“How do humans do it?” Blue grumbled, thunking the book down onto table with a huff. “How can they say ‘let’s have a baby,’ and then just go and procreate?”
“The Host doesn’t believe it works that way,” the Host tilted his head, tapped his fingers against the table as he thought about it. “Statistically speaking-”
“I know the statistics.”
A smirk, and the Host was leaning forward on his elbows. “Then why is Blue asking?”
“Because it is ridiculous,” Blue scoffed. “The chances of successful procreation the instant the human couple in question decide that they would like an infant are hilariously low. This sorry excuse for literature does not illustrate how many attempts it would take for the human female to become impregnated.”
The Host chuckled, then reached across the table to take the book, smoothing down the pages. “The amount of intercourse required is not a major plot point. The child is what’s important here.”
“The plot is absurd and this book is badly written.”
The Host slid the book back across the table. “The Host requests that Blue continue reading.”
Blue sighed, the sound closer to that of a soft hum than an actual sigh. He took the book. “Of course, love.”
With a soft sigh he pried himself free of the tangled sheets and rolled to face the empty side of the bed, noting that the pillow was still warm, though just barely.
But while the other side of the bed was empty, the room was not. His sensors indicated someone else was here.
“Host?” Oliver sat up, his fans kicking in as his systems booted up and registered the early morning chill.
He couldn’t hear the soft muttering that usually accompanied the Host, but the ego’s clothes were still strewn about the floor, still lying where Oliver had tossed them when he’d stripped them off.
He heard a faint rustle, and his gaze shot to the window.
There was the Host, his still form bathed in the shafts of sun that were just beginning to drift through the window. He perched on the edge of his desk chair, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward so his nose was a mere inch from the glass.
Oliver shoved aside the covers, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The smooth wooden boards creaked beneath his feet as he made his way over.
“I had fun last night,” he said, placing a hand on the Host’s shoulder to alert him of his presence before leaning down and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Then he pulled back, confusion flickering across his face. “Are you- is that my shirt?”
“The Host likes the feel of it,” the Host whispered without moving away from the window. His breath created tiny puffs of fog on the windowpane. The yellow android shirt he wore hung off him, despite their physical similarities, not made to fit him like it did Oliver.
“The sun is rising.” He said after a long moment of silence.
Oliver nodded. “It is.”
The Host tilted his head toward Oliver, ever so slightly. “The Host requests that Oliver describe it to him.”
Dr. Iplier is painstakingly gentle as he wraps Host’s wrist, glancing up at him from time to time to make sure he’s still doing alright. Host is much more relaxed than when he first entered, limping and in tears. Now he’s calmed him breathing, cleaned his face, and is waiting on Google and Dark to pick him up from the clinic. “Thank you,” he rasps as the doctor finishes bandaging him up. His ankle still hurts, but he knows the pain medication should kick in soon. The doctor nods minutely, setting things away or to the side to be put away later. “Your help means a lot to me, Edward.”
The doctor pauses at the use of his first name, but then continues with his movements. Again, he only nods, but Host knows the affect the gratitude has on the recluse of a doctor. Host wishes the doctor wasn’t so firmly closed off from the world, he knows he’s capable of being a good, kind man. Still, the Host will not push him to be more open. If it takes time, then so be it. The Host will give him all the time in the world. “You’re a very good friend,” it comes out as barely more than a whisper, but the doctor hears it. “I try.” The first words the doctor has spoken since Host arrived, and Host has to smile. “You succeed.”
The clinic doors fly open, causing both egos within to flinch. Dark dashes in, Google hot on his trail as they make a b-line for Host. “Hosty! Oh Host! What happened?” Dark demands, coming to a miraculous stop right in front of Host. He hardly sways when Google’s stop is less elegant and the android ends up crashing into his back. “The Host would rather not discuss it now, if that’s alright?” Host requests softly, smiling shyly when Dark nods enthusiastically. “Of course! You don’t have to! Are you alright, though?” Host nods at that, still smiling as Dark gently helps him off of the examining table. “The Host is going to be fine, Dark. He thanks you for the concern.”
Dark places an affectionate kiss on his cheek that makes Host warble out a laugh, allowing the other ego to pull him into a gentle hold. “Let’s get you home and settled into bed. I’ll make some soup while you and Google watch a movie. Does that sound good, Hosty?” “Dark, that sounds perfect.”
As the trio heads out, the doctor watches them go in silence. For the first time in a while, he allows himself a smile. Host is well cared for.
Host is tired. His wings and his back ache, his eyes bleed, his narrations force themselves forward rapidly and harshly. He’s tired and he wants to sleep. The day has been long, his latest project proving to be more difficult than he had originally intended. Numerous times he has requested Dark, Bim, and Wilford read over the script he is creating for it. Though they insist he’s doing well, the Host’s craving for this project to turn out perfectly nags him into redoing and starting over more than he needs to.
Now his brain hurts, his eyes ache, and he wants his bed.
He makes his way carefully to his room, avoiding any of the egos still up and about as though they’re some kind of plague. His wings stay drawn close to his sides despite the fact they just want to stretch. When he finally approaches the door to his room, his safe haven, he wants to scream when he hears voices. It takes him much to long to realize just who those voices belong to, and the moment he does he relaxes with a soft sigh.
Weeks after their relationships began, the three find themselves spending even more time together than before. The doctor and Google may not be romantically involved with one another, but they had still ended up becoming close friends. Host enjoys the time he spends with them, showing off his wings and flight skills for them.
One day they decide a picnic sounds fun, so all three head out together. Doctor Iplier is quieter than usual due to a late night spent at the clinic, but he’s still happy to be out with them. Google and Host do most of the talking for him, letting him occasionally butt into the conversation if he so wishes to. Otherwise, he’s content just to listen. Especially because listening gives him time to enjoy the small, dorky things the two have picked up.
As well as having wings, Host has the ability to mimic sounds made by Barn owls and other species of birds almost perfectly. Over time, he had begun to respond to Google’s chirping laughter. Host or Google would say something amusing, and Google would let out a series of amused chirps. Host would then respond in kind with his own, deeper, chirps. The doctor couldn’t help but flush and laugh at how adorable it all was.
He didn’t know if he loved Google, but even if he didn’t he found the android to be surprisingly dorky and cute at times. He did love the Host, and he had always known there was more to the odd man with wings than what showed on the surface. The doctor was happy with his chirpy boys, especially when they didn’t wake him up once he fell asleep on their picnic blanket.
Things were good, maybe even perfect, and that’s all they could ask for.
He’s just come in after a flight to clear his mind when he finds the doctor in his library. The man is tired, the Host can tell even without his narrations, but he gives the Host a smile. “I promised to bring you a care kit that would make cleaning your feathers easier.” The doctor explains, pressing a small box into the Host’s hands. Host smiles softly, heart warmed by the fact the doctor had stayed up even longer to make sure the box made its way directly to Host.
“Thank you, Edward.” The Host murmurs, stilling in surprise as a gently hand brings a handkerchief up to his face to wipe away some of the blood that perpetually rests on his cheeks. “Anything for you.” Edward says, and while Host thinks he means to say it almost teasingly it comes across much too serious. And, if Host really turns the words over in his head, the doctor seems sad.
The Host gently takes the doctor’s hand, grip tight but gentle. “Is something on your mind, doctor?” Host asks, narrating softly as the doctor’s heart speeds up. “I- nothing- nothing serious.” The doctor says, and Host knows he’s lying. “Doctor, you can tell the Host anything. We are friends.” “Yes. Yes we- we are I just- I don’t want to- you are- that is to say-” The doctor ducks his head and tries to pull his hand away, the Host knows it’s so he can bring it up to his chest and fidget with the collar of his shirt. He always fidgets with the collar of his shirt with both hands when he’s nervous.
emptynarration 