Archive of Our Own ^beta

It knew.

It knew, and he wasn’t sure how.

Dr. Lankmann paced furiously in his estate’s office, hands folded behind his back if only to prevent himself from tearing his hair out. The Eastridge Demon, the “Smiling Snatcher,” it somehow knew of Specimen 02. More concerningly, it knew its location. The Foundation wasn’t safe anymore, but if Dr. Lankmann wasn’t around for too long, Specimen 02 would get loose. He knew that. He’d have to go back, and soon.

The threat of death loomed like a brewing storm, wrapped in orange-striped cotton. It brought a dread in his gut he could only compare to seeing soldiers on the horizon; crimson flags slithering in the wind, horses huffing and pawing angrily at the earth. This was it. This was how it would end.

At the hands of the thing that killed his father.

His thoughts— and subsequently, his pacing— were stopped by a knock on his office door. He glanced up at the door from beneath the brim of his hat, red light from his eyes reflecting off the dark wood. Forcing his voice not to tremble, he spoke.

“Come in.”

And then you stepped in. His assistant, aide, whatever you wanted to call it. Someone to help him when his mechanical body gave out, to make sure he wouldn’t fall apart at any given moment. At first, he hated you, hated the weakness your presence reminded him of. But you stayed so… calm, even amidst his rage. Unwavering, you would tend to him, unflinching at the sight of his face. And so his boiling anger settled to a simmer, and then stilled. You knew him better than anyone, knew where to hit to kill, where to touch to heal. You were one of the few he also trusted with his research. He’d offered to pay a fair amount of hush money originally, but you’d declined. You hadn’t betrayed his trust— yet. His shoulders relaxed at the sight of you.

“Dr. Lankmann?” You began, stepping hesitantly past the threshold and closing the door gently behind you. “I could hear you pacing a hole into the floor from outside. Is everything alright?”

His fists clenched for a second before releasing, a tense inhale and sigh accompanying it in tandem. He shook his head, turning back to his desk and lying a hand against the wood.

“…No,” he admitted. His voice was softer than usual, uncharacteristically sheepish. “No, it’s not.”

You stepped closer. He turned his head to look at you, like a grazing animal who’d heard a twig snap. You hesitated for a second, before continuing your approach.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t need to know. He didn’t want you to. The last thing you needed to do was worry about him more than you already did. But you always disarmed him with that softness you carried, in your voice and in how you held yourself. He couldn’t bring himself to be obtuse and guarded when you were so insistent on being gentle with him.

He started by saying your name, but paused afterwards, struggling to find words. His claws dug into his desk, so hard you thought the wood would splinter.

“…I’m going to die.”

The words blindsided you. He could tell, in how your eyes widened, in how your brow furrowed, that the mere thought distressed you. He never understood why.

“What makes you say that?” You had to fight to speak up, the sheer bluntness of his claim making it hard to recover. You stepped closer yet again, now at his side. You reached up a hand, intending to rest it on his shoulder, but paused before you did. Only when he gave the smallest of nods did you actually touch him, and you could feel him tense up.

“The demon,” he murmured, hiding his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. “It knows Specimen 02 is inside the Foundation. I’ve observed a kind of… communication, between them. They understand where the other is, almost like a mutual compass. It’s been prowling around the Foundation for almost a week now.”

“So if you go back, it will…” You began. The doctor cut you off.

“Yes. It will kill me.”

“But you have to, or Specimen 02 will get out,” you realized with a weary sigh. As… difficult, as he could be, you’d grown to appreciate Dr. Lankmann’s presence. His company, albeit infrequent, wasn’t unpleasant. He was tolerable— even amiable— when he opened up. The thought of him dying made you more distraught than it probably should have.

When he finally looked up at you, you could feel a tenseness in your throat. The space behind your eyes was beginning to hurt. You fought any tears back down.

He didn’t speak further. In a gesture unlike him, he leaned into your touch, pressing his forehead against your shoulder to hide his face. His hands found your forearms, claws digging into your skin. In response, one shaky hand of yours found his back, keeping him close.

“I am not usually one for physical affection,” he muttered against your flesh, “But the situation has made me uncharacteristically clingy. I don’t know why.” His voice trembled, the usually smooth baritone that accompanied his words beginning to warble. Your hand came up to rest on his nape.

“…I think you’re afraid,” you murmured back. His claws further dug into your arm at that, threatening to draw blood. You didn’t flinch away. “It’s normal, you know. To seek comfort when you’re scared.”

“Not for me.” He shook his head, pressing himself closer to you. “Not in a long while.”

You sighed. This was about the most vulnerable you’d ever seen him. Never before had you seen him seek comfort, never had him trembling in your hold out of fear. This was more than just dread about his inevitable fate; this was terror. Pure, unbridled, unstoppable.

Tentatively, you reached up, taking his hat off and setting it on his desk. You paid no mind to his greasy, unkempt hair as you ran a hand through the dark strands. Though you weren’t sure exactly how he’d like to be comforted, you tried whatever came to mind first, and it seemed to be working. The doctor’s grip on your arm loosened.

“Would you like to sit on the couch?” You offered with a soft voice, not wanting to startle him. “Your knees are shaking.”

The doctor’s gaze dropped to his legs, as if he’d only now noticed his tremors. He nodded after a moment, and so you gently brought him towards the small sofa in his office. As you sat down, you brought him into your lap. He crumpled against you like a wilting plant, curling in on himself and burying his face into your neck. His hands gripped at the front of your shirt with a vice, using it to steady himself. He looked so small here. Every breath made his body tremble.

“Is that better?” You asked softly. He hummed in response, but even that little noise rippled with restraint. You resumed running a hand through his thin hair, the other hand resting on his back.

“You can cry if you need. I’m right here.”

That only made his tremors worse. He spoke up in a tiny voice, too small and timid for a man like him.

“I can’t. Physically. My—“ He paused, taking in a long, shuddering breath, exhaling just the same. “My tear ducts closed up, after...”

A soft, “I’m sorry,” passed your lips, and you could’ve sworn he collapsed in your arms. He ceased gripping your shirt, instead winding his arms about you and holding you as close as physically possible. Tremors wracked his body. You noticed a few intense twitches of his chest and shoulders, only comparable to silent sobs. When he spoke again, his voice was strained.

“It’s not supposed to end like this. Not yet. There’s still so much to be done. My research isn’t finished, I- I don’t know how to harm them yet, let alone kill them, I can’t just…”

You took your hand away from his hair, instead using it to tilt his face up to meet your gaze. His piercing red eyes stared up at you through the terrible curtain of his hair, unblinking, flickering with the vaguest static.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “You’re going to be okay.” You knew that was a lie. He did too. But it was all you could think to say. He leaned further into your hand, seeking the gentle contact like a moth to flame. His jaw was tense as he replied.

“I’m sorry.”

You sighed, caressing his scarred cheek with your thumb.

“Don’t be.”

He couldn’t find a response. Shaking his head softly, he buried his face back into your collarbone, holding you a little tighter. Your arms came around him in turn, keeping him close. One hand drew a path up and down the curve of his spine, mapping out each indention in the steel vertebrae. You could feel his body at work beneath his robes, keeping him alive. The soft hum of machinery reverberated into every part of him. Knowing you’d never hear nor feel it again brought a strange ache to your chest.

“You’ll find a way through this. You always do.” You kept your voice soft, almost a whisper. The doctor’s ragged breathing was all you heard in response.

You held him like that for roughly an hour. Running a hand along his back, muttering reassurances to him, listening to the gentle thrumming of machinery in his chest. His breathing had slowly evened out, and you heard the familiar click of the screens in eyes turning themselves off. He’d fallen asleep.

Sighing, you leaned back against the couch. Entirely limp, he was far too heavy to lift off of yourself. It was late anyways. Perhaps falling asleep here wouldn’t be too bad.

Staring at the ceiling for a moment, you mulled it all over in your head. Would he really be okay? Would you see him come back home tomorrow? The day after that? And even after that? Which morning would be the one where you woke and realized he never made it back?

Enough of that. You shook the thoughts from your head, glancing back down at the doctor. He was here now, in all his grotesque, mechanical, bastard glory. Better enjoy it while it lasts.

As your eyes began to close, you were distinctly aware of how fleeting this all was. He’d be gone before you woke, and he’d deny all recollection of this moment, but you’d both know.

Your hand stilled on his back, eyes fluttering shut as sleep overtook your senses.