent decision she practically jumped to at the last second because, oh god, her husband was melting into the ground, and she needed to get him somewhere safe that wasn’t a flimsy old boxcar. 

Money remains tight. Fortunately, Testament helped her sell the small things she made now and then, which helped a great deal in scrounging up some extra cash just so they could survive the end of the month. 

Paracelsus had recently taken up the task of cleaning their living room. It was strange watching him tip over couch cushions, zeroing in on black inky spots with nothing but a bottle of spray cleaner and a heap of inextinguishable determination. Still, he seemed exhausted and disappointed at the amount of things that had to be thrown out, and there was a layer of pent-up frustration in the way he stomped through the hallway with a sunken expression. 

The carpet had been irredeemably stained, covered in a black, crystallized substance that had somehow slathered itself against everything it touched. Some of A.B.A’s books were fused together by the ooze, and he seemed apologetic about throwing them away, doing his best to salvage some of the more legible pages for her sake. It was a thoughtful gesture. He seemed to care for her things above anything. 

It was quiet days like these when A.B.A began planning for their future. 

After organizing the kitchen as best as she could, she sits at the dining table and begins writing down a plan for their adventures. At first, it was a simple list of things she’d always wanted. A garden. Her own sewing machine. A new apron. Lutes and glass beakers. More keys, of course. 

Maybe a makeshift laboratory? 

She writes down a lot of things. Her list seems endless. 

Then, she moves to the places they would visit. She wants to travel the world with Paracelsus. See Greece. Maybe Paris? Visit all the quaint towns of Illyria, eat at cafes and restaurants, and watch the sunset together. Create a map of all the constellations, and document every herb, plant, and artifact they came across. Buy fabrics, collect gadgets, and scrapbook to her heart's content. 

Maybe wed.

Properly. 

At some point, Paracelsus shuffles into the kitchen. His cheek was smeared by a droplet of black ink, and she observes him in her peripherals, feeling a tinge nervous about his sudden presence. She could sense him peering over her shoulder, reading what she was writing, and she begins feeling self-conscious about it all. Maybe it was silly. Overly fantastical and optimistic, especially for their unique circumstances. Either way, it was too late to cover it up, and she felt embarrassment seize her body as his soft hair tickled the shell of her ear. 

She opens her mouth to break the ice. 

 “Dear, what do you think of Vialattea?“  

There was no response. 

She clears her throat, fidgety hands playing with the edges of her notebook. She turns her head over to look at him.  

“Paracelsus—?” 

The moment she turns her head, he takes the opportunity to tilt her chin up, and her eyes catch a glimpse of his face before he presses his lips against hers. Instinctively, she licks them like candy, and he flinches because that was forward, and she didn’t quite know how to reciprocate such a gesture. The pen in her hand falls out of her grip and rolls to the edge of the table, flopping onto the floor next to her slippers.  

“Can you do it again?” She slurs out, half-stunned by what had just occurred.  

He wipes his mouth and looks away. “Ahh, ehh, well, I don’t really know what I just did; it—“ 

She stands up so quickly that the chair and blanket collapse behind her, turning her body to grip his shoulders. Before she could step in and break the distance between them, he pushes her away, struggling to keep her from jumping his bones.

“J-just hold on, will you?” He says quickly, becoming flustered by the entire situation. 

With quick hands, he catches her wrists, trying to placate her enthusiasm, and she slowly winds down her arms. He takes a deep breath, giving her a look of apprehension before opening his mouth again. 

“Ah, I’m not good with…conveying how I feel.” He confesses, sounding somewhat tired and apologetic. 

“I, uh, wasn’t exactly made for this.”

This…? 

”These emotions… are challenging to extrapolate.”  

Emotions...? 

“I want to exist in this world with you.” 

She’s burning up. Her heart is thrumming in her ears, and her breathing comes out in stilted puffs. Her chest feels full, taut, as if something were constricting her lungs, making breathing a tedious endeavor. 

“Now would be a good time to close your eyes.” He suggests. 

He lets go of her wrists. Warm, ghostly fingers dance over her jaw. Her body is trembling. She’s been holding her breath for too long, and she’s completely frozen. All she can do is nod, study his face, and loop his words in her head over and over again. She blinks, and her eyelids feign closure, a trace of green darting between the crevice of her quivering eyelashes. He bites his inner cheek in half-hearted irritation and lifts an arm to cover both her eyes. She pouts, attempting to ward his forearm off her face. 

“Paracelsus, I can’t see you…” She whines. 

“That’s the point.” He retorts in annoyance.  

Before she can continue her complaining, he kisses her again, and she clenches her teeth before her lips slightly part, pulling him in closer. She’s never been kissed, and her hands ball into fists around his shirt, sweating and jittering against him. 

She always imagined their first proper kiss being somewhere romantic, like the ocean, a forest, or maybe the old rustic ruins of a manor-turned-laboratory.

Of course, she wasn’t complaining.  

Delicate, little thing. 

Something thorny burrows in her heart. She’s not sure how much deeper it can get, but it branches throughout her chest like a split nerve, balmy against the rigidness of her cool body. Her clenched fists slowly unwind because she knows he isn’t going anywhere, and there’s no need to hold him captive. He’s right here, where he needs to be. 

For a brief instant, her shaky and pouty lips curl upwards. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. And by his awkward cradling of her face, it’s evident he doesn’t know either. His thumbs caress her cheeks, tracing lines against her skin. She wants to pull him closer. Embrace the rush that enters every crevice of her body. Her heart is palpitating like lightning, and she swallows back her shakiness because now is not the time to be nervous. 

When he pulls back, her lack of oxygen catches up with her, and she melodramatically gasps like a fish, alarming him to the point where he looks concerned and his hands migrate to her shoulders before clutching her cold and flighty hands. She’s frozen in place as her mind struggles to process what just occurred, and her gaze darts from one place to another. 

Was she supposed to breathe? 

It doesn’t matter. Too many thoughts. Her brain is overloading. Where is she again? Why is Paracelsus so close to her, holding her hands so deftly, squeezing them tight? Why are her lips tingling? His voice is soothing, honeyed, sweet. Her ears are so hot they could emit puffs of steam. 

Oh, the room is spinning. 

How… peculiar… 

She takes a step backwards, bumping her leg against the tipped-over chair. Her body is heavy, and she trips backwards, expecting the hard and cold impact of the floor. And somehow, by some miracle, her body never thuds on the ground, because he catches her before her hair even grazes the floor. At the feeling of his hands around her body, she lets herself go limp, hoping that she won’t ever wake up from this dream. 

Paracelsus had developed an affinity for making tea. 

Whenever she was having a bad day, he would steep her a new tea, courtesy of Testament and their assortment of dried herbal mixes. He liked his unsweetened and alarmingly hot. A.B.A preferred it sweeter, more fixated on the fragrance, developing the keen ability to identify herb and botanical combinations based on their scent.  

This time, it was elderflower hibiscus tea. 

As he pours her a cup of tea, he thought about the list she had made earlier. She had written about all the various places she wanted to sightsee or explore. For every single thing she has written, she found a way to weave him in somehow, marking up quick notations about his affinities and dislikes. Don’t travel to places with too many rodents. Mountains and hills are hard on his new body. Extreme fluctuations of weather might prone him to getting sick quicker. 

Nonetheless, with his new form, traveling would be less tedious. They’d be able to get on trains, planes, and cars, trekking together without the turbulent setbacks of their past lifestyle. It also helped that he wanted to travel with her. 

As sheepish as it was, he couldn’t imagine himself going anywhere without her. 

Once she’s done with her cup of tea, she tiptoes over to the sink, standing next to him. Without saying a word, she takes the dishcloth off the drying rack and begins drying the dishes one by one. He takes notice and begins handing the clean ones to her. Like this, he feels content and at peace. A.B.A always spoke of a marriage in a similar sense to this, a happy little form of domesticity that allowed them to enjoy each other's presence, no matter the occasion. 

The rag squeaks against the dish. A.B.A lowers her face, and she looks melancholic, neatly stacking the ceramic plate against the rib of the drying rack. 

“I know it was wrong.” 

He perks up.  

“The violence.” She continues. “I knew all along that it was wrong.”

He licks his lips. This conversation again. It always comes back, like a curse. It would be impossible for them to start over, pretending like any of it didn’t happen.  

“So did I.” He replies silently.  

It was shameful. 

“Do you recall… that time when I…almost perished?”  

That memory.  

Paracelsus felt dizzy. Thinking of the past was nothing short of a fever dream. Back then, A.B.A had too many close calls. Each incident became more and more deadly. Her body, though durable beyond the capabilities of a normal human, was not completely indestructible. 

“All that matters is that you didn’t die that day.” He replies, his voice shaky and throaty. “You’re not dead. You’re here, with me.”

Isn’t that enough?  

She stares at the sink. She had neatly arranged all the dishes in the drying rack, and they gleam happily against the night lights of the open window. Her hands are damp, slippery, and she dries them with little haste. She folds the rag onto the corner of the rack, making sure to leave no wrinkles on it. 

“Paracelsus, do you…” she starts, but she doesn’t finish that sentence. 

He reaches over to turn off the faucet. His hands are sudsy and shiny, covered in soap. There’s a smattering of water droplets that scatter against his knuckles, slowly skewing down his hands as he gives her the last dish. 

“I do.” He swallows and looks down at the sink, watching the last traces of soap swirl down the drain, leaving behind clumps of sticky bubbles. He can feel her stare bore into the back of his neck, most likely analyzing the black splotchy bite mark that rests there. 

He knows he’s being vague. It is difficult for him to verbalize his emotions in the same vein as A.B.A. Creatures like him aren’t supposed to profess things like that, and yet here he was, hands smeared with dish soap and sudsy water instead of entrails and bloodstains. Similarly to her, he grew up in isolation with no one to converse with, except for the traces of rotting corpses that clung onto his dull and jagged blade. 

Maybe he was catching the flu. Maybe the cold seawater had disgruntled his vocal cords. Whatever it was, he didn’t recognize his own voice when he spoke.  

“I love you.” He says.  

His voice cracks at the end. It’s vulnerable, sickly. He continues nonetheless. 

“I love you, so very tenderly, A.B.A. I’m happy it was you who found me that day. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.” 

It was a quiet confession. But it echoes loud in his head. 

He doesn’t look at her, but immediately flinches at the sound of a dish colliding with the hard, cold floor. It shatters on the ground, causing her to squeak and pull her arms up in defense. 

He expected her to break the silence. To jump or pounce on him, talk about their eternal union, marriage, giggle madly, or recite something cheesy she read out of a romance book. 

But when he turns around to face her, she just looks down at the shattered dish. She holds herself, like a tree trying to stay upright in the midst of a tumultuous storm. Her eyes are dry. She’s not crying. but her bottom lip trembles as she struggles to process what he just said. 

He steps over the broken plate, completely abandoning whatever he was doing. His hands aren’t even properly dried, but he doesn’t care. His arms entwine around her shoulders. He’s fairly certain he has never felt the urge to hug someone with so much fervor, but the feeling implodes within his chest, and all he knows is that he wants to hold her and not let go. 

She melts into him. He can feel her raspy breathing dance against his ear, warm and tingling, slowly unwinding like a new emotion. She pulls back only to hold his face, beckoning it down, down, down, until her lips brush over his, too ungainly, too uncoordinated, guiding him back into the nook of the slippery counter they forgot to dry. His back is turned away from the starry altar of the moon, wet hands clutched against the edges of the sink, doing his best to maintain his balance as he finally lets his guard down and allows her to press into him. It’s easy to submit to her. There’s no shame in admitting the truth. 

Her kisses are endless. He has trouble keeping up with her, and his hands keep slipping from how hard he's clutching the ledge of the counter. Here, they’re away from the world, and she weaves her hands through his hair like little spells, inventing affirmations of devotion he’s never heard before, words softer than crushed petals and sharper than marred daggers, all spilling from her whispering mouth, quiet, quiet, quiet. 

Chapter Text

Much to her disappointment, he was the one to put a stop to her insistent touching.

Then again, she had him pinned against the counter, burying her weight into him as she licked the sweat off his hammering pulse. One hand slid up the nape of his neck, pushing through a cluster of tousled hair. He seemed overly nervous about whatever she was doing, his eyes cracking open only to squeeze shut again. It was only until she nearly stepped on the broken dish that he had to catch her and remind her not to be so reckless because they were trying to do things right this time around. 

She takes a freezing cold shower that night. By the time she comes out, the mess on the kitchen floor is tidied up, and there’s something about it that makes her lightheaded. Of course, his previous form impeded him from helping her cope with the splintering of her emotions and the loss of control over what little she had in the world. All she had was Paracelsus and her own ailing body. 

In the most subtle of ways, he was looking out for her. 

No one had done that before.

“Owww.” 

“Ouch ouch ouch—!“ 

A kick here. A shove there. She twists and turns in her sleep, hauling the blankets around her body each time she rolls from one side to another. She didn’t consider them nightmares. To her, they were simply recollections of things she had long forgotten, more intangible than items or objects, manifesting as the ghosts of isolation or entrapment. It used to be normal. Brutality was just another aspect of living as a homunculus. The further they inched away from their past, the worse those memories made her feel. 

Paracelsus seemed to get lost in his sleep. She figured that it was because dreams were a new thing for him. Maybe he’s also reliving memories, wearing a deep scowl every time he’d drift into REM sleep (which was relatively around one in the morning, depending on how long she kept him up with her antics). By now, he had developed a habit of ignoring the way her key would puncture the soft tissue of his neck, his temple, and his chest, sometimes leaving deep bruises that would bloom yellow and blue in the morning streams of light. He simply shrugged it off. 

After an hour of nodding in and out of sleep, she finds a somewhat comfortable position. 

Then, his nose brushes against her shoulder, and for a hot second, she doesn’t recognize the body sleeping next to her. The weight distribution on his side doesn’t feel heavy enough, and her feet are too warm for the duvet, so she kicks it off, restless against the constriction of the wall and blankets and the edge of the mattress. She curls into herself, unnerved. In the matter of moments, the heel of her foot defensively plants on his abdomen, straightening into a violent forward kick that sends him scrambling off the bed. 

A thud and a shriek jolt her awake.

“Darling?” She calls out, searching around the room frantically. 

There is no response.

She peers over the bed, spotting her Paracelsus balled up on the floor, one hand on his stomach while he struggles to lift himself up. He looks winded, his stunned face staring down at the carpet as he coughs awkwardly. She rushes over to him, a shaky hand landing on his shoulder. 

“Wheh- we…” He stutters, catching his breath. 

“We need to talk.”

A.B.A crosses her legs on the carpet floor, fidgeting with the key in her head and picking apart the hair knots that had formed inside the metal punctures of her bow. 

“Sleeping in a bed, it just… didn’t feel right. This is all new to me, love.” 

Forming new habits. 

Living as humans do.

Paracelsus rubs his teary eyes, shiny with tiredness and sleep deprivation. 

“Would it make you feel better if we slept outside, like before? I'm sure it wouldn’t hurt to try, A.B.A.” 

She contemplates the idea. 

Before this all happened, they would never stay in one place for long. The security of having a home was comforting, sure, but it was in her nature to be on guard, to create a sanctuary in whatever rusted and dilapidated paths they stumbled across. 

She was nervous to say yes. Would he find her burdensome or strange for seeking safety and routine in what seemed so arbitrary to other people? 

She tucks a hair behind her ear, pouting ever so slightly. She then nods, slow and shy, and he begins to get up in order to grab some blankets. 

Maybe it was her imagination. But she thinks she sees a soft glint of endearment befall on his face. Perhaps she’s made herself too predictable. Years of being together have led to him being able to read her well when she’s not cursing for bloody murder on the “battlefield” or chewing on the leather strap that bound them together. 

She stands up and follows him out the room.

Paracelsus helps bundle her up. 

Even if her body has an extensive physiological tolerance to the cold and she’s faced much, much worse, he still wraps a soft scarf around her neck, covering most of her gauzes and scars. Once he’s done, he looks indecisively at the doorknob.

He pauses, glances back at her, and tugs down her scarf just enough to give her a quick closed-mouth peck on her lips. He then bashfully walks forward with his gloved hand tugging her own, leading the way out the door. She follows him, staring at his back, a dorky smile forming on her face. 

Tall buildings. Endless skies.

The moon hides behind the clouds, covering what little she could make out from the stars and planets. Still, A.B.A took notice of the satellites, the city lights, and the outstretched cedars that hung above them like spires and wind chimes. If she squinted, she could see Venus. 

She wonders if Testament was taking a night shift. Could Elphelt be preparing another hit song? Maybe Sharon was out there, reading a book or gossiping with her husband about their mutual hobby of “people watching.” 

She wasn’t seething with murderous rage like she usually did when she thought of those people. Now they were just a mild annoyance that she would rather avoid. 

They trek a little lonely hill. Paracelsus brought along two blankets. He had them neatly folded in his arms, scouting out a dry spot in the grass for them to lay on. When he finds one, he spreads one blanket out onto the green turf, getting somewhat frustrated by the dampness of the grass that bled through the fabric. They needed something less porous. For now, this would have to do. 

She sat down next to him. It was awkward, considering that a few hours ago, she had her hands all over him with minor discouragement. Now, he's making her nervous again. She tucks in her knees as he lays down on his back. 

There’s a period of silence that draws out for too long. 

“Can you…” she hesitantly begins, realizing that this would be hard to put into words. 

“Hm?”

“Can we pretend… like you’re a key again?” she asks with a wavering voice. 

“Uhh… sorry?”

“A key—I mean, an ax, dear. You, well, how you were before you…”

Her words lump in her throat. 

“Before you took that form.”

His eyes widen slightly at the realization of what she’s implying. Of course, all these changes were difficult for both of them. He takes a moment to process her words, unscrambling them in a way that he could understand.

“Okay, A.B.A.” He yields softly. 

She watches him tuck his hands in by his sides, stiffening his body in a way that no longer came natural to him. He was trying hard to stay still, but his knuckles kept twitching against the itchy sod, and he scrunched his nose at the whiff of smoke and pollen, doing his best to ignore it. Of course, A.B.A would never insult her dearest, lovely Paracelsus—but he admittedly looked so silly, fulfilling her request to the best of his ability. 

She tries to wrap her arms around his wider body like she did whenever they’d travel together, but he squirms and stares at the sky in concentration, unable to keep still. Her nose brushes against his jaw, and she can feel his collarbone poking her. 

“Your face used to make a good pillow, my love.” She says with an off-key giggle, curious hands sinking into the grass and mud, familiar with the earth. This is what she knows. 

His throat hums against her ear. It is an earthly vibration, reminiscent of the stutter of his blade against hard terrain, short-lived but familiar, and she wants to hold him for as long as possible. 

“I find that difficult to believe.” His expression morphs into a look of defeat as he carefully pushes her hair off his lips. “Now that I think about it, your hair always had a tendency of getting into my mouth whenever we did this.” 

She watches his expression carefully. The slight tilt of his chin and that flimsy, not quite permanent curl of his mouth that failed to settle into a conventional smile. He’s becoming more and more expressive. And yet, his gaze could be awkward, a bit distant, foreign, and occasionally addled. 

A.B.A thinks of words. They falter upon the weight of her emotions, so she doesn’t speak. 

He’s restless. 

“I’m sorry A.B.A, this is a rather difficult request to concede.” He laments as his body finally relaxes, shoulders dropping to press against the cool blades of grass underneath their tangled bodies. 

“My Paracelsus…” She murmurs, feeling her face warm up against his skin. “It was enough for me.”

She apologetically pecks a kiss onto the side of his neck. She knew it wouldn’t make his bruise heal any faster. But it felt natural, real, and he was alive, palpating with blood and life and warmth, hers to adore. At the touch of her lips against his skin, he shivers, unclamping his fists at the gesture.

Even after getting a body, his reaction to her flirtations remained skittish. He never seems to know where to put his hands, sometimes grasping the air behind her or lightly touching her with the tact of a sinking boulder. Her fingers made him melt into a pool of jittery perspiration. She grins against his skin and pulls her body upwards, leaning into his ear. 

Words. 

She produces them from her mouth, no longer tethered by the clutches of blood and wrath. She compliments him, sweet and inviting with a streak of her usual euphemisms, and her lips keep moving, as if her larynx had a mind of its own, pressing her mouth into his temple as her deluge of thoughts becomes words.

He listens, visibly embarrassed. It was entertaining to stir up his emotions, remind him of who she is to him, more than a stranger or a battle partner or a wielder. There were moments when she wondered if he ever felt bodily fear, like she did, when she first came into existence.

It tickles her brain to see him so soft-bodied, fragile. 

She locks her hands against his clammy ones, guiding them into the wet groves of kicked gravel and bent dandelions. She knows he could feel the earth. He could feel her body, too, clambering on top of him. She sits on his lap. He’s not physically melting as otherworldly weapons often do, so her hands don’t seek to control to tame him or the things that wanted to hurt them. 

She lowers her face onto his, propping herself on her elbows. Puckering her mouth ever so slightly, she nips at his lips when her mouth meets his. She’s a mess of gauze and hair. Kissing doesn’t come naturally to her. In theory, it was an unsanitary, invasive, perhaps hazardous practice, but she wanted to do it because that’s what lovers do, as described by her romance novels and the scientific literature detailing the nature of biological imperatives. 

Then again, she wasn’t human. There was a possibility that her saliva contained corrosive elements that would hurt Paracelsus if she got too carried away. Her mouth feels sour, sticky, so she keeps it taut. The pads of her thumbs trace the heart lines on his palms, sliding over his skin in faint strokes. His lungs rattle. 

Her kisses are messy, uncoordinated. Yet, he indulges her, soft, slow, fast, unprecedented. Tiny noises escape his mouth, and she feels each one of them vibrate against her teeth. She drinks them, swallows them. She wants to accept everything he offers her, but a part of her is scared to break him again. 

They have a habit of hurting each other. There’s a palpable air of uncertainty in how he reacts to her touches, and she knows he’s holding back too. 

A thought comes. She pulls back just enough to see him through the darkness of the night. 

“Your name, darling.” She asks. 

His eyes slip open. He’s breathless, dazed, caught. 

“Paracelsus…?” 

She wipes her lips. 

“Your real name.” 

His knuckles are white against the grass. 

That nightwalker—and his nosey wife—knew him by many aliases. Flament Nagel. The Sanguine Gale. A death god. A formless creature, born from terror. An artifact. An ax, a key. 

“I don’t have one.” He says dryly. 

Her arms are getting sore from hoisting herself up in such an awkward position. She looks down at him in earnest, waiting for him to say something else, but he revels in silence, clearly done with the conversation. Before she could speak again, he nudged her down in an attempt to quiet her mind, but she’s never not been submerged in thought, sweet or cruel, and she feels too tense to smile again. Still, she allows him to anchor her into him, kissing her with more confidence, again and again and again. Her hands sink into everything she can touch. 

This time, she feels more bold. They thread in between the locks of his disheveled hair, canvassing over his clothing and his cheekbones and his shoulders and the hot skin underneath his shirt. He is such a complex being with limbs and hair and organs. 

He gives meaning to words. 

 Fear. Love. Excitement. Desire. 

Certainly, it would be hard to sleep now. Her heart was in her throat, her lungs were heaving for air, and all she wanted to do is to fervently touch this creature she called her husband. Whenever she would pull back to breathe (she didn’t want to faint again), he would gaze up at her, wiping away the strands of hair that clung onto her shimmering skin. It makes her think of love, in its purest form, stripped of flesh and words, those inconspicuous words, exposing the sensitive marrow of her voice. His fingers on her scalp are becoming a habit, except this time they drag down her neck, collecting a handful of white gauze, treating it like an extension of her body. 

He’s pretty. 

Handsome. Beautiful. 

She’s never thought of humans as such. 

As his hands flourish over her trembling body, she feels a familiar flush of adrenaline pool through her veins, pulsing in her belly. There’s too much of it. It accumulates in her body, and she clenches her jaw because it’s so familiar. Uncontrolled emotion often leads to his unraveling. Her proclivities burn through her skull, so she attempts to keep her emotions in check. 

A.B.A tries to pull his shirt up with shaky, eager hands. It’s too callous, too aggressive, and she stretches the seams apart. The sound is grating. It startles her like firecrackers. She flinches again, remembering the broken dish, the black sludge in their living room, the three little scars on his arm, and the people she hurt during her fits of blind rage. 

Her body stays heavy against his. 

A part of her expects to see blood, and she flexes her palms just to check, inspecting her fingertips and her gauzes and his body. There was nothing. Paracelsus, in his hazy state, seems to catch on quickly, recuperating his breath and cupping her face. She shudders, then eases into his touch. 

“A.B.A, it’s alright,” he reassures. “I’m here with you.” 

She crawls off his body and sits next to him, staring at her knees. They’re wet with grassy beads of translucent dew. She can still feel the traces of him on her lips, sweet and tangy.

The sun drowsily rises from behind a cluster of buildings, unwinding like a butterfly tapering itself out of a torn chrysalis. 

She leans her head on his shoulder. His eyes are still shiny from the sleep deprivation, and he rubs them, blinking aggressively against the morning light. It’s charming, realizing how much he needs sleep now in comparison to before. Day by day, she becomes more aware of his human habits, the cold showers and hot tea, his fondness for the color red, and his budding appreciation for all the things she loved before the jealousy and the anger and the hatred took over. 

His impatient and stubborn habits. The care in his voice when he spoke to her. 

It almost feels unnatural. She watches the sky turn from cold to warm. It reminds her of Frasco, the forests and mountains and cities they walked, her own fleshy and delicate body, and the things lost between her healed wounds and the long, empty field beneath their feet. 

A rustle of air. A leaf falls pathetically on her face. She doesn’t mind. The grass feels familiar when they both drift off to sleep, tangled amongst the dandelions and honeybees and the wet blanket that smelled like him.

Chapter Text

Halfway through the front door, she seizes his forearm. She doesn’t let go. 

“I’ll be fine on my own, A.B.A. Just… please let go.”

Like a scolded child, she flinches and lethargically does as instructed. Her hands linger in the air, empty, and he hears a breath of trepidation escape her mouth. 

“I won't take long.” He promises, soft. 

“I won’t.”

His first stop is at the library. Upon the revelation that he is ineligible to apply for a library card, Testament generously lets him borrow their own with the caveat that they return all the checked items in good condition and they don’t miss the return deadline. Testament’s menacing smile was enough to send a shiver of fear down his spine. 

Studying the details of Testament’s library card, it dawns on him that neither he nor A.B.A had conventional names, just vague iterations of words that felt like labels, their identities attached to something that once existed in this world and was now meshed into the intricacies of their persona.

He maintains his earlier promise and collects books for A.B.A. In his pile, he adds things that he knows would interest her, like books on locksmithing and biology. Maybe a book on anger management too, for good measure. During checkout, Testament gives him a few pointers on small odd jobs around town, anything from woodworking to manual work to delivering packages or mail. 

This is how humans live, he thinks.

The second thing he does is buy groceries. He purchases milk, vegetables, and eggs. They couldn’t realistically afford much else, so he budgets what he can, making do with the low earnings they had in their dingy scrap jar.

In this state, he observes humans a lot more.

By now, he’s acclimated to them. He mimics what he can to come off as more natural, squeezing himself between crowded lines or reading the ingredient labels on the back of food packages just to look busy. Something about having a human body made him hyper aware of how he was perceived, and he began to care more about his appearance and the way the world saw him.

It was all a process of assimilation. He understood why A.B.A struggled to fit in. It was a harrowing experience to be othered. In his case, there was some residue of humiliation that lingered there, learning to adapt rather than subjugate those who were “beneath” him. 

Onions. Carrots. Dried noodles. Learning to love non-sanguine food was… difficult. He occasionally got the craving for blood. 

This time, the urge hits him while he’s looking at a pile of tomatoes. The feeling seeps in waves, and it’s more displeasing than he remembers, inducing nausea within his midsection and making his hands clam up, moisten with dread. He avoids looking at people when it happens and stares at the shoes she stitched together for him. He often sits down until it passes over, and he thinks of other things that calm him, like hot tea or the sunrise or the touch of her fingertips playing with his hair in the morning. 

With his hands full of bags and books, he makes his way back home until a minor distraction sidetracks him into a building he never noticed before. 

A flower shop, drowsed in noon air. There aren’t too many people inside, and he bunglingly wanders around because this is not a place for him of all creatures.

He skims over the shelves of flowers and contemplates the fact that he has no urge to destroy them or scoff at their existence. They’re just things, living things, that need water and sunlight and care, as all living creatures require. 

Roses… too clique. 

Tulips… too plain.

Sunflowers… too happy.

He glances through orchids and petunias. His fingers brush over the petals and the erupting pistils. It takes him a moment to realize the stems are severed and cut, and he wonders what his homunculus partner would feel upon seeing them wither so quickly. He could almost picture her subsequent melancholy, trying her best to angle them towards the sunlight or trimming away the stem in the hope of keeping them alive. 

He takes a step back, ready to give up and head back to the apartment. As he shifts his weight, he bumps into another customer on the compressed aisle, and the bag in his hands swings to hit the stranger’s leg. 

“Ah, sorry,” he says quickly, turning around to apologize to the person he had collided with.

“The potted ones live longer. What use is beauty without time, care, and vitality?” 

That poignant voice. The unmistakable coat. 

Slayer didn’t look a day older since the moment they first encountered each other. His pins and lapels winked in the light, perfectly decking the sleek fabric of his elegant waistcoat and stylish cloak. He was holding a pot of white heliotropes and a bottle of red wine, seemingly on his way somewhere.

With a shake of his head, Slayer gestures towards the direction of a pot of blue hydrangeas. Paracelsus can’t help but stare at the aggregation of pale blue flowers that spring together, molded into clusters of varying maturation and bloom patterns. They opened up, like bursting stars. With his free hand, Paracelsus meekly picks them up.

“U-Understood, thank you, sir, now I must be on my way—“ 

As he turns in the opposite direction, a heavy hand comes down on his shoulder. He gulps pathetically; the hand gripping the bag of groceries grows sticky and unsteady.

“Have we met before, my friend?” 

“Ahhh well, I don’t believe so.” His voice spikes in pitch. “Umm, it’s time for me to engage in normal hobbies like one does. Haveagreatday, goodbye.“

He shoots past Slayer with too much haste, hoping that the vampire doesn’t even think of following him. He pays the florist the last of their earnings and stumbles out, determined to get away as quickly as possible. This state was possibly the weakest he’s ever been. His vessel wouldn’t even be able to withstand a single punch from Slayer. 

For the first time in his life, he breaks into a nervous jog.

Home wasn’t too far away. He’d only been out for three hours, and he memorized a handful of shortcuts to get there quickly. With full hands, he rushes up the stairs, huffing. He nearly spills the grocery bag when he sees someone leaning on his door. 

“My word, do my eyes deceive me?” Slayer takes off his monocle to clean it with a handkerchief.

“Aaah, sir, I—I believe you are mistaking me for someone else—“

Slayer squints his eyes, analyzing every angle of his body. Paracelsus feels his face grow hot, wanting to huff out a weak stop that, because this entire interaction was making him incredibly uncomfortable. The vampire was getting too comfortable with invading his space, and he steps forward, further intimidating Paracelsus.

He then stops, returning the pipe to his mouth and nodding to himself.

“Fascinating. Your wife remained very committed to her objective, didn’t she? Truthfully, after that stint in bounty hunting, I did reserve my doubts about the transparency of her aspirations, unless this transformation wasn’t entirely by omission.” He thinks aloud, producing a small notebook from his breast pocket and scribbling something down.

His pen stops. A tall puff of smoke wafts out of his pipe, dangling in the air around, causing Paracelsus to breathily cough.

“Nagel, did you will yourself this form?”

Before Paracelsus could even contemplate an answer, the front door bursts open. Something smelt crisp, maybe burnt, and he grimaces.

“Darling! Welcome home—“

Paracelsus and Slayer stare at her. Her smile drops as she recognizes the dandy vampire, and her face drains of color. She hides behind Paracelsus while waving the pan in front of Slayer like a makeshift weapon. She’s trembling, presenting clear signs of contempt and fear, but not enough to blindly lose her temper. Paracelsus can tell she’s doing her best to placate her anger, her lung rattling as she keeps her body taut.

He himself takes a deep breath because the two creatures that could kill him are standing across from one another.

“Y-y-you. Stay away from him! Paracelsus, I’ll subdue this serpent with the pan while you abscond to the mountains. We’ll make new identities and live in an abandoned cabin, and I’ll roast mice for food—“

Well, the cat's out of the bag.

Slayer scratches the side of his neck and raises his hands, clearly amused.

“Ah, the prideful maiden, ever so fierce and protective over her lover. My apologies for interrupting your lovely evening together.” Slayer says as he does an elegant bow. 

You’re not the first, Paracelsus wants to interject. At least Sharon had kept her word.

“You see, I’m just here for a nosy stroll. If I may ask, whatever has become of your blossoming relationship?” 

A.B.A presses her lips together and lowers the pan to her side. The distrusting creases of her eyebrows deepen, and she appears thoughtful, evidently stumped by Slayer’s question. They hadn’t agreed on a label for their relationship. Working on having better communication had made her more aware of Paracelsus’ sentiments regarding the delicacies of their relationship, with the status of their “marital union” becoming that of a vague topic.

He wasn’t intent on letting that go. He won’t.

“We’re married.” He responds sternly, now irritated by Slayer’s obnoxious interrogations.

He was so tired of having their business be aired out so callously. 

“M-m-m-married…!” she echoes with a shocked cadence, clutching the backside of Paracelsus’ shirt and burying her hot face in it.

Slayer blinks, slipping the pipe out of his mouth to let out a loud and hearty laugh.

“You two are an interesting pair. In my thousands of years alive as a Nightwalker, I never thought I’d live long enough to see a homunculus domesticate a demon weapon.”

Paracelsus grumbles at the word domesticate. He was perfectly capable of self-reflection and exercising his autonomy, even if his existence was woven to A.B.A and her fluctuating emotions. Of course, being with her had been a challenging lesson in practicing poise and restraint, but such a situation didn't negate the fact that he willfully chose to bury the violent side of himself for their collective wellbeing. 

His desire to be better was a consequence of their mutual compassion for one another. They were on equal ground now. 

“Now, if I’m not mistaken … I assume you two made amends by renouncing your life of crime.” 

Paracelsus tenses. He opens his mouth, but A.B.A speaks quietly from behind him. 

“Paracelsus and I…have decided to capitulate our violent tendencies in favor of resolving matters… in a more peaceful manner.” She drawls timidly before retreating back behind him.

Slayer and Paracelsus stare at her again, this time speechless.

The vampire coughs and clears his throat.

“Aha! Truly, there is nothing more profound than a maiden’s heartfelt vow of peace! I trust that you two understand the conditions of relegating yourselves to a peaceful existence, yes?” 

Both Paracelsus and A.B.A nod their heads like children. The last time they encountered Slayer, they were humbled into oblivion by his iron fists, and they both agreed to stay in his good graces by any means necessary. Well, at least he did.

Slayer closes his notebook and returns it to his breast pocket.

“Very well. I’ll take my leave. Take care of your wife, Paracelsus, and— ” 

A.B.A slams the door on him. Paracelsus nearly shrieks, turning to stare at her in horror because that was unhinged, and this is the worst person to make an enemy out of. She doesn’t seem to care.

“I’m tired of intermeddling, unwanted charlatans. Where were we, dear? Marriage? Eternal union? Oh Paracelsus, you—” 

Her ramblings are cut short. She stares at the ceramic pot of flowers in his hand. The erratic movements of his jog had frazzled the stems, with some of the wet soil sticking onto his sweaty palms and shirt. Still, the flowers were intact, if only slightly rustled.

Her lips tremble in the way they did the night he told her he reciprocated her feelings. He feels too queasy to look at her, so he simply looks at her arms when he offers them over.

A.B.A accepts them quickly. She’s now quiet, clearly taken aback by the gesture, and her eyes dart to look at every single flower. Her mouth forms into a small smile as she reaches over to him. Her coy fingers catch his chin. She leans up to kiss his cheek.

She had burnt the pan again, trying to surprise him with “food”. At least the place wasn’t on fire. 

They tidy the kitchen together. 

He plucks a blossom from the pot of hydrangeas and weaves it into the taut elastic of her headband. It contrasts nicely over the key in her head, subduing within the green tides of her hair. He wants to comment on how she now buds flowers on her head too, but he doesn’t want her taking his words to heart and misinterpreting his affection. Whenever he touches her, she becomes too excitable, and he holds her wrist to steady her jumpy body. On top of her scalp, he can see her natural roots growing in, sprouting a muted red like adobe and dirt.

Her hands slither over his as he brings them down. 

Her hands stayed rough and calloused. They've always been that way, since the day she first held him, prying him loose from the earth like a stirred grave. During his worst moments, he’d observed her bandages soak in blood from torn muscle, and she’d press her forehead against his cold body. Even then, she would forgive him.

Asked him if that’s what he needed.

Nowadays, all he wants is for her to be next to him. Keep each other company. His ego is too uptight to admit it aloud, but she knows that he loves her. No one else could read him like she could. And yet, she doesn't bother him about it. His feelings, in all their intensity, are quaint. 

instead, she traces the ridges of his fingernails and the creases of his fingers, carefully pinching the skin in between her fingers like soft, mushy wax. 

They chat and prepare a meal together. Entrusting A.B.A with a knife feels like a bad idea, but she seems to wield it just fine, dicing the onions and carrots with a tactical precision. Despite her occasional clumsiness, she remains an adept learner, brandishing an aptitude for grasping concepts whenever she wasn’t trembling with loathing or warding off people for getting too close to Paracelsus.

They make soup. A.B.A tells him at length about the cheesy romance novel she was reading, and it falls on him that humans have rituals of displaying romance outside of bad kissing spells or delivering mangled bouquets of dying flowers. Married couples dote on each other through language too. 

Words, writing, poetry. 

By now, he had become better at comforting her instead of brashly kicking down her door when she needed space. Even as they sit peacefully and eat, he ruminates over the emotional chaos that brought them here and hopes to never see her in that state again. 

His feelings were difficult to pinpoint and process. He was never much of a poet nor a romantic. As a weapon, his need for such skills felt unnecessary and troublesome, and he’d rather turn his brain off and give into blind rage.

A.B.A slips into their room to change. Paracelsus stays behind to wash their bowls and clean the kitchen table. When he finishes, he gazes at the hydrangeas with a bit of thought, and he lets his thoughts simmer.

What were those poems that Slayer liked to write? He shimmies through a chapbook he borrowed for her, glancing over the structure. Haiku poetry, something captured in time and adjacent to nature, syllabic in rhythm. 

He unfolds a blank piece of paper and shakily drags a pen over the creases. After ten attempts, he manages to steady his hands just enough to leave something behind.

This was the fifth time A.B.A had pleaded to shower with him. Predictably, he turns her down, even having the audacity to lock the door to keep her from accidentally “stumbling” in. 

With a bone of disappointment, she wanders into the kitchen.

On the table next to the flowers, there’s a note. The handwriting is bad, slanting down with each choppy ink stroke. It reminded her of a dilapidated building, caving into itself with each word. She holds it to the light, unfurling it over her palm like a mound of dirt.

Scarred hands collapse threads, 

Untie knots out of skin, that, 

I want to hold, love

A.B.A reads it over and over again. She braces it against her chest. Her hands feel cold. The writing is rough, the words unrefined, choppy. She’s afraid to wrinkle it. That doesn’t stop her from tracing her fingers over the writing, dragging along emotions from the letters and syllables he wrote just for her, smearing it ever so softly against her own skin like blood.

Chapter Text

Winter arrives in full force. The reverie of snow had splinters through the city like a blanket of cool fog. 

As an outsider, A.B.A observes the strange customs of humans, the pretty lights and decorations that adorn the trees, the lights, and the quaint houses and shops. She avoids running into people, occasionally opening the front door to study the stairs and the hills of snow piling up on her doorstep. 

She makes an effort to venture out. And she’s not always successful.

This particular day, Paracelsus had asked her to check the mailbox. By the time she opens it, it nearly implodes on her face, and she clumsily catches every falling item. 

Testament had sent her a small locksmithing kit, along with a bag full of tweezers, clamps, bolts, and lock scopes. Elphelt sent her a slew of new merch, posters, and shirts and signed copies of her CDs, coupled with a pink letter asking to meet A.B.A for some “girl time.” Slayer sent them a kumano brush for poetry, rambling on about the gift with something about how traditional calligraphy is the epitome of modern artistry. The nightwalker seemed to forgive her previous transgressions; not that she cared anyways. They were even now.

Sharon sent them therapy referrals.

A.B.A shoves herself into the corner of the kitchen, watching the entrails of the sunlight rot on the carpet, hidden by gloomy clouds. She was skilled at piecing together crude locks and keys out of the small trinkets she had scavenged during their travels. Here, she found time to fine-tune her skills, learning the mechanisms of driver and spring placement, refining her ability to bypass any lock with a jab of her makeshift lockpicks.

She holds her keys to her chest, tracing the teeth of the little objects she loved so dearly. As much as she cherished being here with her loving Paracelsus, something was amiss.

The city isn't for her. There was something nauseating about being stationary, locking herself up in the confines of their apartment because she didn’t want to go outside and deal with humans. It felt sickening, the seclusion of becoming withdrawn, and she waited for him when he wasn’t home.

A.B.A liked observing Paracelsus. 

She would encounter him hunched over a mirror, studying himself. He would run his hands over his cheekbones, his nose, and the angles of his jaw. Soon after, he begins tying up his shoulder-length hair, trying out accessories that A.B.A had lying around. 

He still had a habit of having a dead, empty stare. But she never seemed to mind, matching the intensity of his gaze whenever they found themselves facing one another. She was shy, but not towards Paracelsus. 

He was the first “human” she trusted. 

Like a little magpie, she liked giving him trinkets and gifts.

She made him belts and leather items. 

Some nights, she would stay up with him to comb his hair. He would reluctantly oblige, complaining all the way through. And yet, more than a few times, she caught him staring at her as if she were something more than a mangled homunculus, a loving thing caught between a rickety bulb and a stained carpet, so profoundly attuned to her idealisms of love that she nearly recoiled in adoration.

Her attachment to him shifted, bloomed, and evolved into a mutual companionship rather than a one-sided obsession that tore open her heart. She still followed him insistently. Wrote about him every day, ruminating over his old key form to an embarrassing degree. That insecurity of him leaving, not reciprocating, faded with the heave of snow that swept through the sidewalks of the dingy streets. He relied on her for a lot of things. She found comfort in the fact that he actively sought her out, finding excuses to touch her and sit next to her. 

Her husband learned to fit in quicker than she had. He was good at observing other humans, mimicking their etiquette, and following their social rules. A.B.A remained standoffish, bitter, and odd, but the consistent visitations from Testament and Elphelt helped facilitate her socialization.

Still, she refused to go outside on her own.

Paracelsus bought her new, closed-toe boots. She decorates them with small key adornments that rattled with each step she took in the snow. 

They had gone out for a stroll. The skies are pink, sunsets weeping past the edge of the city to reveal a backdrop of stars and satellites. The city is brightly illuminated, with the sidewalks buried in ice and snow, flocked with footsteps and traces of all the humans— people who stepped afoot.

A.B.A cups a handful of snow off the ground, allowing it to melt over her palms. She wasn’t wearing gloves, thinking nothing of it. The more she lets it stay in her cupped palms, the more it hurts. She hisses when the wet sting of the ice presses over her skin. Her fingers are numb, burning in the cold. 

Whilst traveling with her ax partner, weather was never an issue for her, only becoming a mild discomfort she could power through with dour annoyance. She didn’t pay mind to the trail of blood she would leave behind wherever she went. The wounds became dull aches. The wheezing was chronic, normal. It was only after she stopped perpetually wounding herself that she learned to understand the complexities of pain, the impetus behind it. 

Even red orchids wither and bleed under a hot sun, and her body was no different than a machine, working to regenerate and repurpose itself into something adept for Paracelsus’ bloodlust. She was a wielder and a resource. The pain was numbed out; she learned to detach herself from it, survive in any environment under any conditions, as long as Paracelsus was with her.

And now, something as simple as the cold hurt, and it all became real in her mind, the realization that her adoration for Paracelsus had no reason to stay blistered and corrupt.

Nowadays, she has no wounds to heal. 

The cool aches of winter bring an unprecedented sensation of fullness. She shudders. The snow crunches under her stalky leather boots, disintegrating against the weight of her heels. She was unprepared for the winter, the very same winter when she wandered aimlessly about with Paracelsus year after year. 

Now, her body was telling her that she was in pain.

A.B.A drops the snow and stomps over it with a heavy foot. Instinctively, she leans against him. Something in her weakens, stirs, and she finds comfort in relying on Paracelsus for warmth and safety. There he is, a pillar as always, now fleshy and just as susceptible to the elements as she is. 

“You're not dressed for the cold. Let’s go back inside, A.B.A.” 

She purses her lips. Her tired eyes skitter over the snow before locking onto his face.

“If I stayed out here, would you… stay with me, Paracelsus?” 

“Uh…sure, although I’m not quite sure why you want to do that.” 

Her hands wrap around his arm. She presses her body against his, staring at his face, infatuated by the pools of dark stars caught in his eyes. He stares at her in curiosity, awaiting her explanation.

“I… just wanted to know.” 

She just needed to be reassured. 

Before he says anything, she talks again. 

“Your lips are chapped… I don’t want you catching hyperthermia in this new body…” 

She pulls him back home. On the way there, she watches the snow fall, glances up at the sky in wonder, huffing out tiny storms. From the corner of her eye, she sees him catch a snowflake in his gloved hand, witnessing it melt and gleam over the porous leather like coal.

Chapter Text

The first thing that Paracelsus notices is that A.B.A isn’t sitting in her usual spot at the kitchen table.

He takes advantage of the empty kitchen, splaying out cutting boards and seasonings over the counter, chopping vegetables, and allowing the water to boil over. He follows Testament’s home recipes, conjuring up a hearty beef stew that smells pleasant and rich, the dark orange broth simmering and bubbling over the hum of a low fire. The recipe book had personal notes and tips entwined within its pages, and he read them all just to be cautious. 

Don’t add too much salt. It makes the broth briny.

-T 

Perhaps… he had a habit of oversalting their food.

He cracks the window open, just enough to let the room ventilate. Snow gathers on the outer perch of the windowsill, melting from the warmth radiating from inside their kitchen. His body was still adjusting to the temperature drops of winter, often shivering and cursing the chattering of his teeth that he couldn’t control because his body was attempting to self-regulate.

The stew is done. He clears space for their bowls on the table and waits for her with his arms crossed in anticipation, watching the snowfall consume the city. The snow spills over the roads like white sand. 

After a few minutes, he yields to his impatience and goes searching for her. A.B.A tended to forget to eat sometimes, and he didn’t enjoy eating alone.

He checks the living room. The bathroom was humid and fogged, but ultimately empty. The floors are slippery, so he places a towel on the tiles to make it less of a hazard.

Padding into the hallway, he sees movement under the bedroom door. The door is slightly perked open as it usually is, and he has no issue pushing against it, hearing the hinges squeak as he steps in. 

“I made food if you’re hungry.”

A.B.A is on the bed, stretching a piece of gauze over her thigh. Her hair is wet, a muddy teal, sticking to her back like sopping vines. She’s shimmery, her skin flushed by the scalding hot water that she likes to douse herself in. The bath towel is on the floor, discarded. She looks up and stares right back at him, seemingly caught off guard by the interruption.

She’s completely naked. Her head tilts, not bothering to cover up any parts of her lean body. She curiously shifts her frame towards him, not leaving anything to the imagination as she lowers the gauze. 

It’s not the first time he’s seen her… exposed. But it’s the first time he felt tangibly flustered by the situation, and he almost forgets to breathe as he pries his eyes away, focusing his attention on the plain wall sitting next to the bed. His hand struggles to grasp the doorknob. When he does, he slams the door closed and pads to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. 

Their food was still warm when a now fully clothed A.B.A finds her way into the kitchen. He is stirring their soup, facing the window. 

Darling?” 

He perks up, unable to look her in the eye. Instead, he stares at the snowy windowsill, watching the airy flakes of snow pile on the perch. He clears his throat, trying to covet the twitchiness of his frazzled nerves.

“Yeah?” 

“How come… we haven’t engaged in sexual intercourse?” 

This time, he turns around quickly, shocked by her unabashed bluntness. 

“H-huh? Where did you get that idea?” 

She bites her cuticles, looking to the side in slight annoyance. “You always stop me before… things become too physical.” 

“I’m not exactly a human. I don’t even know if I’ll stay in one piece.” 

She softly drags her finger on the table, tracing spirals on the surface of the gleaming wood.

“We can take things slowly….” 

Her voice is low, almost inviting. 

“I’ll take care of you…” She continues, reading the florid apprehension on his face. “I’ll keep you together, Paracelsus. I will.” 

He refuses to look at her for fear that she’ll try something right here and now.

He feels indecent even contemplating any of it. But it would be a lie if he said the thought didn’t ever cross his mind, because it has, a lot as of late as he acclimates to his body, and they’ve gotten on the cusp of intimacy before he asks her to stop. She always obliges, carrying a noticeably frustrated scowl afterward as she finds something else to do. 

A.B.A tilts her head, waiting for a response. 

He fidgets with the ladle, reluctant.

“Let’s eat first.” 

Paracelsus sits on the bed with his legs crossed, uncomfortable at the silence of his homunculus partner.

The last ten minutes have been spent with her attempting to explain the process to him, sticking to facts and sterile diagrams as visual demonstrations. It was a bit horrifying, especially when she used long, pedantic terms to explain simple concepts. He was doing his best to digest the influx of new information, find a way to connect it all back to them and their current physical conundrum.

A.B.A sits across from him, looking through a small pile of books. She pilfers through the wispy pages of her thick biology textbook. There’s a plethora of bookmarks and sticky notes embedded within its contents.

She seems engrossed in the text, flipping through pages until her eyes fixate on a specific chapter. 

His body weight shifts, and he can’t get into a comfortable position.

“So, how do we… initiate, exactly?” He breaks the silence.

Her eyes squint as she flips to a page with strange, overly detailed diagrams, and she opens her mouth.

“The initiation requires a… state of sexual arousal, where the body prepares for—“

They were just going in circles. Her voice got more nervous as she continued to read aloud, and he could feel her palpable apprehension as they spent time gathering inane technicalities. Paracelsus reaches over to grab the book, feeling a spark of embarrassment seize his system.

The medical explanations would just bear more stress on both of them. Naturally, she would set unrealistic expectations for her own body, and he’d be expected to sexually perform, which seemed like a whole other dilemma that was giving him existential dread. He was rightfully wary of her approach.

Supposedly, sex is a means to facilitate and deepen a physical connection. He relies on that logic to help him get through the messy delicacies of this conversation and tread the situation with a clear head.

“I don’t believe that should fully apply to us. Our physiology may mirror that of a human, but that doesn’t mean we have to follow everything the text says.” He reasons, putting the book aside. 

“I don’t see why not. Humans do it this way.” 

He scratches his neck, nervous. “Well, yeah, but we’re doing this for different reasons, right? It’s only natural to be realistic about our expectations.” 

“Then how will we…” She trails off, audibly disillusioned and frustrated by the whole ordeal. 

“Let’s focus on your needs.” He offers.

This was her idea after all. 

She stares at him with hesitation, tapping her chipped nails against the bandages of her arm. Her mouth then twists into that alarming, mischievous smile that makes his stomach feel queasy, and he wonders if his reply was too open-ended.

“I just want to make you feel good, Paracelsus.” She confesses in earnest. “I want to please you.” 

He feels small. His stomach knots with all kinds of fluttering emotions, and every single nerve in his body comes alive, buzzes and breathes. 

Chills.

He swallows. Such a reaction is… jarring, because he’s never contemplated the feelings of arousal before A.B.A started pushing all his buttons, testing the limitations of which boundaries she could crush with those tall boots of hers. Even now, she seemed so profoundly eager to touch him, that familiar anxiety twisting its way back into his chest as he noticed the dark, charged glint in her eyes.

He lets his gaze linger on her face. The slight curve of her round cheekbones. The cupid's peak that sits atop her soft and round lips. The messy hair that sticks to her skin, sometimes gets stuck within the teeth of her blouse zipper. The smearing of rubbed makeup and sleepy, tired eyes. She’s no longer emaciated. Without the starvation and the stress and the wounds, her body looks alive, fuller. 

“Paracelsus?” She asks cautiously; it’s almost a dry whisper.

He’s been silent for a moment too long.

A.B.A is usually the one to initiate. The one who gets too handsy, too touchy. He’s the one to stop her, tell her to get her head straight, and focus on what she’s doing, which was usually a life-or-death situation. 

None of it really matters anymore. His body feels compelled to move and act , and he has to remind himself that they need to take things slow because his sludge is a pain to scrape off the carpet. 

Instead, he stirs and unfolds his legs, crawling over to her until her back is flat against the wall that sits adjacent to their mattress. His movements are slow enough for her to adjust, and she clumsily wiggles herself into a position to accommodate the both of them, never once taking her eyes off him. The now-flattened cushion of the pillow presses into her lower back, and her jittery hands collapse near her side as long fingers dig into the blanket, clutching the duvet hard. Her breath stutters and he closes the distance between them. 

It is rare for her to be this silent at any given moment. He tilts his head in, only to be met with the sight of her big drowsy eyes staring back at him. He brushes his hand over her eyelids like a corpse because she keeps forgetting to close them whenever they kiss, always proclaiming something about not wanting to miss a single moment with him. She obliges with a fleeting sigh. 

He cups her face when he kisses her. This time, he hopes it isn’t as anticlimactic or maladroit as their previous kisses have been. Not that A.B.A would ever complain, but he wants to get his feelings across with sincerity. 

Her blouse is easy to remove. Unraveling her bandages, on the other hand, remains an irritating task. She’s cocooned herself in them, remnants of sicker days when her body was falling apart. He makes a mental note to bring scissors next time, ease the frustration that beckons her body. 

His mouth presses onto her neck. Her skin tastes salty, almost coppery. He much prefers her innate bitterness; it’s what he knows, what he associates with her, aside from a percolating blood vessel or a crumpled transfusion bag.

A.B.A keeps her head back, skull pressed against the wall, her hair falling all around as she squeezes her eyes shut. She swallows against his mouth, and he traces the lines of her stitches and scars that coil around her neck, pressing half-kisses onto her flushed skin. He nips the area with his dull, human teeth, feeling the vibration of her thrumming larynx.

“Ack.”

“Ah…”

“Uweh…Ha. Hah…”

“Hehehe…”

Paracelsus hears the skittering vibration of her chest hum against his body, cascading out of her lungs like ripples on a pond. Her neck recoils into a reflexive shrug, and he retreats in alarm. 

Her genuine, mischievous smile is hard to miss. It dawns upon him that she’s not in pain. She’s giggling. It makes sense for her to be so sensitive in that area. He’d never touched her there before. He stares at her impish, scrunched-up smile, her face tilted to the side to reveal the light pink of her cheeks. 

Her neck is ticklish. The place that she thoroughly covered with her bandages. 

She’s ticklish. 

He never knew that about her. 

The curtains are drawn in. He dimmed the light to a lower setting, bright enough to illuminate the bed and the wall adjacent to their meandering frames so he could see her properly. The rest of the room remains swallowed by darkness, sprouting a stretch of shadows that breathe on the curtains, the nightstand, and the cluttered carpet.

The act of touching is difficult. There were moments where she would flinch or hum or laugh, and he would stop to assess if he’d done something wrong. It felt strange having limbs to begin with, let alone using them for something that wasn’t violent or mindlessly cruel, and he found himself failing at being assertive over the situation.

An elevated pulse. Tense muscles. Something had clicked into place. At this point, his entire body felt like a live wire, sensitive and hot to the touch. 

By some miracle of instinct, he manages to get her undressed. The only things left are the bandages on her chest and lower body, ruffled loose from all the friction they’ve produced. There is gauze webbed around him too, his hair, his arms, and his legs, binding him to her in an oddly endearing manner.

She seems amused by this revelation.

He shimmies them loose, palms her soft breasts, and lets his finger brush over her ribcage and spasming sternum, trailing down into the soft slope of her midriff. He traces the impalement scar above her right rib, where he’d once seen the precipice of a blade poke in and through, the pink and white markings buried under a sinew of tussled bandages. They feel rough and fibrous, like raised wires or a cluster of hard scales.

He’s never touched the scars on her stomach like this before. It all sinks in, the fragility of her body.

She’s awry and pink in the face, heaving up a storm as she leans into the wall behind. He brings the glass of water to her lips, watching the liquid slither down her chin. The moist perspiration around the glass smears onto her face. She messily licks the clear rim of the cup before letting it clink back onto the nightstand. He watches her throat with a newfound attentiveness.

“Paracelsussss…” she conjures. The low, sultry thickness of her voice ripples down to his stomach. 

“Keep your hands on me…”

One hand plants on the wall next to her hair, holding himself up and boxing her underneath his frame. She invitingly parts her legs, allowing him to settle closer. His breath trembles against her parted mouth, and she leans up, awaiting to meet him. With his other hand, he wades through her bandages and caresses the skin of her thighs, tracing lines with his palm as he feels how warm she is there. She whimpers.

A.B.A looks like she is expecting something from him, and he doesn’t know exactly how to fulfill it.

He has a vague sense of anatomy, so all he does is stumble his knuckles through the stripes of bandages until he pries open a crevice in the soft, gauzy fabric. Before they both realize it, his hand is in between her legs, and she sighs at the pressure, reeling into his touch. Her hair flops over her face, and he observes the twitch of her shaky lips, something in between a grin and a snarl and a flash of red gums. Through wads of mint green, he catches a glint of clenched, shiny wet teeth in the low light.

She produces a deep, throaty hum.

It’s strangely pleasant.

It makes him weak. 

The adhesive of the bandages unsticks the more he pulls, spreads, and unfurls. The sporadic tensing of her thighs allows the cotton to come undone with more ease, unlacing itself like ribbons of collapsed silk. His forearm slumps against the wall, closing the meek distance they shared beforehand, the arm sliding in between her legs being the only thing keeping their bodies separated.

He brings his mouth to her temple as his fingers brush over her folds, using his touch and intuition to familiarize himself with her anatomy.

This position is so… intimate. Her knees are around him. 

He can’t seem to stay quiet either.

Embarrassing.

He locates the delicate swollen bud on her vulva, gently massaging the area with two fingers. Her sprawled-out hands spasm hard against the wall, knuckles balling up until they match the white of her gauzes. Her shoulders tremble, and he wants to dig his teeth into them because they’re jittering so much. She emits a drawn-out groan, and he pushes himself off the wall just enough to study her half-closed eyes. 

“Do you need me to stop? I can—“

“No.” She protests quickly, almost frantically. “Don’t stop, dear, I’m almost…”

Oh.

They barely even started. 

There’s a skeleton of a rhythm there. He increases his pressure by a sliver to test the waters and measure her sensitivity. His fingers dip into the soaked mazes of her flesh, and she writhes, warbles, shamelessly grinding into his palms. 

At some point, she kicks the blanket and the textbook off the bed, letting it join the islands of discarded clothes and bandages. Quiet grunts escape her mouth whenever his warm fingers glide over her clit, working her soft skin into a repetitive motion that has her nails digging into the ligaments of his wrist, the scars of his arm, touching, touching, grasping.

His nose buries into her shoulder as he feels her grow wetter, now emboldened to find new ways to touch her, pleasure her, and bury himself in the crevices of her body, the sensitive parts of her that he’s never felt before. 

This time, he doesn’t stop. She arches her back against the wall, further flattening the filling of that poor smushed pillow, lips puckered and shiny with spit. Her eyes crack open to watch him, eyelashes fluttering with each movement. Her vocalizations ebb higher, needier. He breathes hard against her ear, enticed by her disheveled state. Her hips bucked against his fingers, rutting herself against his hand, and he’s breathless. 

“I love you, I—Paracelus…” she says wetly. “This...you...hah...ah... You’re doing so wonderful, my perfect husband—“ 

Her words come out garbled, on the cusp of frantic and senseless.

He doubts he’s doing “wonderful.” 

Maybe it’s all because she loves him.

She loves him. 

He aches for her in a way he’s never ached for anything. He wants to keep her here. With him. It’s a selfish desire, this strain of possessiveness. And yet, he felt no inclination to command her, manipulate her, or drink her blood until she was falling apart like a shattered ceramic. He just wants her to stay here with him, without the threat of separation, that bitter absence that comes with miscommunication and constant bickering. 

His emotions of affection were not imposed by A.B.A, and it was certainly not a disease or projection she passed onto him through their empathetic bond. He was experiencing it naturally, reeling in it his own distinct way, and somehow he found himself incredibly attached to her, her body, her jolts and squeals, and deep, raspy growls. 

He renounced cruelty a long time ago. And yet, how truly selfish it is to adore someone to the point of madness.

He slackens his hand.

“A.B.A,” he says throatily. “I think you’re wet enough for me to penetrate you with my fingers.” 

His words chime clinical. He mentally kicks himself for the awkward and unalluring delivery, but neither of them had any experience past medical books, biological diagrams, and regretful phases of bodily harm. He was doing his best to not crumble at her feet because his susceptible, “human” body was burning up, and the logical side of his brain was swarmed with indecent impulses.

At this point, her arm is covering her eyes, and a soppy strand of green hair drops from between her teeth, clinging onto her breast. She coyly nods at his proposal, her thighs tensing once more as he languidly pushes them apart. 

Carefully, he presses a digit into her. It’s surprisingly deep, and the tenderness of her velvety flesh engulfs his finger for just a second. In response, she wiggles her hips against his hand and makes a small grunt that could only be interpreted as displeasure. 

“Eeehgh...” She grimaces.

Maybe it was the wrong angle? Did she need more lubrication? Or perhaps he should have trimmed his nails that morning. 

Regardless of the reason, he promptly withdraws. 

They were moving too fast. She was still rigid and nerve-wracked with novel sensations, and the small displeased lines on her brow made it apparent that any kind of penetration would be unrealistic for them.

Still, he seeks to bring her over the brink. There are solutions to these kinds of things, possibly, just maybe, he could—

“I can use my mouth instead,” he slurs out, not thinking. “To stimulate, I mean, to get you to arrive, climax.” 

He was usually a lot more poised than this. He felt hazy, almost intoxicated, and his hot veins were infected with sparks of heady adrenaline that needed some sort of release. She licks her already shiny lips, her face almost as red as his. The needy look she gives him makes him burn and palpitate, and his mouth goes dry at the realization of what he has just offered to do. His animal body feels heavy, preened by her sweat and aroma, and he can’t escape the weight of her bold, piercing stare. 

“My darling…” 

The hairs on the back of his neck rise. Her thumb trails over the strands of his sticky tresses, pushing them behind his ear before moving to his lips. She dips her fingers into his mouth, running her thumb across his bottom teeth before dragging it over his soft tongue, coy and languid. 

“Do with me as you will.” 

Paracelsus could only hold this position for so long.

His knees were sore and stiff as he rose from the edge of the bed, letting go of her trembling and bitten thighs to wipe his mouth with his wrist. They had tussled around in different positions, looking for something that was easier on his neck. The sandy indents of the carpet lingered on his reddened knees, chafed by fabric and too much shifting. 

His hair is completely tousled awry, mangled and twisted in every direction. Parts of his scalp were tender with how aggressively A.B.A liked to yank on his hair during the peaks of her highs. When he realized he might be enjoying her influx of aggressive hair-tugging, she kneed him square on the chin, and he saw fuzzy stars as he wobbled back.

Moving his jaw hurt. It’s almost certain that he’ll find clumps of his own hair scattered about the bed by morning.

He finds her disheveled form splayed on the mattress, swarmed by her own bandages and hair and wrinkled covers, breathing shallowly into the pillow they had carelessly squished. He quickly retrieves the almost empty glass of water on the counter and ushers her to sit up so she can rehydrate. He holds her hand. She swallows. 

“I think we should stop here.” He advises, moving to sit next to her. 

Her face is flushed and dazed. She sits up and rubs her sticky thighs together, evidently disappointed by his suggestion to stop. She clings onto her comically flattened pillow, pouting at him.

“But we just got started...” 

She can’t be serious. 

He squints at the analog clock and rubs the side of his jaw. “It’s been thirty minutes. I’m tired, A.B.A.”

“Then let me take care of you,” she says fast, pleadingly. “You made me feel so good … and as your dutifully devoted, loving wife, it’s my responsibility to fulfill your every need and desire, my dearest Paracelsus...” 

Out of slight irritation, he was about to rebuke her, but she untangled her naked form from the thin blankets, and he felt a surge of blood rush to the tips of his ears. Her marred skin is so pale against the moonlight that he could’ve sworn she was a phantom, an uncanny creature who just so happened to claw her way into his life. She looks vulnerable, caught. Her taste lingers in his mouth, on his tongue, and he contemplates her offer as he clears his throat and attempts to reason with her enthusiasm.

“T-that won’t be necessary—ugh, ah -bahhh!” 

She climbs on top of him, straddling his body just like she had multiple times in the past. She doesn’t seem fazed that there’s nothing covering her body, except for the ossification of old battle wounds and the tails of loosened bandages. The spotted enamel of her nails dances over his chest as she places a palm over his heart, gauging his pulse. 

She leans down. 

“Arrhythmia.” She mutters. 

He looks up in confusion. After a fleeting moment of clarity, he realizes that she’s referring to his accelerated heartbeat. Her hand trails down his abdomen, and his core spasms at her touch; she presses down on his sensitive stomach. His breath quickens, puffing out in shallow exhales. She tilts her head and smiles. 

“Tachypnea.” 

Her words, coupled with her unrelenting touches, fizzle in his mind like teases and provocations, something about the unfamiliarity and excitement of being felt and perceived as someone who is capable of physical touch. His stomach is a whirlpool. Of course A.B.A would know her medical diction, and he feels too scared to ask how much of that textbook she devoured during the time they spent acclimating to the human world. At least she wasn't rambling on about asset ownership or the law. She seemed more engrossed with his bodily functions, restless hands bunching up the fabric of his inner thighs, prying, feeling, slithering upwards—

He squeaks.

“Tumescence…” she squirms in his lap, and he turns his head to sheepishly stare at the wall. “Oh my Paracelsus… Let me take care of you, of this… now that we’re all alone… completely alone… ”

Was she… trying to seduce him? 

He would have choked out a laugh if he weren’t so nervous about the placement of her hands or her current state of immodesty. If anything, her eccentric approach to seduction was (woefully) working, and he mentally cursed himself for not fighting it one bit. 

“It… sure seems that way.” He responds, avoiding any bit of eye contact as his palms clench into the fabric of the bedsheets.

“Do I make you nervous?” 

“Well, you’re naked on top of me.” He huffs out, trying to sound unaffected. “I'm not an ax anymore. This body is naturally going to respond to uh, stimuli.” 

She giggles, and her hands cup his face, childishly squishing his cheeks. His jaw is really starting to hurt now. She coyly pouts her lips as she stares down at him, watching his eyes widen. She lowers her mouth down to his. 

“Then you’re at my mercy now, right… dear…?” She murmurs against his lips, followed by another uncouth laugh that should’ve alarmed him. 

It doesn’t. His fingers land on her hips, trailing over the protrusions of her spine and the hills of her shoulder blades. Underneath, her blood and muscle and tendons are warm, murmuring to the cadence of her heart, stirred with chemicals and poisons that somehow did not harm him.

And yet, here they were. He had grown accustomed to the distant feeling of her cold limbs huddling his ax body for warmth, whispering affections he couldn’t have possibly understood when he stayed rigid and unfeeling. How could he know to care when his body was a mouth of tendrils and a flower of blades, invigorated by mindless rage and violence?

Things are different now. 

Maybe it took almost losing her to realize how miserable he truly could’ve been without her company. It was almost inevitable that he’d grow so attached to A.B.A, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the grip she would have on his essence of being, the vessel in which he lives in.

She’s pressing herself against him, clean and new and oozing with heady desire. This time, he wants to share his warmth, shed off the rigidness of his exterior to expose the more tender and frail side of his organs and intestines and heart and skin and animate bodily structures. It was a feeling of exposure, vulnerability. 

This was what he wanted, all along. To share warmth, as humans often do.

Giving her untethered access to his body was a precarious idea. She manages to take his trousers off without tearing them apart. She then starts asking too many questions about his fabric undergarments (that he had to buy, on his own), and he answers to the best of his ability, because no, he was not going to wrap himself in gauzes like she did.

She crawls over his naked form. She touches his stomach, palm flat against his core, grazing down his navel, sparse over the sagittal lining of his pubic region. 

A cold, thin hand wraps around him. He hisses at the iciness, and his body jolts. The little wires in his brain spark, delivering a pleasant shock to every nerve in his open and compromised body. For that brief instance, he feels a pulse of bliss rattle him awake, until she yanks his bits, and he almost recoils in agony.

Another break. More mental recalibration. This procedure is more tedious than he ever imagined, and A.B.A is worrying insistently with each misstep.

After some uncomfortable squirming and repositioning, they settle on letting him set the pace. Some touches felt… pleasant. Others bordered on unnatural. With one hand glued to her wrist (for safety reasons), he guides her rhythm, agonizingly slow and weary. Her grasp is almost stiff and robotic. 

Awkward.

Still, her touch is a lot for him to take in, and his breath hitches. His knees flinch. His body comes alive, and his eyelids flutter excessively as she comes to understand what parts of his anatomy elicit pleasure, make him vocal and pliant.

She pays attention to his expression. The upturn, helpless crease of his shaky and damp brow. She sinks her bare chest onto his body, relying on her knees to keep her lower body hoisted. Her bottom is high and up. He can see the delicate curve of her lower back, the subtle discoloration of her scars, and the thatching of her ribs that becomes more pronounced whenever she sucks in a sharp breath over his spasming chest. 

Her body has always been oddly flexible. She had the uncanny ability to bend in all sorts of strange, dynamic ways, and he could picture her in a million different positions. With that information dangled in front of his hazy peripherals, he tries to get his mind out of the gutter. Surely, he’s better than those licentious thoughts.

Surely.

A.B.A’s warm artificial body buzzes against his faux one. Her gaze is half-lidded, eyebrows knitted into a look of concentration. When he hums a soft, pleased noise, she begins to stroke faster. He’s too embarrassed to look at her, so he just buries the side of his face into the pillow. Something in the air shifts; she understands what he needs, the starvation poking and prodding. His eyes squeeze shut as she finds a proper rhythm.

“Look at me.” 

He whimpers. 

“I want you to desire me in the same way I desire you, Paracelsus,” she drawls out slowly, the words rattling out at the ends of a stinging breath.

He lets go of her arm, clenches them in the air as he freezes, and grits his teeth. She moves faster, steadier, and he keens into her touch. She’s squeezing him in all the right places, her inhibitions snapped free like a wild animal as her stare never flinches, never shifts.

“I need to know… that you’ll take me… as I am now.”

Paracelsus isn’t sure if now is the right time for her to relay something so deeply sentimental. He could barely respond, simply humming out needy noises and deep timbre moans that crack out of his throat with each motion. He feels pathetic, bucking his hips against her wet fingers, chasing the itch that proliferates through him. His body thrashes, hot against the cold air, and he opens his mouth only to discover that he can’t string out a single coherent sentence. Every word and verbality is wrung out of him.

“Look at me.” She throatily repeats with more firmness and desperation.

That tone. Her words sting like a wet bite. It sobers him. This time, he obeys and opens his eyes. His heart is beating out of his chest. Her green eyes are misty, shiny with traces of something eviscerated and vulnerable. There’s a commanding intensity to her that he soaks in, drinks up. He would fall to his knees if that is what she asked of him.

She blinks the wetness away, seemingly relieved that he is listening to her, that he is watching her.

“I don’t want you slipping through my fingers again, my Paracelsus. I want… I need you here with me,” she rasps with haste, swallowing, “so please, just… look at me.”

He feels lightheaded. A pressure spreads over his temple, whirring. When he relaxes his jaw, something trickles out of his nose. Blood drips down his face, pooling on the bow of his upper lip before threatening to spill down. Despite it being blood, his own blood, his focus is caught on A.B.A, the expression of concern that contaminates her face. He’s not fracturing. At least, he doesn’t feel the crackling of his limbs, nor the emptiness of a formless mass tearing through his body. And yet, he still feels her rampant possessiveness pulling him apart.

“A.B.A.” He warns, breathless. 

Her gaze softens at the mention of her name. She stops, reaching up to wipe the blood off his nose before it drips onto his mouth. It doesn’t stop the flow of blood, but it’s enough to minimize the mess they would have to clean up later. 

A.B.A appears fretful and apologetic. Her head lowers onto his chest, cheek pressed against his thumping heart as she sips a deep, calming breath. His thumb caresses her cheekbone. Wisps of long, teal hair ball into little knots around the socket punctures of her key connectors, like loose threads peeking out of needle holes. The metal winks in the golden hue of their room as it digs into his heart like a dull, iron dagger. The pad of his thumb brushes over her lips, and she kisses it.

They stare at each other for a moment.

She initiates again, and he gasps.

This time, she doubles her efforts and adds more pressure to her grip. Her thumb massages over and around. Her palm is glistening, slippery. It’s messy, perhaps obscene, but he doesn’t pay any mind to appearances because his mind is clouded with thoughts of her and an unfamiliar, hot thrumming of emotions and impulses.

Something builds up within him. At first, he thinks it might be a product of his imagination, but the closer he gets to it, the more it becomes a very real physical matter. Her body is so plush, simultaneously sanguine and heavy. Her rhythm is steady, undeterred, and his body yields to her tempo. His palm slips over her ribs, cupping her small breast and clumsily kneading it, finding comfort in the rush of her beating heart. She grins, whispers a few praises to him, dousing him in adoration, and he basks in all of it.

He tries to maintain her gaze this time. He’s blushing, not at all coherent or stable, but he’s here, desperately accepting every gift she could offer. He trusts that she could guide him there. 

She could. 

She leans in, whispers his name like warm honey, over and over and over. 

Something coils.

Snaps, floods, a hot white thing. It starts, and it doesn’t stop, and he nearly panics. Out of alarm, he calls out her name, and she slams her free hand into his, threading her fingers over his with perfect ease, anchoring him to the sheets with her body weight. The mattress creaks, and he swore his heart almost stopped as he stared up at her. 

He’s pinned to the bed. 

All he sees is her curtain of hair surrounding him, the shadows of her strong arm holding him down, knees pushing down on his thighs, keeping him secure and still. He can’t thrash, move, or dissolve.

“I’d do anything for you.” She confesses.

Those words. 

He wants to say them back. Nothing besides his convulsing and rattling exhales came out. It was almost a sob. He couldn’t recognize his own voice. Her gleaming skin is sweaty against his, perspiration dripping down onto his eyes. He manages to mouth her name, but it dies against his trembling larynx. She catches it, willingly. 

She allows him to unravel in her hand like a thread, and she leans down to kiss him like a drizzle of rain on an eroding mud path, easing him out of his sensitivity as he trembles against her soft lips. He rides the feeling out, tapering off his high like a sparking and mangled nerve, whimpering into her open, pink mouth, hoping she doesn’t pull away.

Their mutual exhaustion eases in like a tidal swarm, quiet and cooling. The glass of water on the counter was licked clean, and the towels were dabbed with splotches of his blood. 

Paracelsus pinches the bridge of his nose as A.B.A hurriedly wipes his face with another damp and lukewarm towel. It’s bright red, not black, and the lingering apprehension that he might dissolve into a cluster of inky tendrils placates into mutual relief. The bleeding stops quickly; she takes care of his wounds.

Naturally, he gets clothed quickly, something about feeling too exposed, too cold, too self-conscious in this human form, even after having her witness every odd detail of his body, his vulnerabilities, and corporeal weaknesses. 

A.B.A, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine with remaining undressed for a bit longer. She sits near the window, pressing her knees to her chest, eagerly waiting for him to come back to bed. Her eyes were fixated on a scar running down the flesh of her palm, tracing the path of the raised skin that branched out like sparse and outstretched vines. 

He very rarely saw her without the gauzes. She appears gentle like this and less like someone who could cleave your body in half with one lanky swing of her strong arms. She looks thoughtful, but not sad.

It’s only natural that he finds himself caught in the midst of adoration. 

Her hair is on her face, covering her right eye. He picks up her headband from the counter, stretching the taut band with both his hands. He never even realized that it was simply another piece of gauze she had accessorized. 

A.B.A started wearing the headband more and more as time passed. From then on, she gradually learned to express herself through her altering appearance. Her long hair gradually changed, and she began experimenting with makeup and more intricate sewing styles, occasionally adding trinkets and adornments to her key connectors. She made a habit of asking Paracelsus if she looked pretty or stylish that day. 

The only thing that never changed were the bloodstains. The resentment she held towards the humans who threatened to pry him away and leave her purposeless and alone. Her temper began spiraling soon after, until he hardly recognized her. 

He finds a place next to her on the bed, holding the headband in his outstretched fingers. Noticing him, she stares at him and dips her head so he could loop it around the underside of her hair. With the top of the band, he pushes her hair back, making sure to gently brush and catch any stubborn bangs that slip over her eyes and forehead. Some of her hair remains mussed, falling back onto her cheekbones to frame her face. He tucks the longer tresses behind her warm ears.

“You have a pretty face, A.B.A,” he comments. 

She stares at him, observant. 

“Most humans act… frightened by my anomalous appearance.” She replies, studying his visage. “You don’t find me odd, dear?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

He uses a stray strip of bandage to clean the smears of her key connectors. He can’t really make out his own reflection over the scratches on the metal, but he treats it with care, like he would to any other part of her body.

“If anything, I think… looking at you brings me comfort.” 

She looks at him. He catches a glimpse of light reflected on the metal surface of her key connectors, and he wonders if love spells are real. Maybe hexes and curses aren’t all she knows. For the sake of conserving his sanity and his dwindling pride, he attempts to avoid looking down at her unclothed body. He was surprised she hadn’t complained about the cold, her skin glistening like porcelain. 

“Your hair is long enough for me to braid it,” she muses quietly, “would you let me touch it, Paracelsus?” 

“I’m not opposed.” 

She gives him a sharkish smile and moves to sit by his side. 

His hair is damp. It smells like her. They should probably shower to get rid of the thick layer of sweat that wafts and weaves through the room. For now, he lets himself become a docile creature, allowing her play with his hair. He’s always been good at keeping himself still, immovable, like a pillar. Only now, he breathes and exists, somatic to the world around him. She gently tugs his hair, dividing it into three ropes that she effortlessly begins to braid. 

“Eeeh… Oww, just don’t pull too hard. My scalp is still sore.” 

She presses an insistent kiss onto his temple, and he squirms, still mildly sheepish to her affections. After so many years spent with her, he can’t escape her habits, her doting. This time, he feels it all.

“You can be so querulous, my dearest husband.” She teases. “Maybe I should chain you to the bedpost next time to mediate your body’s physiological response... It could remedy the injuries… keep you still…” 

A pathetic flush crawls up his face. He just sighs as she continues to braid his hair, unraveling the small knots in his hair that accumulated during the day, twisting them off like fragments of stars and stringy, knotted planets.

A.B.A falls asleep with her nose brushing his shoulder, buried in a heap of blankets and bandages and their long, cumbersome limbs. 

Her hands are warm. 

So warm, 

they startle him.