Sometimes Wilford looked at the Host and he remembered the Author.
Remembered bodies buried late at night and the drinks they’d gotten after. Remembered arrogant grins and passionate kisses shared during the heat of a high-speed police chase, red-blue sirens flashing at their backs.
Sometimes Wilford looked at the Host and wondered if he kissed the same.
So he followed the Host to his library, flashed him his brightest show host smile, pulled him close, and kissed him.
His lips were soft, tasting of copper. Just like the Author’s. And for one second, one blissful, eternal second, Wilford forgot that the Author was gone.
That second passed far too quickly and as Wilford pulled away he was left with a ragged feeling in his chest. A sad feeling.
“Wilford?” The Host’s pretty lips pulled into a frown. He reached out to touch him, but his fingers only found empty air.
He didn’t hear the door swing open with enough force for it to hit the wall. Didn’t hear the harsh bang of it connecting and cracking the drywall.
Didn’t hear Wilford’s exclamation of “what the fuck? Dark?”
He didn’t hear anything over the breaking of his own bones, of the shattering glass sounds of his own shell breaking, of it pulling, stretching, clawing at his form, ripping it into one, two, three mirror images of himself before snapping back together with a sound similar to that of a gunshot.
He didn’t feel the mirror shards digging into his knees, tearing into the fabric of his pants, couldn‘t feel the sting of the cuts in his hands.
He didn’t see Wilford approach, didn’t see his mouth drop open when he saw the tears oozing like inky drops of oil down Dark’s cheeks. “Dark? Why’re you crying?”
He could only see them. The face in the mirror he’d broken, the face that he couldn’t escape no matter how much time passed, that he could still see even though he’d shattered every reflective surface in the room.
His form wavered as another wave of rage washed over him, and he couldn’t help the strangled cry that slipped from lips that were and weren’t there.
Wilford crept closer, concerned. He dropped into a crouch and tentatively reached out.
His fingers just barely brushed Dark’s shoulder when Dark plummeted into corporeal form and his hand shot out, clamping around Wilford’s throat.
“You did this.” The words came out sounding like the crunching of broken glass, like the crack of a gunshot, like the piercing ring of its aftermath.
“Dar-” Wilford pried in a blind panic at the hand that held him, but he was unable to break free. Dark’s fingers only tightened, bloody fingernails digging painfully into his skin.
Then, as quickly as it had happened, Dark released him.
The edges of his form wavered as he stared at his hand, stared at Wilford with an unidentifiable expression on his face as Wilford choked and coughed and sucked in great lungfuls of breath.
“Dark-” He managed to stammer out, but Dark wasn’t looking at him anymore.
He was staring past him, over his shoulder, through the open door at the mirror that hung on the hallway wall.
Staring at the flickering figure that hovered just behind the mirror’s surface, face contorted with anger, with hurt, with grief.
Wilford twisted to see what Dark was looking at, but there was nothing there.
Wilford fires a shot at the Host. “Get away from me! I want Damien and Celine, what have you done with them?”
“Wilford, you’re behaving irrationally! I don’t have Celine or Damien!” The Host reaches for his cane, but Wilford fires another shot and it hits the Host in his hand. He screams. “Wilford, please, listen to me!”
He aims the gun at the Host’s heart and demands once again, “Where. are. my. friends?”
The Host has no choice anymore, he has to break into Wilford’s mind and stop this. Without a touch, he can’t make this painless, but it’s too late to worry about that now. He dives into Wilford’s mind, to the source of this delusion, and starts pulling strings to unravel the knots of his thoughts.
“Wh-what?” Wilford staggers back into one of the bookshelves. “What is this?”
“A necessary evil,” the Host assures him as he tries to make Wilford see sense.
But the killer fights back, trying to force the Host from his mind. “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”
The Host is thrown back by the chaotic force, and he hits the ground. Just as he comes to his senses, Wilford steps over him and points the gun down at his head. “Why don’t we have a little fun?”
“Do you think it’s possible that I… might be… pregnant?”
The question threw Wilford off completely. “What? Pregnant?” He asked, confused. “I didn’t think you could… I mean you’ve told me… You know the whole… being… dead thing…” His voice got quieter as he kept speaking.
Dark looked up at her partner and nodded. “I thought that too, Wil but…” She ran a hand over her stomach, which had gained a tiny, barely noticeable bulge. Aside from the small bump, Dark had also been getting sick more. “I think… I think it’s happened. I think I’m pregnant.”
Wilford’s face was a flurry of emotions, but ultimately it rested on quiet joy and serene excitement. He walked over and held Dark from behind. His hands trailed over her stomach, and he closed his eyes. It would be so nice to have a child with her. To be a dad, watch the little kiddo grow up…
“Does this mean you’ll have an increased sex drive?” He asked with mischievous grin.
Dark laughed, her laugh light and reminding Wil of twittering birds. “That never ceasing sexual appetite is what got us into this predicament in the first place!”
“I’ll take that as a thank you.” Wilford laughed and kissed her cheek. “A child…”
“Yes, a child…” She nodded. “Do you… are you okay with being a father?”
“More than okay.” He beamed. “I am so excited. I can’t wait to tell everyone!” And just like that he took off.
Dark, with a found shake of her head, smiled and followed the dolt, her dolt, out of the room, one hand tenderly resting on her stomach.
“If you use up all the hot water one more time I’m going to ban you to the couch for a month.”Dark’s anger was very, very real. Wilford looked up from their bed to see his fiance, with a towel wrapped around his waist. Water dripped from Dark’s hair onto the floor, and Wilford pursed his lips.
“You’re making a mess.” He said.
“You’re making a mess of this marriage!” Dark shouted in retaliation. “You know I like to take hot showers after work. And yet, and yet! Every day this week when I’ve come home, the water is hot for maybe two minutes and then it turns to liquid ice.”
“Technically isn’t all water liquid ice no matter the temperature?” Wilford asked with a shit eating grin.
Oh, that did it.
Without moving, his shell cracking and aura flickering, Dark used his powers to pin Wilford up against the wall. Wilford laughed as it happened and smirked as he watched Dark stalk towards him. “Listen here you pink idiot,” Dark told him fiercely. “If you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life taking cold showers, you are gravely mistaken. Shower in the morning from now on, or perish.”
“You know Dark, there is one way to fix this.” Wilford’s voice was a purr. “We could shower together.”
Dark glared at him, but let him drop to the floor. He went over to their closet, murmuring a quiet, if not bashful, “I’ll think about it.”
emptynarration 