Author Note: I mentioned this story was going to complicated and insane right? Just repeating it for those that feel they haven't been warned enough. Meet the start of complicated, which involves changing tones and narration styles. We haven't reached insane yet – that will involve squirrels. Comments are loved, of course, and encouraged because they feed Arthur and Death's love, but not mandatory. Oh, right, I am cognizant this story is terrible, honest. So if at any moment you dislike it, feel free to hit the x button. No judgement. I won't even know. :)

Part II: This is…

Chaos' Favorite

Order is a jealous lover. Like, really jealous, so he keeps a tight rein over Chaos, always trying to be nearby to fix any of Chaos' accidental messes. Except Chaos doesn't have accidental messes. Or at least the accidental part can always beg the question.

This is because Chaos is eternally restless, as in constantly in pain, somewhere in the vicinity of a single flinch to an atomic explosion. And, well, this makes Chaos quite immune to accidents because there's nothing accidental about fate, especially such a dark one. It works, though. The Eternal does not make decisions in haste and, truth be told, Chaos is much better at bouncing off the walls – like a paintball too eager to splatter on white carpet or the fur of a very white posh dog.

(His own choice of words, in fact, except for the posh, maybe.)

This makes Order, then, not just jealous. This makes him overprotective in a way that only a very good kindergarten teacher too afraid of leaving a child with a big pot of paste and very, very shiny glitter could possibly understand.

Maybe that's why when Chaos finds a pianist, whose music soothes some of the constant discomfort shooting holes like hot bullets through his skin, coloring him white all over and inking his eyes red with anger, Order doesn't have the heart to tell Chaos that what he feels isn't love, not even a smidgen of it.

Because it can't be love (damn it, why won't anyone listen)!

It just can't be. Order tells himself so very carefully, between whispers and forgotten sobs. It can't be love.

(And he ensures that Love doesn't tell Chaos, either.)

It isn't love, and Order must bite his tongue that it isn't! But Order will be damned if he ever lets Chaos play the part of bully to the pianist's lover. That's not in the rules. None of it is in the rule, but this is the least bit in the rules, and the last thing Order needs is his lover breaking all the rules. Order doesn't appreciate visits from the Eternal. He could do without a general check-up and analysis from the higher power's department of external affairs until sometime in the next three millennia, thanks.

So he stays close, making sure that every time that poor (or not so poor with the expensive bag she carries) girl with the big brown hair and the even taller heels has to juggle between madness and incoherence, he can press a kiss on her forehead to give her clear sight because never has he known of someone as willing as she to punch her way through a set of bad circumstances…

(And Order always knew that Chaos had to be a little kinky, the bastard, because he's so sure that he likes getting punched in the face, defenestrated out of school buildings and shoved away from music hall recitals and dates. )

Order thought that would be enough – no harm, no foul, right? Right? – Until Chaos, in his typical flimsy and erratic way, began to think that the pianist's lover was just a little too calm, a little too eager to court disorder and commotion in between her marches and flip-offs and snarky comments against administration and government. And by the time Order noticed that his lover was attributing all his own skills to the pretty human with heavy ideas and even heavier punches, he sees that it is too late.

Because it is Order (damn it!) that's supposed to tame Chaos, bring to Chaos a sense of peace with his presence. Because it his (!) presence that should soothe the burning anger in Chaos' soul, like that prickly yearning Chaos always has to eat the universe because no one in it will ever understand what it feels to explode inside. No one else, other than Chaos, should feel what it is like every day to lose and to die and loop in a cycle into infinity. And only Order should feel the universe imploding, seeking him in its destruction and rebirth.

Chaos, though, is always confused.

And music, oh music is pretty, but anger, oh anger Chaos understands even better. And someone that can – that can…

(Order doesn't like to think about it.)

Her name is Liz.

(Order doesn't like to talk about that either, because she has a name! And what is it to have a name? To have a body and choice?)

Order learns this one day when he finds Chaos sitting next to her on the piano, enjoying the music and enjoying her company.

Oh, naïve little Liz, Order thinks. She went and fell in love with a living mess, someone that needed her. Such are the ironies of life that when Chaos finally backed off and fell into the quietude of routine, Liz went and broke the cycle by falling for everything that wasn't her husband – loud and drunk and blonde and green-eyed with too much money and even more time and so many, many women that she might as well give up.

And Chaos, Chaos doesn't understand love. He can't! He doesn't understand how destiny works – how it is possible to want and desire someone that doesn't need to want you back, much less appreciate you.

(Order, though, Order understands. Only this keeps him from hating Liz, because she understands, so very, very well!)

Because the more Chaos kicked around the poor little billionaire playboy, the more he lost Liz and the pianist and maybe Order should have felt sorry for Chaos.

Except the billionaire human doesn't need a champion. For that he has Death.

That's going to be a problem, and (damn it, why doesn't anyone ever listen to Order?) when Chaos has a problem, so does the whole fucking universe, including Order.

(Damn it. Order had tried so damn hard to ensure the Eternal wouldn't get involved.

Damn it.)

Subject #1: Elizabeta

I look up at your house,

and I can almost hear you shout

down to me

where I always used to be,

and I miss you -

like the deserts miss the rain.

When "Liz" is seven, she runs from her bath and her nanny – hair wet and dripping in a pathway from the bathroom all the way to her mother's vanity table. She wraps her Mickey Mouse towel around her shoulders, arms spread wide as she runs down the expanse of the hallway, barefoot and happy into her mother's back.

Liz is named after her mother. She might as well be a miniaturization of her mother's loveliness, created to be kept in her father's pocket. But when she looks at herself in the mirror, all she sees is red cheeks and pink skin, scrubbed hard with a porous sea sponge. She only sees stringy ringlets of hair knotting together and dipping unevenly into the crook of her chubby neck.

"Baby," her mother chuckles, dropping the thick powdering brush between her fingers to wrap her arms around Liz. She brings Liz onto her lap.

Liz's mother is like a painting: high cheekbones dusted rouge with dimples calling attention to her smile. And when she cranes her long neck to stare at her husband, her whole body just reminds Liz of a marble statue trying to reach the sky.

In the background, Liz's father walks past her, tying a bright purple tie over his charcoal grey collar shirt. He pats her head, stopping to press a soft kiss to her mother's flushed cheeks. And she can hear the dripping tap-tap-tap of water droplets as they hit expensive leather shoes.

"Baby, you're dripping all over Papa's shoes," her Mamma taps at her nose, pressing her closer, never mind that she's wetting the skirts of the expensive ball gown, too. All Liz can do is reach with her fingertips to touch the thick fabric, like the muslin curtains she hides behind during tea time. "Gustav, step back, dear."

But her father simply presses closer, laughing as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and bends down to wipe at pools of water in the dip of his shoes. Liz just watches, thumb making the rounds near her mouth.

"There," her Papa says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "No harm done."

No harm done.

.

When Liz is nine, she wears blue to her mother's funeral because that was her mother's favorite color.

She stares at the same leather shoes, worn and jagged near the edges, and stays very still as her father combs her hair back into a messy ponytail.

Behind him, Liz's two nannies curl their fingers in and out, sometimes offering to 'do something' with her hair.

Her hair is rebellious. Brown curls everywhere like a mess of thick chocolate pudding left to dry for too long. She wishes taming it was as easy as picking at the crust of a delicious pie. Instead, her hair sucks in everything it can and just extends into forever in twisted ringlets. And all she can think is that her mother was so, so very good with her hair. And her mother was a wonderful baker, always making cookies and pies and pudding, oh chocolate pudding.

Liz loved chocolate pudding once. She's made up her mind to hate it, because her father cannot cook.

"I'll learn," her father whispers, fingers cold and gentle as they untangle her hair by bits. His voice breaks unevenly as she scratches her heel with the tip of her shin black shoes. It's like he can read her mind, and she feels exposed. "I'll learn, Liz," he says and she believes him.

I'll learn.

.

When Liz is twenty, she goes to college and immediately runs for Student Council President.

She wins and becomes known as the chaos tamer, what with her thin heels and big hair. Her legacy is healthier lunches and more vegetarian options, even though she's by no means immune to the charms of meat. She turns the school inside-out, organizing a March and student 'flip-off' in front of the commons to show administration they don't 'appreciate' money from the debate department being funneled to pay for their subpar football team. She even manages to raise 10,000 dollars for a Children's Hospital in the inner city.

(And there's this boy, right? Because there's always a boy, or a girl, but in Liz's case, it's a boy, and she thinks he's so beautiful with his white smile and tousled black hair and glasses. Oh, she loves his fingers, which isn't by any means supposed to sound as dirty as it does in her head – because he's a pianist…

…and pianists have beautiful, long, slender fingers, right?

Whatever. It's romantic.)

By the time she's fumbling down hallways, half asleep on her way to class, love and exhaustion feel very much the same. And they sound the same, too, like the keys on a piano being caressed in the morning when she hauls her books to accounting and on the way to her dorm when the light of the moon outside can't outshine the one in Clair de Lune.

She finds a secret in between black and white. It whispers to her in between kisses on her forehead, sonatas lulling her to sleep, dabs under her eyes (careful not to smudge her mascara) when she pretends she's not crying from stress. And it all culminates with glimpses into the future. She's never been clairvoyant, but she can imagine herself standing by a vanity, a little girl jumping on the bed behind her as she takes a purple tie between her fingers, maybe even pushing thick glasses up higher over the bridge of his nose.

So when senior year comes around, she finds herself in one knee standing on an auditorium in front of the entire graduating class and this is, this is…

"This is…" he can't even speak with the smile in his eyes and she just shrugs, because playing it cool is what Liz knows how to do best: she's the chaos tamer. Liz, always just Liz, the one that kicks chaos in the balls with her heels and insults order with her too-big mouth and too-loud hair and just, just everything.

She wants to give him everything.

"Liz," he laughs, taking her hands and tugging her to sit next to him, "this is…"

"A yes, Roderich?" she chuckles, elbowing him as he starts playing an encore.

The audience did ask, after all. And this is…

This is. This is.

.

Not the end. Because, what are happy endings?

Liz spends a couple of years happily married and traveling the world, standing behind curtains and clapping until her fingers ache and the red rash on them spreads to the joints on her wrists.

It's great to be young and wandering like gypsies, kissing like teenagers between rehearsals and hiking her skirt up on top of pianos. But everything loses its charm eventually, even happy endings. Those especially.

Managing her husband reallyloses its charm in between scheduling conflicts and cold dinners.

She just seems to attract chaos, which doesn't make for a very good manager, even if she can fix everything, too.

She even knows Roderich wants to fire her. He just can't bring himself to do it. Because she's his wife – in the good times and the bad times; in sickness and in health. And, sure, she can take it; swallow the very sour pill that internalizes one thing: he doesn't need her. She could, but why would she want to?

Maybe that's why when a tall, gorgeous Portuguese man comes to her after a show and says: "Did you put all of this together? – Because if you did, I think there's a job you need to consider."

She doesn't think anything of it, tells him even as he slips a card into her fisted palm— and even then she's already yelling over his head for someone to please go clean the spilled wine near the stage before it warps the 18th century wood (and could someone please, please get her husband the strawberries he ordered an hour ago?): "Listen, I'm not looking for a job, Mister."

"That's too bad," he shrugs and inches closer. "He could really use someone like you in his life."

And maybe that's it. Yes, that's it. Because this is, this all Liz wants. She wants to be needed. So she takes it. Takes it so fast, her resignation letter is ripped just from the sheer force of her heels spinning as she rushes out the door, from Vienna to New York.

It's like a calling. Liz knows mantras. She's been in enough protests to remember chanting…

Someone like you.

.

Liz pushes the door open and yelps, dropping all her binders and files when she feels something metal and cold run into her ankle repeatedly. Looking down, she finds a tiny square metal box with a beeping camera eye focusing on her even as it carries a folder almost its entire size with its clamp hands.

"What the…"

"Take the folder and sit down. Otherwise, it's just going to follow you around, likely to look more mopey and pathetic than even I managed to program it to look. You're supposed to make my job easier, are you not? Last thing I need is another depressed—"

"Mr. Kirkland?" she asks, standing straight. She's not sure whether to cross the room to shake his hand first, or just try to take a seat somewhere, or – and the thing keeps bumping into her leg, hard enough she knows it's going to leave a bright blue and green bruise. "Stop it," she admonishes, taking the folder with enough strength to almost topple the little bot over on his side.

The poor thing beep-beeps loud and … sad?

Liz watches as it slowly titters on its tiny rollerblade wheels, making a beeline for—"Hey, hey, okay, alright, I'm sorry. No need to look so, so heartbroken. See? I'm, I'm looking through your folder. Very, very insightful stuff…"

The camera eye stares at her, zooms in, zooms out. And there's that beep again, this time so cheerful she thinks of the first bell in an ice cream truck. It raises its clamp arms, trucking around in circles before hiding out inside a hole in the wall.

"Well."

She looks up and finds Arthur Kirkland staring back at her, hands full of oil splayed on his hips. There's this smirk to his pink lips that makes her wonder what she did that is just so damn amusing—

"Maybe you will fit in after all, Miss…?"

"Uh, Liz will do."

"Liz," he nods, stretching a hand out in invitation. "Do sit."

He wanders away from his workbench, reaching for a nearby towel to dry his hands. "Now, Liz, tell me, how good are you with paperwork?"

"Well," she coughs into her hand, "I'm very good at it, Sir."

"Not modest. I like that," Arthur stops by his bar, staring at her from over his shoulder, "and how do you drink your Scotch?"

She's almost tempted to say she doesn't drink. Not during work hours, but already the little bot is staring at her from his humble abode in the hole and there's something in the dark of his red lens that warns her that her answer is crucial. So she smiles, wide and happy, "dry."

Arthur laughs and claps his hands, "a woman after my own heart!"

After my heart. My own heart.

.

"Happy anniversary," Arthur walks into the office one day and throws a box of shoes near her. She blinks, just watching as he rolls up the sleeves of his suit. "What?" he asks when she furrows her brows tightly, barely touching the box, "I thought you said you liked the ones with the Chinese sounding name?"

She shakes her head, chuckling. "We don't have an anniversary, Mr. Kirkland."

"Oh, is that not appropriate? I'm always being reminded to watch my language and it just doesn't seem to stay in this bloody mind of mine. You'd think as a genius I'd have more common sense. Fine, how about taking them as congratulations on surviving a full-year with me – does that sound better? Maybe that just makes me sound abusive, but you have taken a lot of abuse. Surely your husband must hate me, either that or think that working late is a euphemism for something else. I know my girlfriend does," he takes off his jacket, throwing it on the floor as he makes his way over to his desk.

He flips through his phone disinterestedly, sitting on the edge of the table by a stack of important papers. She's almost afraid to look at the mess.

"And Liz," he stares at her from behind his glasses, "what'd I say just this morning about calling me Mr. Kirkland?"

"You don't have to give me a present for working with you, Arthur," she grins cheekily, still opening the top of the box. Her fingers caress the soft leather of the strappy stilettos now in her possession, "but if you were still giving me a present anyway, these," she lifts one of the heels, smiling appreciatively, "oh these would be it. Hello, darlings, where have you been all my life?"

"I thought you'd appreciate them," he laughs, eyes glinting, "the heels are sharp enough that you could really do some damage with them."

"I intend to," she winks, "better watch yourself, Arthur. Do as I say or…"

"Prepare for death by a stiletto up my arse? – Oh, that almost sounds like a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen."

"Well, you said it, not me," she shrugs, slipping her present back into its box.

Where have you been all my life?

.

It's in moments like this when she's lounging on the sofa of Arthur's workshop that she thinks of her parents.

There's always this voice in moments like this. It's deep in her gut. She imagines that the voice belongs to a painter because she can almost see, almost touch the imagined and, perhaps very real, smile on Arthur's face as he tinkers tirelessly behind another robot's circuit board – little children running around, probably breaking things and getting oil spills on the floor…

And she knows he'd probably just grab a fancy handkerchief to clean it up before pressing a soft kiss on their foreheads and sending them running to her.

It sends this strange warmth inside her belly, like a memory not forgotten, but not fulfilled either.

But what is the difference between a vision and a daydream anyway?

Hospital Visit #1

"Ma'am, ma'am!" the nurse beelines after Elizabeta, practically sliding down the hallway in an attempt to catch up to her. Her voice breaks unevenly, like a hitch up her pristine white pantyhose, which is there, behind her knee, quite visible to Elizabeta's scrutiny, "Only close family is allowed!"

"And I already told you," Elizabeta waves her off from over her shoulder, heels clicking as dangerously as the flash in her green eyes, "I'm as close family as you're going to get wandering into his room. I'm his P.A."

"Personal assistants are not within the list of approved guests," the nurse manages to slip in front of her, blockading the door with her whole body. "I don't doubt you're close to Mr. Kirkland," she sneers, emphasizing the word close like a dirty rag being thrown at Elizabeta's face. "But not close enough under hospital procedures."

Elizabeta bites her bottom lip. There's a throbbing above her eye, like a repeated punch in the temple.

"Listen," she breathes slowly through her nose, chest heaving nervously, "I don't care if you think I'm sleeping with him, or whatever. For all I know you think his alleged tabloid wife is going to show up to pad his feverish brow. Whatever, okay, what-fucking-ever; he doesn't even like Vegas. Hates it! But since you and half the damn world think you know so damn much about my boss, let me remind you that he has NO family. As in orphaned at eleven, raised by nannies and alone ever since, okay? Like created robots to have friends and has only ever been serious about weaponry. Okay? Nod to show me you understand. Good. So NO ONE other than me is going to walk into this hospital to check on him outside of his publicists and lawyers, which are nowhere near as close to Arthur as I am, you got that? – Because I am closer to a wife than that tabloid bitch you've been reading about during your break will ever be! Because I've had to buy him underwear! And no, I am not going to answer briefs or boxers for you."

The nurse's cheeks flare a bright red.

Smugly, Liz flips a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Now that we've cleared that up, step the fuck aside and let me see him!"

The nurse gulps, "Ma'am—"

"And, Christ! Stop calling me ma'am! Do I look anywhere over 29 to you? I wasn't born with these lines on my forehead! He fucking put them there. So don't ma'amme! It's not going to work."

"Hospital procedures—"

"What do you want from me? I don't know why my name's not on the list! I already showed you the freaking power of attorney! If he trusts me with his business, you really think he wouldn't trust me to check in on him? – Maybe I should just have someone bring over the living will…"

"Liz? Doctor, I think I'm hallucinating again. My P.A. looks like she's about to blow a heel in the hallway, but it can't be because she's on vacation with her husband and I was quite strict about her not coming back regardless of what stupid, mad, bloody damned stunt I—"

"Arthur?" she turns, hand pressed tight over her chest at the first sight of her boss wheeling down the hallway in a wheelchair. Behind him there's a doctor and another nurse, both looking very amused at the disheveled state of her hair. She pats at her fringe. "Thank Christ. I was – I was worried and couldn't get back before today—"

"What's going on? I thought you were on vacation with Roderich?" he asks, thick brow arched high. He stares at the nurse next to her for a long time. "Don't tell me another one of my exes tried to come in to murder me while I was under anesthetics again."

"What?" Liz thinks her heart has stopped. "Arthur, wait, what?"

"I'm kidding," he laughs, shaking his head. "But seriously, why is a nurse blocking my door?"

"Uh," the nurse steps aside, cheeks tinted pink. "Sorry."

"Whatever," Elizabeta shakes her head, practically jumping into his chair with the amount of nerves pushing through her body. "Not important. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Doctor says I can go home in two days tops, though I should probably take a few days off. Apparently my stress levels are too high, which isn't unusual, but I would like to regain full mobility of my hand as fast as possible." He extends out his limp hand, sniffing, "See? All it does is hang, which is unacceptable. Just shameful. I can't even hold a wrench. Under such circumstances, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to take on even more work, Liz."

"That's fine."

"I know Roderich probably hates me, and you'll probably hate the idea even more; however, the Doctor has recommended that I step down as – wait," he jumped, scanning her face thoroughly. His eyes settled on the tick in her fingers, like a tiny, almost invisible, but manic time-keeper. "Who are you?"

"You almost died," she purses her lips together, clicking her heels as she stands to stare him down, "of course you need time off. So it's fine."

"You understand what this means, right?" – and he's cringing, just waiting for the sound of Elizabeta cursing him to high-heaven and low-hell, which happens only too often. "It means I'm making you CEO."

Liz finishes lamely, "And Roderich doesn't hate you."

"Did you hear me?"

There's a hint of amusement peppered all over Arthur's voice. It's unsettling because it's a matter of national security whenever Arthur's voice sounds less like a well-oiled machine and more like a guarded gate with peeping holes just for teasing. It all sends Liz scattering for her thoughts. She picks at them carefully. By the time she pieces them together, she's short-circuiting.

"You just said," she gapes her mouth open and close, over and over and over. "You just, I'm, me, I'm C…"

"CEO," he finishes for her, eye twinkling bright and yellow and she thinks that if he was a cat, she'd probably cuddle him all the time.

That alone is a weird thought, but she has always liked cats, and Liz seems to assimilate all the many things that both annoy her and inspire her to Arthur.

There's a but hidden somewhere in his words. Liz can already tell. She can tell everything when it comes to Arthur.

"But," – this is not an exception to the rule—"it's only temporary, and you have to get an assistant. I don't want you overworked and grumpy trying to stab me in my sleep with the new razor-thin laptop I bought you."

She blinks, "when did you buy me a new laptop?"

"I sent Ludwig out for it. He was bothering me with all sorts of legal nonsense. I told him to get you a laptop and load it with all the documents and pesky little spreadsheets he loves. He seemed content to take my credit card and organize my life. I decided not to think too hard about what he's indirectly trying to say about me."

"Arthur, I—I can't, I mean, wait, let me rephrase that…"

"Nope," he starts trying to wheel away, and when she slams her hands on either side of the wheel's arms, he simply lets his gaze sweep past her, "Doc, a bit of help? – We're done, Liz. That will be all. You're CEO, I'm on vacation and I'd really love some tea. Think you can make a short trip—"

"No caffeine," she retorts almost instantly, following behind the Doctor and the wheelchair. "And no alcohol, either. I already ordered Toris to get rid of every single bottle of scotch, wine and anything remotely distilled looking in hard glass."

"Even my distilled water?"

"If he can't tell whether it's water or vodka, then yes."

Arthur arched his neck back to beam at his physician, "see, Doc? She's an absolute natural: a true deluge of motherly instincts and managerial genius. Think of her as an FBI agent undercover as a pre-school teacher with a part-time job as an arms dealer. I assure you I'll be in good hands. I wouldn't trust her with my company if I didn't believe she could ensure I swallowed a cocktail of pills…"

"Arthur!" she yells behind him, even as she closes the door carefully, "Don't even think we're done with this CEO business. Don't pretend to be asleep! You're not even out of the wheelchair!"

Newspaper Excerpts #1

1. [Arthur] Kirkland was released from the hospital earlier today with minor injuries. A press release is expected sometime later today on the stability of Kirkland's health and the recent false accusations of a woman claiming to be his wife. In an act of support, the hospital is abiding by its contractual agreement, asking all media outlets to please empty the vicinity to allow any incoming patients safe entrance. No doctors, nurses or staff have, as of yet, spoken with any media.

2. Doctors are astonished by the speedy recovery of the weapons manufacturing magnate. However, a nurse working on Kirkland's floor confessed that there's fear of lasting physical scarring that might affect Kirkland's mobility…

3. Kirkland Physician reports, "A minor procedure was necessary, but he is, otherwise, in perfect health. The recovery will be slow, but scarring shouldn't prevent him from leading a fulfilling life."

4. The sudden appearance of a woman who claims to be Arthur Kirkland's wife has forced the billionaire's publicist to unofficially comment on his personal love life, starting with a denial of all accusations. "Arthur [Kirkland] is not married. He is not expecting any children. All claims will be dealt with legally, starting with DNA proof."

5. Kirkland Wife's family steps forward: "She is certifiably insane and obsessed with him. She even tried to buy his sperm on EBay to carry a child from him to term!"

6. EXTRA! Botched medical procedure leaves Kirkland disfigured! – Kirkland Enterprises to sue! Pictures inside.

7. "We married in Vegas," she says, teary-eyed as she rubs her stomach. "If he's dead, I deserve his assets. For the child, our child. If he's not, well, I am hurt he'd deny knowing me, knowing our baby. I refuse to believe this is Arthur. This is his people. They're keeping us apart."

8. Exclusive! Photos from the secret Kirkland wedding in Vegas and an interview with the WIFE.

Inside: Kirkland wife expecting heir! Why she fears for her life.

Arthur Talks to Death #1

"Remember that the doctors said you can't drink."

"Oh, was that part of my prescription? I thought that was more of a general suggestion. You know I'm never very good with suggestions, my dear."

Elizabeta's heels click-click-click behind him, "Arthur, I'm serious. There better not be any alcohol in your apartment."

It reminds him of a metronome. If he wasn't already more than a bit tipsy from the painkillers, he might have tried to invite her inside again, but he already knows she'd decline his invitation. Elizabeta is all work and professionalism, unless he starts letting out that side of him that's so very, very bi. Then she's all over him. Well, sometimes. More times than not, he catches her frowning, like this deep, disappointed frown that shows all the lines in her forehead.

"Remember you have a meeting with the Secretary of Defense tomorrow, Arthur. So get to bed as soon as you walk in," she reminds him, shuffling him into his apartment.

He nods; his face half a grimace, until his eyes settle on her very noticeable assets.

"Why don't you come in, Liz?" he stumbles a bit, "We could have drinks. As in actual drinks, not the kind we have at the office, which are too fruity to be drinks."

"That's because today they weren't drinks. It was juice. I already told you that the doctors said you can't drink."

He nods, chuckling, "did they say I can't have sex, too?"

She puckers her lips in that way that lets him know he just fucked up. In anyone else, he would assume a look like that means he has a shot. But Elizabeta isn't anyone else.

"I'll be sure to ask your doctor bright and early tomorrow if it's of pressing necessity that you know before your two weeks of mandatory bed rest."

"The way your jaw just locked should be nowhere near as captivating as it is, darling," he laughs, leaning against the frame of the door.

Yeah. He's screwed up, again. Arthur does that a lot, apparently, because there are days when Elizabeta's lips look like she's trying to give fish kisses or ducks a run for their money on the beak department.

"Married," she waves her ring finger at him and then breaks into a bright smile, patting him softly on the head. He almost feels like a toddler. "So thanks, but no thanks. Have a good night, Arthur! Don't forget to show up bright and early for the Secretary!"

He blinks, groaning his response as he locks himself inside his apartment. It's probably a good thing she's so efficient. And that he's so scared of her. Otherwise, he might have fired her already.

No, that's not true. He'd never fire her.

Arthur drags his feet as he walks, waving an arm clumsily. It's been a long day, what with his release from the hospital being such a pain in his ever brilliant mind and that insane woman claiming she was his wife from Vegas. Never mind that he hadn't been to Vegas in a year – because he hates Vegas, hates how all the lights everywhere make his hangovers hurt and ache until he has to throw up.

The apartment lights come on with a soft hum and he sighs, breathing in the warmth of halogens and the familiar smell of new wood and new furniture. In the background, he can almost register the silent beeping of the oven's light.

"The hell?" he approaches the oven slowly. He wouldn't have left a pizza cooking in the oven. Not when he wasn't even sure that he'd be coming back to his apartment.

He reaches for the oven mitts nearby and opens the oven slowly, peeking in eagerly once the smell of baked tomatoes and garlic reach his nose. Arthur leans closer, excited to pull the pizza out, even if he can't understand how it got there in the first place. Because, hey! – He's Arthur Fucking Kirkland, famous billionaire inventor, businessman and playboy and stranger things have happened, like that one time he came home to find three super models in his hot tub wading in strawberry gelatin.

So, pizza? Free pizza? It doesn't seem particularly lethal, unless it's poisoned, but that idea settles a bit too late inside his brain. He's already taken the pizza out, cut it into slices, sat on his favorite sofa and taken a big bite by the time he remembers he's not very smart when drunk. He spits the piece out, touching the side of his head as he begins to grow dizzy.

Almost instantly, he grabs for his mobile. His fingers shake as he tries to press the right buttons. He should probably call 9-1-1, not the poison control center's hotline. But he can barely register his own fingertips sliding down the touch screen over the 9 repeatedly. If he's honest with himself, he's not calling anyone in his state.

When the television turns on, he drops the phone and frowns, thinking to himself that he ought to check on the sensors in the apartment. When the channels begin flipping wildly before settling on a romantic comedy, he curses. His house has gone insane. Worst, he hates romantic comedies.

"Hey, hot stuff!"

The voice is soft and warm as it stretches through his ears. There's a very gentle bite, a simple tug at his earlobe.

"The hell?!" he jumps, almost falling off the couch.

A shadowy contour slithers around him slowly. What wraps around him makes Arthur think of the lovechild between a slimy black slug and a translucent scarf, which doesn't appropriately begin to describe how terrifying it actually feels. It's more like a shadowy snake, then, coiling around him rather gently, actually, before plopping hard and heavy on his lap.

"What are you?" Arthur gulps, almost tempted to poke at the shifting shadow now taking the not unfamiliar shape of a human. Or humanoid. Yes, Arthur is more familiar with human shapes than humans sometimes and this is definitely not human, but human-like. Still, this is by no means a machine.

Arthur is baffled at the sight of this not machine.

"You don't remember me?"

Arthur blinks, "Am I supposed to? – Don't tell me I finally managed to make contact with aliens and I'm bloody sober! If you're an alien, then, I'm very sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to come back some other time. I need to be properly pissed to make introductions. I know it's probably hard to tell, but my hobbies with a few beers are not the same without them, and I'll have you know I am not fond of aliens when I'm sober. I'm also not fond of people touching me without my permission."

If a pout had a sound, it would probably be the juncture of a sigh and a mumble. Something akin to this: "I'm insulted. I'm not an alien. Aliens are nowhere near as cool as I am."

"Well," Arthur yawns, head lolling a bit as he begins to feel a spin in his head that lulls him to sleep. He speaks in between half-lidded gazes that blur the shadow into the background, "Pardon me for insulting you. I'm sure you're a perfectly lovely shadow. But if you don't mind, I'm not really up for a chat at the moment seeing as—"

"Hey," Arthur starts when he feels a hard slap hit his cheek, "don't die yet!"

"Die?! Oh god," he groans, writhing when he feels a pillow dig deep into his back, "I really was poisoned!"

"Okay, so that wasn't the best way to put it, but at least it woke you up. You're not really going to die…"

"Oh," Arthur feels his body relax against the plush seat holding him up. He drops his head and leans his cheek against cold leather again, already closing his eyes, "that's nice, then. Not to be rude, again, but I truly am exhausted. Must be all those anesthetics I had to take…"

"Nah, it's probably the carbon monoxide I'm using to kill you," the voice chirps and the body bounces on Arthur's lap. "Most painless way to die, babe. Can't say I didn't think of your comfort for your initiation, hot stuff! – Hey, hey, wake up! I want to talk to you. You're funny and witty and all sorts of British things, except you're American, which makes you so much better! I like America, you know? – Oh come on! You humans can't be that fragile. I timed it perfectly. I was supposed to have at least another hour with you and I even made you dinner!"

"I appreciate it. No one ever makes me dinner at home," Arthur hums contently, eyes already closed as he takes a deep, shallow breath. It leaves his body unsteadily, like he's been ransacked of any and all strength. "You probably should've timed for the synergistic effect a bit better, though."

"Sy-ner-gis-tic effect…? Oh! Damn it. It's always something. At least now you know I'm not an alien, yeah? Because, no offense, but I'd be totally offended if you, like, forgot me: our meeting was brilliant. And superbly timed and I didn't even maim you with the flying shards of glass! Just saying."

"Yes, of course," Arthur repeats a few times. His chest heaves up and down gently. Why does he feel so cold? "Mind draping a blanket over me, demented shadow bent on my sudden and painless demise? Not that I don't appreciate that you used carbon monoxide, but I'm not particularly fond of being cold, either."

"Is that a pet name? 'Cause it's kind of long. Not that I'm complaining. But you can just call me Death. Really, I won't mind," Death says even as he stretches out one his elastic arms to reach for the blanket on the opposite sofa. He drapes it over both of them gently, "Hey, Arthur, does this count as cuddling? Can I count it as cuddling? I'm gonna count it."

"IdunnomaybeIameasy…"

"What did you say? You sure you can't wake up to at least finish a slice of pizza? – Arthur? Hey, hey, are you dead?" Death flicks at Arthur's nose. He stares for a long while, sniffing loudly. "Why am I asking you? Of course you are. Fuck.

Guess I'm having dessert alone and it doesn't even get to be a euphemism."

Arthur Meets Alfred #1: The Elevator

Arthur stares at the flickering orange light of the elevator. He shuffles his feet and doesn't register that his hands are an unsteady mess of ticks as he shoves them into his pockets. It's an uncomely habit he's been unable to shake ever since the car accident. And he's easily startled by the sound of dragging footsteps behind him. He barely turns, gathering that for the first time ever both he and his neighbor have managed to walk out into the hall at the same time, which is pretty unusual.

He had started to think he lived alone on this half of the floor.

"Good morning," the stranger gives him a familiar wink, like they're old friends sharing some secret from wild college days.

His neighbor is this tall, eager-looking fellow with a very noticeable tan that highlights the pale contrast of the steel blue of his eyes. He's wearing a set of tight jeans and a shirt that continuously rides up to show-off washboard abs hidden beneath. And Arthur, well Arthur doesn't even have to turn. From his peripheral, he scans the expanses of skin within seconds, mapping erogenous zones in bright red with the same precision with which he records numbers and formulas needed for a new invention.

With each flick of the stranger's wrist – even though he has no watch – Arthur feels this strange tension in his shoulders, like the cold chills of familiarity. It's the same feeling he typically gets when he comes across an old lay he'd been working very, very hard to avoid. Only not quite the same.

Not at all.

Then again, for all he knows, he could have slept with his neighbor on a night when he was really drunk, as in blacking out. Arthur blinks, hard. He hides his face, bending into himself. But there's that song and he perks up as it rolls around his head, over and over in an unfamiliar array of highs and lows and uneven notes. And then it hits him that the stranger behind him is whistling it.

The familiar ping of metal doors opening alerts them to their close proximity. They scuffle for a moment, questioning who should step in first. When the stranger waves Arthur away, he walks into the elevator.

Arthur's hand is pressed tight against his hip, as if measuring by inches the unwrinkled expanses of the gray dress suit encompassing his body. He leans his back against the nearest wall and pulls out his cell phone – because that's what people do, isn't it? – to deflect human interaction on mornings too early and too hot for either. It's too easy with cold plastic hanging off his pockets, buried deep in his wallet.

There's a flicker of lights overhead, but Arthur ignores that with the same ease with which he dismisses the fact that the door is staying open just a tad too long.

"Are you going to church?" blue eyes flash over to him, and he jumps, unsteady and clumsy and too unaware that his mouth is already moving as he stares at the shine of his dress shoes. "You look real nice," the young man continues in southern accent sprinkled over the otherwise crisp words.

In front of them, the door skitters to a close before opening just an inch again and slamming fully shut.

"Thanks," Arthur remarks, looking away. Though not without first taking in the very visible muscle lines cutting into the stranger's tan skin and hiding behind white cotton, "And no. I guess I'm not really a church kind of guy."

The stranger hums, finally turning fully. He extends out his hand for shake. Arthur looks at it for a long while from beneath long, dark lashes.

"I'd thought about going today, but too many things to do. Name's Alfred F. Jones. I'm your next door neighbor," he smiles big and bright when he feels Arthur's hand slip against his palm – sultry and strong. "Just moved in yesterday. Nice to meet you."

Arthur just gives him a dismissive nod, phone already vibrating in his other hand. He flicks his wrist, looking down at the expensive Cartier Tank Louis watch, and Alfred almost immediately notes the way the shine of the gold whispers obvious 18 karats.

It's an expensive watch, Alfred notes.

It's a long ride down, Arthur thinks.

They're somewhere suspended on floor number fourteen, which is really floor number thirteen, when Alfred seems to mysteriously tug Arthur's hand a bit forward, bringing him just a little closer. There's something snug in the way their breaths are shared, coming at the same time. But Arthur starts anyway, back tensing almost instantly.

His ears perk at the first sign: there's this whip and buzz sound, like wires snapping and coiling around gears, and Arthur's eyes snap up to the ceiling, almost instantly recognizing the vibration of the metal beneath his feet.

He drops his phone to the floor and pushes Alfred back, pressing his own body to the edge of the wall.

This is what people do, isn't it? Maybe not what they do, but what they should. Arthur's never been very good at doing what he should do, but dying changes people's priorities. He's willing to change in the minute milliseconds he has now that the elevator is so very obviously making a dump dive to the first floor.

But Alfred seems unfazed, blinking a few times as he takes in Arthur's uneven breathing. The heave of his chest is like watching a little toy boat in a very big pool, and Alfred finds he can still feel the pump of Arthur's blood poking at his hand.

"You alright?" he asks, trying to get close again.

Arthur furrows his brows, hissing, "You don't feel that?!"

"Feel what?"

"The way the elevator's velocity had increased? We're going to hit the ground floor in approximately—!"

The lights of the elevator ghost in between dim and dark. Alfred seems to ignore the way the light makes shadows dance over his face. Blue eyes scan the perimeter of the metal box, settling on the power box.

"Are you scared? I can fix it. Just focus on me."

Arthur huffs, rolling his eyes, "w—well, no, of course not. I could fix it, too, actually—you can?"

Alfred shrugs, nodding. He hovers over Arthur, cupping the side of his face. His cheek is warm, like a bullet just released from a gun. Alfred grins, taking in the very soft feel of the skin sliding against his palm. Arthur almost instinctively moves closer, which wouldn't be far from the truth, actually, because technically this is Arthur dying. Don't people that are dying always get closer to death? – Right, then. Alfred leans closer, too.

"Yeah, I can fix it, but you need to calm down, hot stuff."

"H—hot stuff?! Now is not the bloody time to get cute, arsehole," Arthur sputters, brows furrowed thick and high, "Are you mad? – This elevator's already on floor seven. We're going to hit the ground pretty soon. All you can do is brace for impact—"

"Calm down; we're not falling," Alfred murmurs, rubbing soft circles around the juncture of Arthur's jaw and cheek, "We're fine. Take a breath. Feel how it's slowing down already? Your heart's pumping too fast. Just breathe in through your nose. I'm not gonna let you die, Arthur. You don't trust me?"

"Well, no. I don't know you."

"Sure you do!" Alfred gives him a toothy smile. "We're neighbors!"

Arthur shuffles his feet between them, hand tense as it grips at the metal and leaves a handprint large and visible. It is true that the elevator is slowly returning to a very manageable speed and the lights are slowly coming back. So he tests his newfound stability by grabbing a fistful of his neighbor's shirt. Next to his thigh, his fist rolls tighter. Alfred simply leans into the touch, his bright eyes heavy cobalt.

"See?" Alfred smirks, "You're alright. Probably just a hallucination. You have been through lots of bad things recently."

The elevator transitions into a smooth hover before stopping in the lobby, about a foot off the floor.

When the doors open with a ping, Alfred pushes away smoothly. As Arthur begins to ply his body away from the steel wall, he notices for the first time that one of Alfred's arms had been protectively lingering next to him. He kneels to grab for his cell phone, cheek grazing lightly against the rough material of Alfred's jeans.

Alfred slides to the other side of the elevator, giving Arthur plenty of space to press a hand against his chest and another against his head, as if he's testing that anything is real, because the whole experience is insane.

Arthur can feel the unsteady weight of his body return to him when he stumbles out of the elevator. He turns to look at Alfred only once.

"We should do drinks sometimes," he waves at Arthur, who simply nods politely, unsure what you say to someone that seems to have saved your life from, from a hallucination? From shortness of breath and shaking limbs and…? Arthur's not even sure what psychological disturbance from the accident has burrowed deep inside his mind to make him panic at the first sight of enclosed metallic spaces. But he's glad he wasn't alone. "You know, when you're not having a panic attack."

Was that what it was?

Arthur grabs for his sunglasses and slips them on his face. He walks to the very center of the lobby before he feels his heart drop to his stomach and his knees buck and then he's down – on the floor, like hands fisting parts of the building's very expensive rug. He might as well kiss the ground.

He's not sure he's ever felt something like that, and he's not sure he doesn't like it, which is a very scary thing to admit. Because, well, normal people shouldn't enjoy feeling like they're free-falling inside an elevator for about 10 stories or more, which doesn't really say much about Arthur because he's never been normal anyway. And besides, there's Alfred, handsome, hot, very southern and maybe, well, not innocent Alfred, who tried to hold him through something that didn't happen, in a way that didn't make him feel insane.

All Arthur knows is that there's this strange, unsteady beat in his chest and this very familiar warmth between his legs that makes him wonder if he just suffered rug burn on his crotch, or if he just quite literally fell in love. Though that's ridiculous because he's Arthur Kirkland –

You're Arthur Fucking Kirkland. This is just the shock. Yes, just the shock. Be logical, lad. You're in shock. Love? Ridiculous.

But the more he tries to stand, the more he feels cool fingers rubbing circles against his cheek, and then against his thighs and right at the juncture of his hip, where he still has that weird scar, like someone bit him hard with sharp teeth. And there's still Alfred, just watching him, quite amused as he palms the elevator, trying to get the bended metal back into shape.

Wait, wait, is he having another hallucination?

Absolutely stupid.

Here's Arthur, though, finding it fully endearing.

Alfred simply kicks his heel against the elevator, giving Arthur a wink before he mouths, "Forgot something upstairs," and is gone.

This is Gilbert and that's Mattie

Gilbert feels awkward in the sun. For one, he can't actually see. For two, his skin itches like a bitch, and that's not directed at anyone, except the sun. The sun's a bitch, making him hurt and itch all over.

Human bodies just feel weird.

They're all rubbery and shit. As in the quality is shit. He comes to terms with this at the same time he is informed that human bodies are breakable and, like, what loser would even want a body that has brittle, hard insides and mushy things that go thump-thump with red stuff? Not that there's anything wrong with red. He likes the color red.

"Here," Matt holds an umbrella over his head, handing Gilbert sunglasses with his free hand. "Put those on and hold the handle straight so you don't bop me in the head while I try to get some sun block on you."

"Sun block?" Gilbert cheers up, envisioning some gun that they'll shoot at the sun and—and then he feels Matt's fingers, cold and wet sliding down his nose with something thick and white. "Hey, hey, what is that?"

"Sun block," Matt rolls his eyes, admiring his work on Gilbert's face before adding another dot on the tip of his nose. "There."

"I'm still itchy," Gilbert complains, picking at the bits of left over lotion on his cheeks. "Why is someone as awesome as me feeling itchy – hey, what's that little yellow thing over there jumping around in that cage? It's cute! I bet it's deadly, too…"

"Don't just run off!"

"Relax! I'm just going to say hello to the tiny cute deadly thing."

"It's not deadly – damn it, Gilbert, come back here! I don't have time to look at baby chicks with you…!"