Passionfruit #6, Mascarpone #12
Author: winebabe
Title: You'll Find Me Where the Crows Fly
Story: The Gemini Occurrence
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #6: they also serve who only stand and wait; Mascarpone #12: capita a fagiolo
Word Count: 1041
Summary: 2025; Devyn dreams, every night, of the grieving widow.
Notes: Devyn Lively, Macklin McDaniel. (After a hand injury and graduation, I have returned, with a new canon to write for! If anyone is curious, I finished the novel I was writing for before with nearly 93,000 words, and I need a change of pace. Expect info linked eventually...)
The connection grows stronger every day. It's all Devyn can do to keep his sanity, while feeling like he's half inside his own body and half inside that of another. He still doesn't understand the operation they performed on him; all he knows is that it took nearly until his hair had grown back completely for him to notice a difference. The persistent ache is gone, replaced by a strange feeling deep inside his brain, almost like his white matter itches. It's not entirely unpleasant, it's just that it would be less irritating if he could actually make some sense of it. The men in the lab explain nothing to him, they just run their tests. And, if Devyn is being honest, he's sick of being hooked up to machines.
The machines don't explain why he feels like he's been split between two consciousnesses. The machines don't explain why, sometimes, his nerves seem to overact. The other day, he'd suddenly felt like he'd been slapped across the face. The men had muttered to themselves and written something down on their clipboards, but never explained a goddamn thing.
It's his fault, he knows. He volunteered himself for that stupid experiment. He has to accept the consequences of his actions.
"Anything to make yourself useful again," Macklin McDaniel, Devyn's one and only friend, had said after he'd told him of his plan. "It's not enough to just teach, is it?" They'd been sitting in their shared office on the college campus, drinking coffee Mack had brought in from the cafe down the street. Devyn couldn't disagree with him. He wanted to feel useful again. He wanted to feel like he was truly contributing again, instead of lecturing in front of a bunch of bored young adults all day.
Over 30 and Devyn was still longing for the days of dissertations and long-term research. Teaching brought in money but did nothing to alleviate his curiosity. He had to volunteer himself for the experiment.
"No, you didn't." Mack slides a mug across the table to Devyn, who has been massaging his temples for five minutes straight. "Devmo, are you listening to me? I'm worried about you."
Devyn cringes reflexively at the ugly nickname--'Devmolition Man' is not something he wants to have to explain to anyone--and wraps his hands around the mug. "Yes, I heard you. This experiment will be good for me, Mack."
Mack leans against the counter in his small kitchen and sighs. "Oh, yeah, like it's done nothing but good for you so far." He pushes off from the counter and crosses the room to pull the creamer from the fridge, casting a quick glance back over his shoulder at Devyn. "How long have you had that headache, Dev?"
"Just since this morning," he replies, and if he adds a little extra venom to his words, he's sure Mack will excuse him this once. He pulls his hands from the mug and goes back to massaging away the ache behind his eyes.
Mack says nothing more. He sets the creamer down on the table and goes back to retrieve the French press, full with dark liquid. His own mug gets filled before he gives it up to Devyn, who doesn't complain as he goes about preparing his own mug of coffee. Mack watches with mild disgust as Devyn adds spoonful after spoonful of sugar to his mug, but remains silent.
Their mugs are half-empty before Devyn speaks up again, both hands drumming anxiously against the table top. "I, uh--keep dreaming about her."
Mack knows who the 'her' is--a black-clad woman standing in front of a fresh grave. "Elaborate," he says, moving his hand in a sweeping gesture over the table.
Devyn squints through his thick glasses, then drops his gaze back down to the remaining coffee in his mug. "It's not any different. I just keep seeing her--the widow--in the cemetery. I can't make out her face, ever, and it's always the same thing. Every night."
"You're dreaming the same thing every night? Dude, that's fucked up."
"Mack, come on, man, it's--"
"I'm serious," Mack cuts Devyn off. "Either it's a sign of something psychologically iffy with you, or something neurologically iffy with you. And I don't know which one is more likely, Devyn." He sighs and takes a moment to massage his forehead with two fingers. "Dude, you have some kind of weird shit implanted in your brain right now, and you're having phantom pain sensations, weird repetitive dreams, missing time--"
"The missing time was once," Devyn interjects, his voice shrill over Mack's.
"--random spells of exhaustion, and you said so yourself that you feel somewhat disconnected from your own consciousness. That's not normal."
"Okay, okay, I admit it's not ideal, but--"
"Not ideal?" Mack laughs, shaking his head. "I think this is dangerous, dude. I think you're just looking for another way to self-destruct, and I'm sorry, man, but it's no more heroic if you do it in the name of science."
Devyn makes eye contact with Mack, but can't form a coherent sentence when he tries to reply, and quickly gives up. They drink their coffee in silence until one of them brings up midterms, and they speak casually about coursework and semester plans until Devyn eventually makes an excuse to leave.
He drives home in silence, and when he finally arrives, he has no recollection of how he actually got there. The memory comes through as generic; he can't remember what route he took, doesn't recall whether there was a lot of traffic or not, and can't even guess how long it took him. Devyn shakes it off relatively easily, convinced he just spaced off because he'd driven the route so many times, and heads up to his apartment.
The headache is gone by then, replaced with an unbearable heaviness that weighs on his eyelids and makes him want to crawl back into bed. The usual lack of Saturday plans give him no excuse not to and he falls asleep on his side, with his glasses sliding down his nose.
When Devyn wakes, it's early the next morning. He has the memory of the night's dream fresh in his mind: a woman in black, standing beside a fresh grave.
Title: You'll Find Me Where the Crows Fly
Story: The Gemini Occurrence
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Flavor(s): Passionfruit #6: they also serve who only stand and wait; Mascarpone #12: capita a fagiolo
Word Count: 1041
Summary: 2025; Devyn dreams, every night, of the grieving widow.
Notes: Devyn Lively, Macklin McDaniel. (After a hand injury and graduation, I have returned, with a new canon to write for! If anyone is curious, I finished the novel I was writing for before with nearly 93,000 words, and I need a change of pace. Expect info linked eventually...)
The connection grows stronger every day. It's all Devyn can do to keep his sanity, while feeling like he's half inside his own body and half inside that of another. He still doesn't understand the operation they performed on him; all he knows is that it took nearly until his hair had grown back completely for him to notice a difference. The persistent ache is gone, replaced by a strange feeling deep inside his brain, almost like his white matter itches. It's not entirely unpleasant, it's just that it would be less irritating if he could actually make some sense of it. The men in the lab explain nothing to him, they just run their tests. And, if Devyn is being honest, he's sick of being hooked up to machines.
The machines don't explain why he feels like he's been split between two consciousnesses. The machines don't explain why, sometimes, his nerves seem to overact. The other day, he'd suddenly felt like he'd been slapped across the face. The men had muttered to themselves and written something down on their clipboards, but never explained a goddamn thing.
It's his fault, he knows. He volunteered himself for that stupid experiment. He has to accept the consequences of his actions.
"Anything to make yourself useful again," Macklin McDaniel, Devyn's one and only friend, had said after he'd told him of his plan. "It's not enough to just teach, is it?" They'd been sitting in their shared office on the college campus, drinking coffee Mack had brought in from the cafe down the street. Devyn couldn't disagree with him. He wanted to feel useful again. He wanted to feel like he was truly contributing again, instead of lecturing in front of a bunch of bored young adults all day.
Over 30 and Devyn was still longing for the days of dissertations and long-term research. Teaching brought in money but did nothing to alleviate his curiosity. He had to volunteer himself for the experiment.
"No, you didn't." Mack slides a mug across the table to Devyn, who has been massaging his temples for five minutes straight. "Devmo, are you listening to me? I'm worried about you."
Devyn cringes reflexively at the ugly nickname--'Devmolition Man' is not something he wants to have to explain to anyone--and wraps his hands around the mug. "Yes, I heard you. This experiment will be good for me, Mack."
Mack leans against the counter in his small kitchen and sighs. "Oh, yeah, like it's done nothing but good for you so far." He pushes off from the counter and crosses the room to pull the creamer from the fridge, casting a quick glance back over his shoulder at Devyn. "How long have you had that headache, Dev?"
"Just since this morning," he replies, and if he adds a little extra venom to his words, he's sure Mack will excuse him this once. He pulls his hands from the mug and goes back to massaging away the ache behind his eyes.
Mack says nothing more. He sets the creamer down on the table and goes back to retrieve the French press, full with dark liquid. His own mug gets filled before he gives it up to Devyn, who doesn't complain as he goes about preparing his own mug of coffee. Mack watches with mild disgust as Devyn adds spoonful after spoonful of sugar to his mug, but remains silent.
Their mugs are half-empty before Devyn speaks up again, both hands drumming anxiously against the table top. "I, uh--keep dreaming about her."
Mack knows who the 'her' is--a black-clad woman standing in front of a fresh grave. "Elaborate," he says, moving his hand in a sweeping gesture over the table.
Devyn squints through his thick glasses, then drops his gaze back down to the remaining coffee in his mug. "It's not any different. I just keep seeing her--the widow--in the cemetery. I can't make out her face, ever, and it's always the same thing. Every night."
"You're dreaming the same thing every night? Dude, that's fucked up."
"Mack, come on, man, it's--"
"I'm serious," Mack cuts Devyn off. "Either it's a sign of something psychologically iffy with you, or something neurologically iffy with you. And I don't know which one is more likely, Devyn." He sighs and takes a moment to massage his forehead with two fingers. "Dude, you have some kind of weird shit implanted in your brain right now, and you're having phantom pain sensations, weird repetitive dreams, missing time--"
"The missing time was once," Devyn interjects, his voice shrill over Mack's.
"--random spells of exhaustion, and you said so yourself that you feel somewhat disconnected from your own consciousness. That's not normal."
"Okay, okay, I admit it's not ideal, but--"
"Not ideal?" Mack laughs, shaking his head. "I think this is dangerous, dude. I think you're just looking for another way to self-destruct, and I'm sorry, man, but it's no more heroic if you do it in the name of science."
Devyn makes eye contact with Mack, but can't form a coherent sentence when he tries to reply, and quickly gives up. They drink their coffee in silence until one of them brings up midterms, and they speak casually about coursework and semester plans until Devyn eventually makes an excuse to leave.
He drives home in silence, and when he finally arrives, he has no recollection of how he actually got there. The memory comes through as generic; he can't remember what route he took, doesn't recall whether there was a lot of traffic or not, and can't even guess how long it took him. Devyn shakes it off relatively easily, convinced he just spaced off because he'd driven the route so many times, and heads up to his apartment.
The headache is gone by then, replaced with an unbearable heaviness that weighs on his eyelids and makes him want to crawl back into bed. The usual lack of Saturday plans give him no excuse not to and he falls asleep on his side, with his glasses sliding down his nose.
When Devyn wakes, it's early the next morning. He has the memory of the night's dream fresh in his mind: a woman in black, standing beside a fresh grave.