No. 1 Obscure Media Fic Writer.

Sideblog | Call me M., Mid twenties, not American. I write fanfic from time to time. It's very sporadic simply because I tend to focus on original writing, but I'm there every now and then :) None of my fics are beta read, so sorry for any grammatical mistakes, etc. I write fanfic for fun, so I'm not suuuuuper precious about stuff. I just do it, basically. Thanks for stopping by!

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Moved blogs to gigglemuggerwrites :)

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Just got a good grade at Fanfiction, which is possible to get and reasonable to want.

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A FRENZY OF DREAMS AND MEMORIES.

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Mature.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: One-Shot. Previous Work. AO3 Link.

Synopsis:

Meg didn't think it would be too difficult to live with Herbert West, but she really should have known better. He still isn't letting her in, but she needs to go through difficult choices while also accepting the fact things won't change. Her feelings won't go away. West, as reticent and obsessed as ever, deals with his own feelings for Meg and how they have been affecting their work. Both go through a period of silence, of pondering and of dreaming, outside of their control. Basically this is a bridge, if I do write the planned third and final fic, but it's a self contained world---with an ending, in case I decide not to continue. Like what Hollywood does when they don't know if they're gonna renovate a show when they're feeling nice.

Word Count: 18 819.

AO3 Tags: yes I'm back on my bullshit yes this is half as big as the original fic I have no idea what's wrong with me <3, Domestic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he's still not here :(, I'm sorry Danny, Slow Romance, but they get there, Graphic Description of Corpses, cause well it's reanimator, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, though this is an AU and you can only do so much, Descent into Madness, more or less, They get worse, Drug Addiction, cause reagent all that, Eventual Happy Ending, nothing is too smutty here but it does include some I just didn't tag it cause it felt disingenuous..

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma, dead parents, dead cat, same as the other fic, but now they're also experimenting on things more regularly. Also, this is a horror story, and I leaned into that. Meg and Herbert's relationship only gets more co-dependent and gothic from now on, so keep that in mind if you read it.

Also yes, the gif is not from Re-Animator, but from Labyrinth, I just thought it was fitting---clock, fall, passage of time, the themes.

AO3 link.

Fic Notes:

As usual I am nervous about posting here but I was like eh, what the Hell, I WROTE the thing already, spent MONTHS on it, might as well. Herbert and Meg continue. This wasn't supposed to be so long, I considered dividing it into chapters, but it was always meant to be read as a one-shot before the eventual ACTUAL sequel, which I might write or not (this is a pretty self-contained ending to what was opened in the last one, though the sequel is fully plotted). As their relationship deepens, they become different people I think, so I hope I did whatever I wrote, and Herbert, some justice as he navigates this difficult time---cause Meg was always different anyhow. This was fun. I love writing about them. I know nothing about medicine, American colleges, breaks, guns, house purchasing, any of that, keep it in mind as you read it and be nice this is my baby <3 Also I listened to Plainsong almost exclusively while writing the prom scene and it fits too much, you're welcome. (see the end for more notes, etc).

Meg knew she was dreaming again, at least at first, because it was all foggy on the edges—and colorful. She felt like she was trapped in a kaleidoscope. In fact, she was trapped inside of a grand celebration, an esteemed party. There was a plastic banner with words that looked like rubbish on them, announcing the occasion with pride. To the side was a table of refreshments, with punch and food. Strobe lights were above her, a bright pink, then blue, then white at different intervals, making her hair sparkle. A bored looking thirty year old DJ who would have made it big by now if he had only been born in New York played whatever records they gave him. Several pairs of kids were on the dance floor, doing their best to not embarrass themselves.

It was the 1979 Arkham High School prom (Go Stingrays!) The air inside the place was breezy, the air conditioners blaring at full, expensive power, and Tommy was big around her. They both knew they were on the brink of breaking up, and tried to make the most of that last night. Meg even had the Farrah Fawcett hair, though everyone knew she was wearing extensions. Her mother insisted.

Around her were a lot of different people she didn't remember the names or faces of—apart from her old friends, which seem to swirl and spin close by, at a comforting distance. There was Debbie with the red hair she dreaded, the beautiful body, model-like and sinewy. There was Bobby holding her like a drunken sailor and not a boyfriend, looking uncomfortable on the dance floor. There was Peggy, and Josh, whom everyone called Pop because he was addicted to soda (wasn't he?) and when he was thirteen he drank fourteen bottles of coke, throwing up on Lenny Brown's beautiful, new Levi's pants he had just bought.

Something like that.

There was Emmy and Jimmy to their left…

A waltz of the past.

Tommy was holding her. People still, sometimes, called her Meggie. Everyone was such a tiny little thing, with tiny little names: Peggy, Tommy, Meggie... She took a deep breath. The floor was so cold, which she somehow knew even if she didn't feel it on her, and her heels were uncomfortable. The girls were wearing way less makeup than at a 1986 prom, but everyone had bright eyeshadow on.

"Interesting crowd," Her boyfriend said, steering her back and forth. Meg hummed briefly. "Your friends, I'm assuming?"

"Yes."

"Hm.” He paused. “It makes sense. And they're all rich?" Meg laughed, eyes still closed.

"Yes, and so are you. They're your friends too..." Meg stopped.

The strange cadence of the voice, the higher pitch, the contempt… Previously with her hair against her boyfriend's chest, she looked up at a face that was now her height—pimply, some on his forehead and a few on his cheeks, with braces (only on the upper teeth, blue in color), and glasses. His hair was longer, he had bangs, but the eyes were the same—the usual confidence stamped on, defiant. His glasses were a little thicker. He looked oddly beautiful to her.

She smiled as if she had seen God for the first time.

"Herbert."

"Megan," He replied, still swaying. "You look nice." Her dress was a pink one, with flower applications, and a petticoat. She had her shoulders exposed, but the frills went almost up to her neck, so no cleavage. On top of her head was a little flower crown, with tiny roses that matched the ones sewn on the fabric, and a corsage. She would keep all of this in a box, never to look at it again, until...

Oh, God! Poor Rufus…

Meg frowned.

Rufus was alive at her house, waiting for her, sleeping by the fireplace…

Wasn't he?

"You look good too. It's a nice suit." She said, instead of dwelling—and it was. A light blue one, with a ruffled shirt underneath, and a black bowtie. He had a small rose pinned to his lapel, matching hers, as if they came together and there was never anyone else.

His hands were shaking, her legs were wobbly. They continued dancing nonetheless. The song was old, a very calm 50s ballad—her school was more traditional, less disco, or rock and roll. Obviously the children hated it. Further into the night, the faculty would loosen up, and they would let the DJ play things that were more top 40. Meg used to listen to the Rolling Stones and the Who, dreaming of Roger Daltrey and Mick Jagger... Incredible days that never come back.

Everyone is still alive.

"What's the purpose of this one?" Herbert asked, cutting her thoughts, a slight lisp brought on because of the braces. She smiled at that. "Why am I at prom with you, at your school, no less?" She shrugged, feeling her hair brush against her shoulders. Her mascara was probably clumpy and she had pink rouge on her cheeks. They both looked so young.

"I think I just wanted to dance with you," Meg answered, plainly.

Living with West the past few weeks had ruined her brain. She dreamed of him every night and they were never apart when she was awake. With Ace still in the hospital, even if her injuries had been light (Ed insisted, of course, and she acquiesced. No mention of any Innsmouth ailment of any kind, which raised questions in West's mind. Meg hoped for the best), they had become inseparable. It was breakfast, lunch and dinner together, when she could make West eat for a second, and nothing frozen. They plotted, they experimented on small subjects, they wrote notes together, feverishly. They argued. They looked away and came back, but nothing happened apart from that.

So, by comparison, this was nice. This was heaven. The dry ice fog didn't exist in real life, she remembered, but dreams were dreams.

"Were you always this combative, even at 18?" She asked, continuing the conversation. Herbert raised an eyebrow.

"Did you always wear flower crowns and frilly pink dresses, even at 18?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess you know my answer.” Meg was ready to go back to resting her head on his shoulder—before she could, he pushed her away to a normal distance.

“Hey, what…” When she opened her eyes she saw her severe math teacher, ms. Dillmore, with perfect white hair in a high bun, small glasses, and taciturn expression, coming towards them.

Meg straightened up, remembering she needed to be exemplary, as usual, and fixed her hair. West still had his hands on her waist, and when she looked up at him, she caught him staring. He averted his eyes.

"Halsey, West," Ms. Dillmore said by means of greeting. Meg smiled her classic bright smile, while the woman supervised the distance. Giving a look to West, he reciprocated with another of his own caustic ones (as if she were an idiot), which left the teacher, no doubt, embarrassed. After thorough upkeeping of the morals of this school, she walked away. Meg sighed, somewhat relieved.

"Does it hurt to smile?" West pursed his lips.

"At her? Yes." He pulled Meg back towards him with no shame, and she gladly put her hands around his neck, burying her head as much as she could into his neck without smudging her light pink lipstick. They were flush together, with no space in between—very inappropriate. What would her dad think?

"Were you the prom queen?" He asked and she nodded, rubbing her cheek against the satin of his suit. "Of course."

"Hey, there was competition. I thought I would lose."

"Oh, who could possibly beat the sophomore sweetheart?"

"Debbie," Meg said, looking to the side. It was obvious. She was more beautiful—her hair was always perfect, it didn't have to be permed or fussed with too much. Her eyes were brown, but shiny. Everyone wanted to be her, including Meg, though people would agree that she was more popular. That doesn't matter as much as beauty to girls (and no matter how many men said she was the most beautiful girl they've ever seen, it took her sometime in college to forget about Debbie).

Still, when Herbert looked, he snorted a tiny little contemptuous laugh.

Meg looked up in confusion.

"She's not all that."

"Debbie was my friend."

"Oh, was she? You never mentioned her,” his eyes turned darker. “Where is she now? Hm?"

"She..." But where was Debbie? Married?

Yes! With Bobby?

With Jim? Did she end up with Pop, instead of Peggy?

Maybe Tommy…

Meg couldn't remember. She left for New York so soon after all this...

“Well, I don't know.” He reveled in it, so she felt the need to add: “She's somewhere..."

Where? None of them still talked to her.

"Hey, Meg," Jamie Andrews said, she recognized the voice. They weren't close, but Meg turned anyway. "What are you doing, dancing with West?"

"Yeah, Meg," Peggy said, looking confused. "I mean, that is a little weird..."

Herbert gave them a wry smile.

"What's weird," he began, "is that you two have been dancing for ten minutes and yet it seems like your friend's cleavage is more interesting to your little boyfriend than your own." When Peggy turned, sure enough, Pop had been staring down Benny Darling's huge... Well. Personality.

She hit him on the face with her beautifully manicured right hand.

"Hey! What was that for?!"

"Asshole!" Benny, who had been listening, hit him too, going out of her way to make sure it stung. Her date, a boy twice Pop's size, came around and he shrunk into himself. West laughed, a classic mean spirited laugh.

"Oh, isn't that nice?" He asked, looking at Meg, who looked up as well, trying not to be amused. "You have to love prom. If all of them are like this..." They both turned their heads, seeing that a full blown discussion had now started from West's snarky comment, which involved Debbie and Bobby as well, trying to mediate it. "Well... Maybe I'd have liked to have gone."

"You didn't go to prom?" West looked at her.

"It seemed like I had better things to do with my time." Meg thought that made sense.

"Congratulations, Meg," Debbie said, looking so much taller than usual, making them turn. "Tell your boyfriend to keep it to himself next time." West's eyes sparkled.

"I'll try to behave if you leave us alone." Debbie looked at him, then at Meg, scoffing.

"What's wrong with you?" She was talking to her friend.

"Do you want me to list it?" Meg asked. West smiled.

“I…! Well… I hope you two die together," she said, noisily walking away, her boyfriend on her heel. West raised his eyebrows and grimaced.

"Well… If she dies, maybe we shouldn't bring her back."

"What?" Meg asked, earnest, watching her friend leave through the front door.

None of that had happened. She had a good time with her friends at prom—they drank from clandestine flasks, though Meg not so much (always keeping herself out of trouble), Debbie was sweet, Tommy was accepting of their fate... People had faces. They didn't have blanks for eyes. There was no fog, which was closing in now. Was she always this bruised? It contrasted with her dress, going down her arms. Maybe, because she had reanimated those subjects...

She needed to visit Ace...

She wanted to rest her head on West's shoulder for a while.

"Our work, Meg," Herbert continued. He spun her around and her dress accompanied her, swaying all around like a cloud of pink and frills. The couples around her opened the space. From the top, she no doubt looked like a flower blooming in the middle of the black tar.

It was as if they weren't at her school anymore, but inside the very hollow of Hill's chest.

"Oh, yeah. That," she stopped and they were close together again, the music transiting between them, her petticoat settling. He held both of her hands, crossed and spun them around.

West doesn't know how to do this in real life. It'd be comical.

“We have to go back to it,” He said, his face close to hers again, the dance calmer, more intimate—though appropriate.

“Do we? Can't we be here forever?” She looked at him, her eyes pleading. He intertwined their fingers, looking hurt as well. The song was soft, the others’ shoes tapping on the floor made more noise, in unison—an oppressive ballad of 1979. The music was coming to a crescendo and they kept dancing, to keep up with the crowd.

“No,” He said, sweating a little. She knew it was true, she just wanted peace for one moment.

“Will you ever take me to Switzerland?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Peru.” Meg looked at him, squinting her eyes, spinning, puzzled.

Peru?

The war… Right. We were discussing that…

“Well… We'll see,” she said and kissed him softly before she couldn't anymore. It was a chaste kiss, just to have it, not to devour, but to feel.

When they separated, she looked into his eyes.

“Herbert…”

“What?”

“What…?” Meg asked, drowsy, opening her eyes. The light was assaulting them from every corner, as if its only purpose was to make her head explode. The tick tock of the Felix clock came to her ears and the smell of tea filled her body from the nostrils to the stomach.

West was close to her.

“I asked what. You called my name.” Meg, her hand now on her forehead, rubbing her temple, looked up.

“I… Did?” He looked at her as if she were utterly alien.

“Yes?”

“Sorry…” Herbert scoffed.

“Well, were you dreaming of me?” He asked, mocking, putting her mug on her hand, which she closed the other one on as well, feeling the warmth.

“No,” Meg answered, sounding a little too petulant, before taking a sip. He didn't know she couldn't remember her dreams. “It was probably just your imagination.”

“I highly doubt it. In any case, it doesn't matter,” he looked at his watch. “We have to go soon.”

“Visit Ace…” Meg said.

“Yes, but also the other thing.” It took a second for her to remember.

“Oh, yes. Right.”

Ace was happy to see them—well, Meg more than West. Whenever they went, he usually stayed by the door, austere and uncomfortable. Meg approached, left her flowers (which she always brought), sat down and hugged her friend.

“So, almost out?” Ace nodded on her shoulder, squeezing, before letting go.

“Yeah, jail has been the worst. I hate everything but the jello.” Herbert hummed in agreement. Meg smiled.

“Yes, it’s bad, but it was necessary. The bruises on your neck…”

“I know, I'm not only cool, I'm also a miracle of modern medicine.”

“That's nice, ok? And how's Ed holding up?”

“Well, now that it's completely clear I am not going to die, the hypochondriac seems to be appeased. Praise Dagon, hallelujah.” Meg smiled at the Arkham reference, Herbert grimaced. It seems like Ace had plenty of time to catch up on local literature and legend, her stash of books piled on the chair beside them.

“Well, she seems well. Shall we?” West asked and Meg looked at him, annoyed. “What am I supposed to say? She's not sick. If anything she's crowding the place.”

“Herbert!”

“No, he's right,” Ace said, not even a bit hurt. “It's ridiculous. I can't wait to get out of here and out into the world again, I mean I don't even feel any pain.”

“Well, I can't wait to have you back home,” Meg would be so relieved. She needed a buffer between West and herself, something, anything to prevent the dreams, any distraction. Ace, with her video tapes and general high energy, would be perfect.

“Oh, right… About that…” Herbert perked up, his arms once crossed falling down to his sides.

“What?” He asked.

“Well… Ed asked me to move in with him. Apparently his parents finally allowed him to bring me along to his place and though I didn't wanna hide there, it seems like the best choice.” She looked down. “I mean, I told him I liked to live with you these past few weeks, but there's been a financial problem. I lost my job, which was already on the brink anyway…”

“Oh Ace, I'm sorry…” Ace waved her head.

“It's alright. I'll get back up. Ed will help. I'll still see you every weekend and at school. He lives ridiculously close…” She stopped and admitted, “...by car. It's still kind of secluded… I'll call, too.” Meg knew she would. “Can West afford my half of the rent alone?”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

“Great! It's solved then. Sorry to leave you alone with Nosferatu, but you could do worse.”

“Nosferatu, that's rich coming from you.” Meg smiled at their little discussion. She knew he was ecstatic. He didn't want Ace around in their place of work, though she figured he didn't dislike her, though they were so diametrically opposed. Trauma changes you, and going through it with someone else… Well. It's something else.

“OK, good,” she said, before West could come up with a real quip. “I do have to go, Ace.”

“So soon? You've been here three minutes! Less! You know I love having company for hours.”

“I know, but I just stopped by to see if you were still alive. I have things to do today.”

“I wish I had things to do…” Ace said with a deep sigh. West rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you'll live.”

“How do you know?”

“It says so on that chart.” Meg smiled at Ace, genuinely.

“He's right, it all indicates you'll have a long life.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Ace said, closing her eyes and laying back on the pillow. When West and Meg exchanged a look, she didn't see it.

“It looks better during the day,” West remarked when Meg parked by her house. She held the steering wheel, trying to take deep breaths.

The seat is soft. The birds are singing. The car smells of your perfume and Hebert’s shampoo.

It's ok…

It was strange, but since Hill died she needed to do her grounding exercises less and less.

Better not think of him…

“Are you sure you're ready to go in?” He asked. She looked at him.

“Yeah. I need to do this sometime. Besides, things won't go into boxes by themselves.” West exhaled through his nose.

“You're telling me…” He opened his car door and walked into the cold Arkham air, taking a deep breath. “I can't believe you talked me into this,” he continued after she came out.

“If we clean the house, we can stop paying rent and move in or I can sell it and we can get someplace else.”

I'm dying to get some place else.

Please somewhere else…

They both stopped, looking at it. The large structure, brown in tone, was looking back, old and not so decrepit, but also not so full of life. It looked like something with teeth that would bark if it had a voice of any kind. Of course, to any other people it was just a house. No more no less. None of the neighbors even knew what transpired that night, not from the way they greeted Meg when she tried to come over the next night. Once they had gone inside and closed the door, she threw up on a bush.

West held her hair back.

“Let it all out…” He said, with a patient, but still contemptuous tone—a classic. Meg dreaded that she was learning to accept that tone and know it for what it was—impersonal, rather than callous. His way of speaking.

He spoke again, this time by light, which reflected on his glasses.

“Being the dean does have its perks after all. It is a bit too big, though.”

“Yes, I know.” Meg sniffed. It was getting too cold. “My mother used to do the cleaning, believe it or not, then me, then a maid my father hired after I left.” West raised an eyebrow.

“You cleaned?” She shrugged.

“Wasn't that hard. It doesn't gather that much dust. Rugs were the worst part.” West had his lips parted. “What?” He glanced at the house instead of elaborating.

“Let's just get this over with, shall we?”

“Whatever you say.”

Inside, it was hot. Meg stayed by the door, knowing he studied her expression. He took the lead and went in, taking a turn for the living room. By the sounds of it, he opened the windows that hadn't been broken by… Well.

Meg felt her stomach flip.

The house breathed again, but for how long?

“Come in,” West said, approaching again. She looked at him hoping her expression was not a scared one. “Don’t worry, I'm sure the undead are not here today.”

“If you didn't make any more, they probably aren't,” Meg said. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in mock annoyance.

Ignoring him with a deep breath, the feeling of her surroundings outside of that Hell as a shield against all else, Meg finally stepped in. She hoped it was the last time—or one of them.

“So? Boxes?” West asked, appreciating the effort, but not dwelling—never dwelling. She closed the door behind them.

“Basement. My dad kept a thousand of those around. We will have to assemble them, though.”

“Of course we will.” She rolled her eyes.

“Stop complaining.”

“I will when we're done.” Meg led the way, ignoring him once more. He followed suit without another word, into the kitchen and the door to its side, which was almost hidden by brooms and pots. With some effort, she brought them out and opened the place up, turning to West.

“Ladies first,” she said.

“How chivalrous.”

They went down in silence. The basement doubled as a pantry, which she had forgotten. They were faced with strong iron shelves, and several cans upon cans, perfectly aligned.

“That's useful,” West said.

“Yes, my mom… She was afraid of natural disasters.”

“She sure was prepared,” He answered slowly, picking one up and examining it. “And thorough. These are new… A year at most.”

“Yes,” Meg said, moving towards the stack of cardboard. “She was always thorough. We can take these back home later. Let's just… Focus on what's upstairs first.”

“Whatever you say.”

Slowly, Meg and West made their way through the house. They packed frames away—West paying attention to a photo of Meg and Tommy at prom night, which he lifted and showed her. She squinted at him instead of answering anything else.

“Cute,” he said and half laughed. Once done, he placed the frame inside of the box, to be forgotten. Meg went through papers from the past—mostly work related things or letters to her mother from family members that she had read a thousand times, also throwing them in a box. There were magazines (trash), phone books with numbers from the 50s (trash), and lost rings under the couch (which West retrieved and handed Meg. She put them in her pockets). When she found a picture of her parents on their wedding day, she felt tears swelling up.

Herbert took it from her, and placed it inside of his own box, not looking up.

“So, where to?” He asked, getting up. Meg dried her tears.

“Put it by the door. The man I called to store them will send someone tomorrow.”

“Yes, you mentioned. Are you sure you want to put all of this in storage?”

“Yes, I am.”

She went into the kitchen to pack cutlery, plates and cups (for keep, they'd bring it with them). The fancy things, the things her parents only brought out during dinners with friends, or parties, she decided to store. Those were not as impersonal as white plates and plain cups—she might forget that her mother once ate from the ones she was keeping, but from the ones with yellow flowers, from the silverware with gold details, the glasses with shiny yellow rims? She doubted.

Meg stared at those for such a long time, she felt it might have been hours.

At last, she bent down to get the newspapers from the bottom cupboard. It was a bunch. Another one of her mother's ideas. She thought she might someday convince her husband to retire and move to New York, to be closer to her daughter. She had shared that with her one time—then there was no time left.

“We're packing that too?” West asked, taking a fork in hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to sell it?”

“Money is not a problem,” she said plainly, ripping a page to shreds. Herbert watched as she took a crystalline glass, wrapped it masterfully, and set it aside. “I'd rather keep it. I… I don't know why.” He didn't press it. Instead, West walked up to her side and ripped a page of his own, following her lead. After about ten minutes of silent work, he spoke again:

“Have you thought about it?”

“About what? Oh. That. No, I haven't. I went to sleep right after our argument.”

The argument in question was whether or not it'd be safer and more ethical to enlist in the army as doctors, once they had their degrees and practice licenses, or student doctors looking for accolades—though it'd still take them a while to be deployed—with the eventual goal to end up in South America's newest war—or what Herbert thought was going to eventually blow up into a war—all to get subjects. Meg thought it was ridiculous and extreme, Herbert thought it was a good opportunity. No one would know they were doing it, dead soldiers were dead and if they brought them back and the reagent worked they might even send them back home safe. Imagine that. Herbert had a contempt for authority, hated teachers and policemen, but when it came to his discovery, anything was game, anything was scientific advancement. Suffice to say they didn't speak before bed—when he woke her up with tea, it was the first words they exchanged in hours.

They were used to having intellectual strife at this point. In fact, Meg was loath to admit she liked it, being challenged. At the end, it was that which made great doctors, great artists or people—challenges, as opposed to endless ass kissing. Hill had a lot of that and look at what happened to him.

“He got a little a-head of himself,” Herbert joked when she brought it up one night, his head resting on the couch, his eyes closed.

Yeah. Definitely.

“It'll be the best move and you know it.” Meg stopped what she was doing and turned to him. He piped up. “We'd be forgotten there. Here you'll always be Meg Halsey and I'll always be… Well. There? We're just two other doctors. Besides, you don't want to help soldiers?”

“I know what you're doing and I want you to stop. It's going to take forever for this plan to turn up anything anyway. We're students. There is no war,” she said, turning back to her work.

“I need an answer.”

“Yes, you'll get one—eventually.”

Meg knew he wouldn't really push it, she could drag this. In fact, he seemed to be more lenient with her as time passed, kinder even. She couldn't think of anyone else he'd spend time wrapping old furniture and home appliances with. Still, since their last conversation inside of the cursed room at Miskatonic, they hadn't spoken about anything personal. Classes were suspended for a while to grieve over the tragic, mysterious losses. Meg and Herbert were psychologically evaluated—which he was obviously not happy about, but she made him behave otherwise they'd be in jail, or at Arkham Asylum. Ed and Ace plead hysterical amnesia. No one doubted Meg, and she vouched for West. The rest was history. Corpses coming to life was slowly becoming just another Arkham legend. They'd be going back to school after the holidays—which would effectively mean less time together for other purposes.

Herbert pursed his lips and resigned himself to taking a plate, continuing his work. They were done in twenty minutes. Stepping out of the kitchen, you would see the house had been cleaned: The tables were empty, the pillows reclaimed, the cupboards void. Meg and West picked book after book from the library/office, West examining each volume with interest, putting the ones he wanted in a separate box. They took them to the entrance until the wall adjacent to the door was almost covered in piled up boxes.

“Upstairs?” Meg asked, out of breath. He sighed,

“Why do you have so many things again?” Meg shrugged.

“Don't worry. All of my mother's things are already in storage, my dad's… Well, they're upstairs. The rest of the rooms are just guest rooms that were barely used. We can take the bedsheets.”

Except all the rooms have double beds. How useful would those be, Meg?

You're single.

He's single.

He's probably gay.

What is wrong with you?

Meg blinked. The last bit sounded like her friend Debbie, which was… Surprising. It had been years since she had seen her.

Didn't she marry Bobby?

No… Pop?

Tommy?

“Meg?” Herbert asked. She looked at him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, expectantly looking up.

“Yes, of course. Let's go.” She turned and climbed step after step, nearly forgetting the last tumultuous night she had done that in her frenzy of thoughts and memories. Herbert followed her along.

Once up, she pointed, “that's mine.”

“That?” The door was open and he could see how pink it was.

“I was in sixth grade when I decorated that room, ok?” He hummed and she decided to press. “How was your room growing up?”

“Dark,” he said simply, moving on to the open door. She could kill him for his ridiculously short answers. Instead, she went with.

“OK, but did you share it with someone?” He looked at her. She crossed her arms and stared as well, eager.

“No. It was just me. I had the smallest one. Happy?” Meg smiled—a small, but meaningful one.

“Try not to mock me too much, ok?” They both walked in. Herbert looked around and landed on:

“I'm sure it was fitting for a twelve year old.” Meg knew it was the best he could do. Looking at the scenery, she crossed her arms once more.

“Imagine losing your virginity here.” It was said before she could contain herself. He raised his eyebrows.

“There, by the teddy bears or by the pictures of your ballet recitals?” She slapped him on the arm and walked fully in, going towards the window.

“If you must know,” she said, opening the curtains so the light, however meager, could come back in. “I put the pictures away. And the teddy bears.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Tommy thought so…”

“Your boyfriend?”

“Yes. How do you know?” When she turned, he had a picture of her from before she headed out to college for what she had hoped would be forever. Her mom must have put that there after she moved, like a cherry on top of the cake of history—from childhood to adulthood.

“You don't seem like the type who has sex with just anyone,” Herbert said, seemingly lost in thought. Meg approached him, taking the picture in her own hands and looking, her eyes slightly doubling. It's always a shock what the passage of time, and looking at yourself in the mirror everyday does—that Meg in the 1980 photo was decidedly cubby on the cheeks, even if she always had good cheekbones. Or maybe it was the hair.

She put the picture down.

“And you do?” She asked, trying her best to keep it light and cool, still on the same subject. Herbert straightened his back.

“Well. Not anymore,” he answered and she could see his hands closing and opening, a sign of discomfort—or abstinence.

“Have you taken any today?” Meg knew he'd understand. He waved his head, unwilling to voice it. “Ok. Let's get this over with and go home.”

“Are you sure? This was taking so long, I thought I'd be buried over there with your furry friends.”

“If you don't stop it, I might do it.” She bent down and picked up one of the boxes they had brought, already assembled, not saying anything further in that direction. “I'll get them out and donate them. I didn't have the heart to do it before, little Meg was always attached, but now…”

“Well, you can put them in storage too,” he said, not looking up as he opened the big wardrobe to the corner and started removing leftover books, brushes, hand mirrors, whatever she still stored there, putting them inside of the box. “What's a few more?”

“I'm sure the kids might find better use for these nowadays,” she said at the end, though it was sad. End of an era. Herbert shrugged.

“Yes...”

Her room was empty and hollow. Everything was boxed and marked with a big magic marker that said “WHATEVER” on them—clothes, misc objects, toys… Herbert made sure to get her father's room alone, another one of his little courtesies—and by nightfall they looked at their handiwork side by side, with the front door half open so the air could come in.

“A day of real work sacrificed,” Herbert murmured, arms crossed. She rolled her eyes.

“At least you got to spend quality time with someone, that's always good.”

Why don't you kneel and beg him to like you?

“If you say so. I still think it's better when the person in question is a subject, or a Guinea pig. Fewer questions.”

“You know I'm curious about you.”

“There's nothing to be curious about, ms. Halsey.” He always called her that when he was trying to make a point. She wanted to kiss him when he did it, which was embarrassing.

Turning that frown upside down…

“I think there is,” she said instead. “You share nothing with me...”

“I shared my life's work.” Meg stopped at that.

It was true. His most prized possession and she had a cut of it, like a big cake decorated with the most delicious flowers—and she still wanted a piece of the boy across from her more.

“Yes... I know.” They were silent, but Herbert couldn't keep it down.

“May we finally leave now?”

“Yes, God, you sound like a five year old.”

“Whatever gets you out of the door and into the car. I'm not sure it came to your attention, but you haven't eaten today and I haven't even looked at my work, college and otherwise.” Meg blinked.

“Wow… Yes, you're right.” She scrubbed her eyes with the flat of her hands. “I completely forgot we left without breakfast...”

“The most important meal of the day.”

“Some doctors we are…” She half joked, turning to the door—and yet it had been difficult to get in…

And she didn't want to go out. She stopped, static, her legs a little wobbly. Herbert called her name, but she didn't look at him. Outside, Arkham, with the full wind on the leaves, the paved streets, the university. Here, her life—in a way—her old life. Her parents, in boxes…

“It's nothing… I…” Meg took a deep breath. “Well. I never wanted to come back here, but now…”

“There's more for you out there than in here,” he said, emphatic.

“Yes, I know…” Herbert approached her and she held onto his arm.

“You'll be alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She felt the confidence and finality in his tone. It was as if a certain thing—he saw further than she could. The floor was hard against her feet. His arm was full under her fingers. The house was less warm, colder, pleasing with all the windows they opened. The boxes were looming. Someone would come for the cans they left, and they'd have food for a century. They'd never have to come back for anything. It wasn't as if she hadn't said goodbye a long time ago anyway.

“Alright… Let's go.”

On the next day, Meg asked for a good price on the house. Her realtor, a nice woman in her fifties, was thrilled to be selling a property in a neighborhood that was never available.

“So many buyers, it'll go in no time!”

“Good,” Herbert had said before she could open her mouth. Meg side eyed him, before speaking:

“Yes, well, let's hope the buyers are happy!” In her ever charming and diplomatic tone. The woman squealed.

“Oh, don't worry, they will be! It's a lovely house.”

“Yes, Meg, don't worry,” Herbert said, looking at her. “Anyone would be thrilled to live there.” She didn't catch the mockery, or didn't care. Enthusiastic people were used to others disliking them, Meg figured.

“Listen to your boyfriend, honey... Husband?” Herbert looked at her, cold.

“Business partner.” She looked aghast.

“Really? Well, you sure make a good looking couple! Are you sure…?”

“Yes, Mrs. Arden,” Meg answered, mimicking his tone. “We're sure we're not a couple.” She dismissed them with her hand and a big smile.

“Don't worry about anything then, business partners. I'll make sure everything is settled.”

Once in the car, Herbert spoke up.

“How obnoxious.” Meg put the key in the ignition.

“I thought she was nice,” she said, turning it.

“No you didn't. You wish you did, because she looked nice. But you didn't.”

Great, soon he'll be able to tell you dream about him every night.

Maybe I don't. I don't remember them…

Be honest, Meg. Be honest…

“In any case,” she said, now moving the car. Herbert turned the radio on. “She’ll do the job. She's well known for selling quickly.”

“Hm. I hope so. At least we can finally focus on other things, a luxury these days. May I remind you the work has been rather stagnant thus far?”

“School is back soon. We might be able to…”

“To what?” Meg didn't know. Going to the morgue was risky now. People already either treated them like a poor little victim or a serial murderer—obvious which was which. Getting entangled in something else would be bad for business. They might even get thrown out for good, though Riley, the new substitute-soon-to-be-official dean, liked her. Every time he looked at Meg, she could see he still saw that little girl who thought he was Santa Claus—and that was good.

You think like him more and more by the day, Meggie dear.

“Yes, well,” she said, taking a turn. “Maybe we should spend some time scouring cemeteries or something...”

“Scouring cemeteries? Please. You wanna dig up bodies in the middle of the night?”

“You want to go to war?” She asked, looking at him briefly. He pursed his lips. “Sure, a probable war, but that's still about the most irresponsible thing I can think of…”

“Watch the road, Meg. Don't get nervous.”

“I am watching the road. God! Herbert, it's a bad idea. I don't think either of us are really equipped to go to Peru, now or in a few years. Or to enlist!”

“We unearthed a cat once, so we're experts at doing that?”

“Better than seeing thousands of dead people everyday, better than to participate in carnage…”

“We are doctors. Carnage shouldn't bother us.”

“Regular, everyday carnage shouldn't, sure. This is something else. I think we're being too hasty here.”

There was a pause in which only the sound of the motor could be heard, and her mother’s tape, faintly playing in the background. She sighed

“I think the cemetery thing is a nice alternative for now. We don't have anything else on the horizon.” He continued to be silent. She turned her head for a second, with a smile. “You know it's a good idea.”

“Is it? Where would we get a cemetery, hm?”

Meg shrugged.

“Ed.”

“Ed?”

“Yes. This was Ace's idea, actually.”

“The goth girl, of course. You don't have to remind me that now there is a crowd of people who know about everything…”

“Just listen, ok? Ed's family owns the cemetery, it's adjacent to a property they have in the outskirts of Arkham.” Herbert raised his eyebrows.

“So?”

“So, Ed told her we could get the records of people who would have their bodies donated to Miskatonic anyway, which his family is in charge of. People who don't have anyone else.”

“People without families, you mean? Homeless people?” Meg nodded.

“Or people who donated their bodies to science? Anyway, no one would come looking, other than maybe the dean, if we overdo it. I thought you might like it.”

More and more by the day…

“I don't really have a choice, do I?” Meg parked the car at their garage and turned the engine off. Another pause, where Meg tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, choosing her words.

“You have to trust me, Herbert,” was what she went with.

“If I didn't, I wouldn't be here.”

“No, you'd be in a fictitious Peruvian war, getting shot.”

“I'd be in a fictitious Peruvian war getting results.”

“Remember what happened last time you just got results?” She asked, looking at him. He pursed his lips and remained quiet for five peaceful seconds.

“The cemetery idea is more unethical than the army idea. Not every single body will be donated to science. Yet, you're offering to do it. Why?”

Wow, how observant.

As usual.

“Because…” She turned to the windshield and the garage wall. “Because I decided to do this with you. And because I wanna know if this thing is really gonna work. I'm not willing to go to war yet. Or enlist.”

“But you will, someday?” Herbert asked.

“If this is not sufficient, yes.” He took a deep breath. She couldn't understand why this mattered so much to him. It could come to nothing.

Still Herbert seemed satisfied, for now.

“Alright.” He turned his body to leave the car but she held him back with her hand, closing it on the fabric of his ever present black suit.

“This is… This is sort of a weird question…”

“Another question…?”

“...Did you have braces as a teenager?” Herbert looked at her, then to the side, then to his seat, trying to think of how in the world this question could possibly be relevant to anything… “Sorry, I… Let's just…”

“I had them on my upper teeth, for a time. Clearly my bottom teeth were left behind, I… Lied to the dentist I would continue to do my treatment in Switzerland. I suppose it was not a lie at the time. Why?” Meg waved her head to fend away the shock of the easy answer.

“Nothing, I don't know. I… I don't know.” He looked at her as if he didn't believe her.

Did I dream of it? Herbert in braces… How?

It makes sense… A lot of kids had braces.

“Well… Let's get something to eat.”

Herbert was in his room, looking at his notes thoroughly, trying not to think of the fact Meg was asleep—or supposedly asleep—in the next room over. The same old routine as the last weeks he had been living there with her, which turned out to be a good deal: The place wasn’t as expensive as he thought, which made sense considering the size, especially if compared to the esteemed Halsey mansion. He had space to work, or as much as he could get, and the street was quiet—the neighbors didn’t even stare at him when he left. Compared to his last situation, it was enough to get his undying gratitude, which he didn’t usually give out willingly.

Herbert tried to concentrate on his chicken scratch, remembering every teacher that had once squinted to read what he worked on. The comforting thing was that it was a common notion that a messy handwriting meant a higher IQ—in some circles. In any case, it didn’t help him. His hand was shaking, and though it wasn’t a part of the deal that he would stop using it, he knew Meg would be able to tell if he did.

Incredible. Three weeks with her and she owns you.

And that. That nagging little voice. It was worse off of the reagent, not that Herbert would ever admit to needing any sort of help taming his thoughts. He was good at that, which is why he was closing the notebook and throwing it onto the pile. Coffee would make him sharper… That’s what he needed.

Was she dreaming of me?

Ah, yes. He couldn’t forget about that either. He opened the door of his room in slow motion, stepping into the hallway on the board he knew didn’t creak. He walked from there to the kitchen, looking briefly at Ace’s things still around, amused.

Not for long. She’ll be gone soon…

He didn’t dislike her. For a goth witch she was alright, more trustworthy than he would have given her credit, or would say out loud. Her idea of getting bodies off of the cemetery was promising, considering everything—especially Meg’s disregard for sound logic. They'd be better off enlisting, even if not now. The army might have a strict policy about corpses going freely around. So, they’d be seeing Ed tomorrow, she had called him and laughed on the phone all the way. Herbert had tapped on the couch, looking at how she looped her fingers on the wire, and tried not to think too much about anything. He knew there was nothing to it—Meg wasn’t that kind of person, neither was Ed, but the familiarity did it for him.

She doesn’t laugh with you. She scoffs.

Herbert took the pot and washed it, in a sort of ritual. The clock kept ticking incessantly, but he figured it was better than complete silence. He poured the powder, a lot of it, and the water. Arkham was cold outside, but in there it was almost merrily cozy—a word he had missed for the past… Entirety of his life. His dorm room in Switzerland was the closest to an actual home for him, and it was polluted with voices from outside, people being brought in, and the crushing weight of recent discovery and secrecy. When he showed his work to Grueber, an enhancement of the master’s own, he had been almost nervous. He didn’t sleep, with Erich by his side, warm and almost comforting—but never completely. He played the music even then, all night long.

West sat on the kitchen chair, checking his watch and the clock. For what?

For the time to wake her up, of course.

Meg woke up at seven am. He needed to get there earlier under the pretext that he was just bringing her tea, and not trying to eavesdrop on any more name calling. It was like being a teenager again, not that he was ever a normal teenager. That was reserved for people who grew up in better places. All he needed to do was succeed.

When Meg asked him about sex, he did his best to answer. He had sex for convenience, sure, sometimes, as a release, but not… All the time. He preferred if people he didn’t know or like didn’t touch him. He preferred if others left him alone.

He got up to get his coffee. Three am on the dot and he felt his body decaying with every minute that passed. He needed to sleep, but his dreams had been… Erratic, lately. A side effect of the reagent, maybe, or being exposed to it in any capacity. He couldn’t ask other subjects to see if they had it as well, so it was a wild guess—also his best. He wasn’t the sort of person who dreamed as vividly, but…

“What are you doing up?” Herbert would have jumped out of his skin if he wasn’t the kind of person who makes others do that instead. So, he looked up. Meg was standing with her hair in all directions, yawning, and wearing pajamas. He tamed the feeling in his stomach and watched as she, without any ceremony, walked up to the table and sat down.

“I could ask you the same thing.” She shrugged.

“Nightmare, I guess,” her speech was drowsy, she was only half awake.

“You guess?”

“I can’t remember my dreams properly. I never could.”

Hm. There’s your answer.

“I see.”

“Yes. I remember the sensation of it. I think I was dancing at my high school prom the other night. It definitely felt like it, after I gave some thought. Anyway… Dreams are not that important anyway.” “They can be if they keep us awake.”

“Well… You’re awake.”

“I was about to go to bed.” “After drinking coffee?” He crossed his arms.

“To some people, coffee can act as a calming agent.”

“You aren’t using it anymore. Why?” She had to ask questions, a thousand questions, and what was he supposed to do, answer them? No, he’d sip his coffee and maybe she’d be less nosy. He had thought sometimes of what it would be like to have a partner—a business partner—who was less pushy: Someone who would let him drag them anywhere without restraint, someone who would go through things without a word. Well, Meg wasn’t that. He couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not.

“Herbert,” she began again.

Definitely not pleased.

“Don't. I'm tired.” She hummed at that.

“Sure,” instead of doing what she was in the habit of doing and pressing, she laid her head on top of her arms like a high schooler trying to score a nap in history class. “Tell me about Switzerland.” He almost choked on his coffee.

“What?”

“Tell me about Switzerland. Anything.”

“You want a bedtime story now?” None of his quips were packing punches anymore, he knew, not against Meg. They were, at first, even through his infatuation, but now… They sounded more lenient, like he was playing instead of fighting and accusing. Any of his so-called friends from before would be shocked.

“Yes, a bedtime story would be nice…” she answered, without any kind of shame.

“Hm. And you'll remember this tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, we’ll see. Maybe not…” She sounded like she was going to fall asleep in the middle of his telling… Which did give him an idea. If she did and murmured his name, he'd know she was dreaming of him.

You are fourteen years old, aren't you? Don't you have better things to do than humor her? Actual work, for example? Or do you want to end up like Dr. Hill and his incredible 26 inch television, his incredible file on a student to show for…

“I went when I was 18, forfeiting an education here. I had… Have an inheritance from my parents. It's where my money comes from.”

“Is it a lot of money?” Meg nearly whispered, cozy on top of her arms.

“That is personal.”

“You know I'm rich…” He thought about it for a second and acquiesced with a small, annoyed sigh.

“No. It's not a lot of money. It would have been a decent amount if I hadn't gone to college abroad, or here. As we stand, I'll be able to live on it for a few more years at most. Enough time to graduate and start working. In any case, I thought you wanted to know about Switzerland.”

“Yes… Chocolate.”

“There's chocolate here as well,” he said, trying not to sound amused at her nearly childish tone. She sighed.

“Go on.” He tried to think of it for the first time since he arrived. It wasn't that long ago, three months? But he didn't want to dwell on it. Dwelling was painful.

“I didn't see much. I brushed up on my German, my French… I studied. I stayed inside the dorm with my roommate.” The dorm was beige. Outside there were wooden planks, a nice flooring for a nice institution—the best. He killed himself to be there, he bent over backwards…

Meg hummed.

“Were you two close?”

“We were acquainted, yes.”

“Did he talk to you after you left?” Herbert looked down.

“No. He didn't.”

“Hm…” she paused. “Did you have other friends?”

“Some. Most were put off by how much time I spent with Grueber, I suppose. So in the end, not many.”

“Did you have a boyfriend?” Meg had her eyes closed and the question was so soft it was almost inaudible. He looked at her fixedly for a few long seconds, before answering:

“How do you know it'd be a boyfriend? Why not a girlfriend?” Meg shrugged weakly.

“Well, my roommate was a lesbian, so I thought maybe…”

“Fascinating correlation. Was Ace a lesbian?” Another shrug.

“You said you wouldn't be interested in me and for me not to…” Herbert waited. He counted the seconds, one, two, three, four…

“Meg?” He snapped his fingers next to her ear. “Meg!”

She woke up with a jolt, looking around herself.

“Jesus! What…? Wait, where…?”

“You are dreaming. Go back to bed.” With that, he got up and went to his room—his coffee cold and forgotten.

The house by the cemetery was big, but decrepit. It was built in Queen Anne style, with a large porch, which was now stained with moisture and overgrown plants—like the rest of it—making it brown and gray. Upon getting out of the car, Meg thought that it might have been pretty sometime in the past, when people still lived there. The more she stared, the more the place seemed to have a certain quality to her. It looked quirky, but fixable. It looked like it could have been someone’s home.

Herbert didn't think so.

“Garbage…” he murmured.

“Don't say that to our host.”

“I'll say whatever I want,” he continued, contrived.

“More and more like a five year old…”

“You bring it out in me, Ms. Halsey,” he said.

“You two start early,” came a voice from behind, which Meg recognized as Ed's immediately.

“Hey, Ed,” Meg greeted, closing her door. “I'm just cranky. Not enough sleep.”

“Oh, you too? Hello,” He said to Herbert at the end. Herbert nodded his way. “So? Do you think this will do?”

“It depends,” Herbert began.

“On what?”

“Why are you helping us?”

“Herbert…”

“Nath is helping you, I’m just helping her do it.”

“Yes, I'm sure the Darby-Pickmans being so interested in potential medical investments has nothing to do with it.”

“My family is really involved in this whole medicine thing, not me. Still,” he approached, “that does mean that I am in an unique position to help your research. My family will eventually push me to do what they think is the greater thing, which in their head is something like this. I spent my life in hospitals. I still do. My mother is a hypochondriac, my father…” Meg saw as Herbert turned into an aggressive cat, ready to bear teeth and claws, like he had at Hill before. She lowered her head

“If you think for one second I’ll let you exploit my discovery, you are mistaken.”

“I’m not…” Ed said, looking at Meg for support.

“This is important to us, Ed,” she said, putting her hand on Herbert’s forearm, which seemed to appease him a little. “I’d rather we have a deal. Even a contract sometime, though that would require a lawyer…” “A contract?” Ed asked, “Like an NDA?”

“Something like that…”

“Well, there is no need. Not one word will be breathed from me, I swear. Meg, what we went through in that hellish night should be enough. If it wasn’t for your quick thinking, Nath might have died and she likes you. She only wants to help. What I said about my family is that if they eventually push me to do something like this, at least I can tell them I helped a few friends in college. I promise, that’s all.”

“Is it?” Herbert asked. Meg held him tighter, though not enough to hurt. He pursed his lips. Ed smiled.

“Scout’s honor.”

“Hm. Let’s take a look at what you have to offer and then we’ll decide.”

Meg nodded at that.

“Good idea. Let’s just go in.”

“Alright, but don’t expect the Hilton. As West said, it is garbage,” Ed said, before going ahead. The other two exchanged a look, before quickly following along.

The house didn’t look half bad inside, only dusty. The furniture was mostly there, though half covered in several sheets. The walls were stained, but not molded. The floors were sturdy. Still, upon giving two steps, Herbert sneezed.

“There’s probably still toilet paper in the bathroom, I’ll get it for you,” Ed said and left the room. Immediately, he turned to Meg.

“Do you think this is wise?” Not even a sniff. Meg opened her mouth.

“Did you even sneeze or did you just do that…?” “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. He repeated, “do you think…?”

“I don’t know, is anything? I think maybe we just have to see all of our options before going into the minefield.”

“The minefield doesn’t ask questions or have a medically inclined family.” “But it’s not Ed who’s interested in this...” “Yes. Yes, he made it quite clear that it is your gothic friend who seems to be wanting in.” “Herbert, don’t talk about Ace like that. She is my friend. She is our friend. You two just pretend to dislike each other. I know that you weren’t crazy about her coming to live with us, but that doesn’t mean…”

“Found it, here you go,” Ed said, walking into the room. Herbert smiled at him with tightly closed lips. “Thank you,” he said, taking the paper and leaving it somewhere else when Ed turned around. “Shall we?” “Certainly, follow me.”

Meg and Herbert walked side by side. When their hands brushed, Meg could feel the slight tremble on West’s, so slight, but still somewhat noticeable—especially because he had steady hands. She watched as he wrote, word upon word on the white paper in bad, but perfectly still handwriting.

Ed opened the door to the backyard. From there, you could see the cemetery, not too far.

“You Darbies like to keep death close, I see,” Herbert remarked. Meg was shocked by the size of the place, and wondered how she had never heard of it—there was a gate, fences, and a litany of different crosses staring back at her. “I hope this doesn't speak of the success of your medical endeavors.”

“Well, my family is strange like that,” Ed said, ignoring the last part. “That’s your place. You can use the house, Ace and I no longer come around to live here and my parents never come in general. The basement is sizable, West, if you want to take a look.” Herbert looked at Meg, but she was still looking at the cemetery.

“Meg?” He asked. She turned to him.

“Oh, right. The basement, sure I’d like to see it too.”

It turned out that the Derby property was perfect. Ed continued saying that there was a groundskeeper, but he wasn’t going to bother neither West nor Meg, at his request—and some bribery on the side. He also gave them a schedule of the place, with the marked for donation bodies in red.

“As long as you leave something for the school, they won’t know you took anything. They don’t have this list, the groundskeeper gives them the number.”

“How convenient,” Herbert said, scouring it. Meg knew he wouldn’t admit it now, but with the list in hands his eyes sparkled. The light of the basement dangled from a wire and moved ever so slightly, changing the expressions on his face from side to side. She admired that for perhaps a beat too long, so when she looked at Ed again he had a knowing expression.

She looked at the wooden table instead, putting her palms down on it.

“What did you use this house for, again?”

Good one.

“My family lived here, before my dad married my mom. My grandparents made this into a pantry, hence the shelves…”

“I see. And no one will show up, are you sure?”

“Positive. My mother seems to forget the place even exists. It's been for sale for a while, but no one wants to buy it because of the, you know…”

“Looming cemetery? Yes,” Meg said. “How much are you asking for it?” Herbert’s eyes snapped up.

“What do you mean?”

“The house,” Meg said. Ed looked at her curiously. She looked at Herbert. “I’m selling my dad’s house and I… I don’t want to live my life paying rent…”

“And you want to live here?” Herbert asked.

“When was the house built?” Ed looked up.

“1909, I think. I mean, it’s solid, we’ve done all sorts of tests, no termites or anything. No mold either. It needs to be painted, though, the furniture needs to go…”

“Ok.”

“Meg,” Herbert said, putting the list down. “A word?” Ed looked from him to her and raised his hands as if to say “not getting involved in this,” which Meg thought was wise.

“I’ll wait for you two upstairs,” he said, taking his leave swiftly.

“Yes?” She asked as soon as the door closed.

“Have you gone insane?”

“Maybe. Look, the place is good. I liked it the moment I walked out of the car. It’s a hunch. It would be useful for us.” He put his hands on his waist—his fighting stance. “We’d have to do a lot of work to fix it, have you thought of that?”

“I could hire people, I have money…” “...Which won’t last forever…”

“...No, but we’re doctors. We’re supposed to make quite a bit…”

“...Eventually. Have you forgotten that the past few weeks weren’t exactly easy? This could be a symptom of grief. You are desperate to move on, making… Unusual moves.” “It is not unusual,” Meg said, suddenly angry. “And who are you to say anything about unusual moves?” The light on the ceiling illuminated both, tenuously, dangling back and forth, like the Felix clock in Meg’s living room, which she could faintly hear in her head.

It must have been high school she dreamt with the other night. She always felt this way when she dreamt of those times, even before… It made her feel as if she needed to go on, to move on to better things as fast as possible. And sure, maybe Herbert was right, but so what? It’s not like anyone decides things with an absolute certainty of the outcome—that’s not how it works. People feel as if they know what’s going to transpire, but feelings are hardly anything to go by, if her own feelings about him were to be taken into consideration. She knows that it would be a bad idea, she feels it, but sometimes she wonders if it wouldn’t be the best thing to just let it out…

Maybe it’s not the best time to think of this, not when he’s so close.

“Herbert,” she began instead, resolve fixed, eyes firm instead of wandering. “Buying this house will be a good thing.” Maybe. Maybe a good thing, but if he can be so sure of everything, why couldn’t she? He was always so arrogant, maybe she should borrow a little bit of it.

“Let’s wait,” he said, instead of arguing. “You told me to wait. It’s your turn.”

Fair enough, she had to give it to him.

It didn’t occur to Meg at first how intimate that discussion had been, not even when they were saying goodbye to Ed in front of the house, aptly numbered six-six-six—as if someone liked to play pranks on people who wanted to live near cemeteries—not even on the drive home. No. She was in bed that night when a faint notion that maybe it was strange for her to be buying houses with men she wasn’t in a relationship with, and even stranger to let them weigh into the decision of purchasing or not purchasing, of taking cans from her family’s basement or not... It was even stranger how she kept the plates and sheets for them, how she carefully made a small nest in that rented place for them both, when they slept in separate beds and had separate hearts.

In any case, they were going to the house tomorrow night, and they were transferring all the equipment there. A long day ahead would distract her from the weirdness, though she found it wasn’t entirely shocking anymore—she had said goodbye to her suburban dreams and normalcy the moment she chopped a large intestine with an axe to save the man sleeping one wall over.

“Night one,” Meg said onto the recorder. It had taken them a few rides, and days, to get everything settled on the lab, but Meg was impressed by how much they had done. The space was big, bigger than they had both thought at first, and as they worked together to make it into something feasible to operate in, it burst forth like a vision of greatness. Even Herbert admitted that “this would suffice,” which in his language might as well mean the place looks like all of his dreams come true. Yay for small miracles.

“December first, nineteen-eighty-six, ten-forty pm,” Meg continued as West looked at the corpse in front of them. The caretaker, a Mr. Johnson, let them know that a new one would come along in just a second as soon as their car stopped on the driveway.

“I have to give it to him,” Herbert said as he lifted one side of the black bag and Meg the other, carrying the poor former-soul into the basement, “He doesn’t seem to care about what we do here.” Turns out the girl was fresh enough; she had died a mere half a day ago—and it was a girl, of nineteen, which Meg was almost opposed to if she didn’t have faith that maybe they’d be able to save her somehow. Isn’t that what they were there for? Saving people?

“Subject died of an aneurysm. There was no one to claim her body other than an uncle, she was a borderline orphan.” At least that’s what Mr. Johnson said. Her uncle claimed she always wanted her body donated to science, however it was more fitting. Came, went, didn’t pay much attention to forms before signing them in record speed. Herbert pretended not to be happy, (“Half a day plus the time it’ll take for her to get here? That's too long…”) and though this was good, Meg wondered about other things. She had heard stories about the Derby-Pickmans growing up, stories of people they didn’t like turning up dead. Mr. Johnson said that the relative didn’t want anything to do with the girl because she was a junkie before Herbert took her out of there.

“Herbert…”

“Don’t get attached to the subjects, Halsey,” he said. He was right. It was a slippery slope.

That girl’s cheeks would be full had she still been alive.

She even looked healthy for a corpse…

“Halsey,” West said and she looked at him. She realized she had stopped talking.

“Sorry,” then, after clearing her throat, “no apparent heart failure or disease of any kind on her chart, but also no family history… West will administer twenty cc’s.” They waited a few seconds. Meg chanced a look at Herbert, the girl screamed and she was sure that things would go more or less the same way.

Instead, when the corpse followed the course of their bottled life, Herbert did something else: As Meg tried to thwart its advances towards her, he reached into his black leather bag and pulled a gun, shooting the girl on the back of the head.

Once the corpse dropped dead again, Meg dropped with her. Her blue eyes were twice their usual size looking at the oozing blood coming from the wound, which spilled and stained the beautiful wooden floor beneath. The room was spinning, so hard she pressed her palms down as a reflex.

“What… What…”

“Meg,” Herbert said, kneeling beside her. He tried to shield her from the girl by holding her to him, but she did as Meg usually did and gripped his forearms, trying to move him away.

“You have a gun… How… When…”

“I've had it for a while. Americans should really have better control over these things.”

“The girl…” Meg was looking at her once red, now sunken cheeks.

“Let's just go upstairs.”

“Well…” Herbert said in the living room, looking at the coffee table. Meg had her head on her hands. The furniture was good, underneath the sheets—old looking and well preserved, with the flowery cushions still comfortable, and only lovingly worn. “The subject was clearly not fresh enough.”

“Are you serious?” Meg said, looking up. “Herbert, you shot her.”

“Yes. And if I hadn't, she'd have attacked you like the others. Would you like to have ended up like Ace?” The gun was nowhere to be found, probably still on the table, beside their equipment.

“Since when do you know how to shoot?”

“Well, it's not rocket science. Besides, the subjects aren't exactly fast.”

“That girl…”

“This is what you get from asking too many questions,” he said, like a worn out master, fixing his tie in the mirror while she had another mental breakdown.

He left the room and came back with a can of coke they had stored in the fridge for later. He handed it to her. Meg held the can to her temple, feeling the cold seep into her skull in increments, praying it'd freeze her brain. Herbert sat beside her, the couch giving in to him.

“You didn't tell me. About the gun.” He smiled, sardonic, a smirk of pure contemptuous prediction that said ‘I know you’. It made her feel two things: Humiliated for getting caught and thrilled she was.

“Was this ever really about the girl?” He raised an eyebrow to punctuate the question and Meg wanted to hit him with the can. It was a good question. She didn't know what was more disturbing: The fact he owned it in the first place, under her nose, inside her house, or the fact that there were still things about him she didn't know or couldn't predict.

“What are we going to do with her?” Meg asked, instead of answering. Herbert looked at his watch.

“We'll bury her in the cemetery, where she was supposed to be buried. That's what your deal entailed. Work. A lot of it.” She nodded, looking down.

“Freshness might be a factor,” Meg continued, finally opening her can of coke and leaving the other thought behind. “The subject was healthy.”

“She looked like it, yes.”

“What do you think we should do?” Herbert smiled, but it was a humorous one, not a real one. Meg could tell the difference now, so she dawned a little more of her can.

“Killing people.” She opened her mouth, nearly spitting the liquid, but he raised his finger. “You offered to do that once, remember? Still, it might prove too messy. I think we both know where we'll get ahead.”

“There's no war. There might be no war. We have to work with what was offered to us.” But he was right. She had to face the fact that he was right. They were silent for a moment, Meg trying to think of anything other than what had happened—when her eyes fell on his hand, the closest to her. She took it and he didn’t flinch. “You’re steady.”

“And?” He removed it from her grasp. “I’ll let you know…” “Yeah, I know. ‘I’ll let you know not to ask questions, I’ll let you know my life is none of your business,’” Meg said, giving a botched impression. “Clearly it isn't… Whatever. I give up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll leave you alone. I won’t ask anything anymore, other than…”

“...Well, it seemed too good to be true…” “...Promise me you won’t hide something like this again. Please.”

The room was silent, but the wind was still strong, banging on the window, threatening to flung it out of its frame and into the wall.

“Fine. Next time I get a gun, you’ll be the first to know.” Meg was silent to that. She drank the rest of the coke can in almost one go and politely left it by the couch, where he knew she’d come back to pick it up.

On the drive back home, Herbert and Meg were dirty, her once pristine skirt now ruined until the next wash. Their bones were sore, their limbs feeling like they were going to fall off. Still, West thought that the only thing worse than Meg asking a thousand questions was Meg being completely quiet, at most humming a song, while driving—not even a sliver of attention given to him. Even as they worked to bury the unfortunate subject—another failure—she remained resolute. Sometimes, she’d bit her lip, or her eyes would light up in a thought that was no longer available to him as usual. He feared that in his reticence he had finally torn something in their relationship, like a muscle or tendon.

It was bound to happen.

You get attached, but you don’t want others to know.

You never give yourself up.

This is good.

When she finally hates you, you can pack your bags and leave.

Go do what you need to do, alone.

You don’t need her.

You don’t need anyone.

When she parked the car, all she turned to say was: “I’ll order pizza.”

He munched and munched on the plastic consistency of the dough, the cheap sauce, the artificial cheese, while she simply looked into space or the beige wall, sometimes accompanying Felix the Cat in his eternal motions.

You wanted to know when that Meg would come back, perhaps you got it.

She wasn’t laughing, but this was worse than hysterics, this catatonic state.

“Good night,” she said, with a meek smile, and when he looked at her plate, her pizza was nearly intact.

Herbert stayed in the kitchen longer, looking at the table. No one who looked through the window would be able to decipher the expression on his face, to read the lines on his brow or the corners of his mouth—Not even Erich, his former roommate and occasional lover. But Meg got close to it without even trying.

I can’t think of you packing cutlery and plates for Erich, at the very least.

But giving himself away to her or anyone was foreign. Too foreign. His work, the utmost extension of him, a limb, was more important than any words about his past. His work was himself, his inner person, what the Christians would naively call a soul. He closed the cardboard lid, threw Meg’s pizza out, washed the plates deliberately and left for his own bed.

“Day four,” he spoke into the recorder now. Four times they had done this in the course of three weeks, four different subjects. Johnson said this was going to be the last one for a time, the rest going to the university. Meg and Herbert had been used by now to the digging, to the dirt underneath their fingernails, to the heavy lifting. It just seemed routine. “December twenty-fourth, nineteen-eighty-six.” Meg stared at the subject—an older man in his fifties, naked, with a big gut, sleek hair and white eyes staring at the ceiling—a trucker who had died during a regular job right outside the Darby property. Neither of them were there when it happened.

“How lucky,” Herbert had said, trying to get a rise out of his partner. She simply nodded, continuing to look at her own notes. Meg had taken to mapping the subjects’ times of reaction, like he did, but also the violence of their behavior, how good their vocal cords were, how preserved they sounded. She wanted to keep one alive now, to see what would happen overtime, but this man wouldn’t be it. Neither of them could trap one this big.

Herbert asked her if it wasn’t more cruel to keep one. Meg said that they had already committed the ultimate sin—they played God, they woke them back up, they should see if overtime the reagent worked, see if it was only a matter of monitoring and waiting. He had to admit she was right. They disposed of them too quickly. Still, there was a dead look on her face when she said that and he knew her cheeks were hollower than usual.

That and he started using again, which he knew she noticed.

“Halsey is administering 20 ccs, the usual dose.” With stellar aptitude, she removed the air from the syringe and pressured the back of the neck, puncturing it.

Herbert was perhaps too fascinated by the movement, he so seldom saw Meg at work, that when the subject woke back up, he wasn’t fast enough. Gripping him by the throat, it, in the usual anger, raised him high. He clawed at his hands, hearing her footsteps away from the table and in a strange, incoherent way, he thought she might be finally going away forever.

Instead, taking the gun from the bag, Meg shot the subject on the leg. When he moaned in pain, dropped West, and turned towards her, she slid the gun to Herbert in a quick move—who then finished him off. Both looked at it when it fell, but neither accompanied it.

With ragged breath, putting his hand around his throat, Herbert looked at his partner. He was aware that this show of emotion was the most he had managed to get out of Meg in several days—and it was so fleeting that she took a deep breath, recomposed and said: “I’ll meet you upstairs.”

He had to admit the house was more comfortable than he expected. They spent all their time there now, only going to their actual home to sleep, shower and, sometimes, eat. The couch was comfortable, the flooring agreeable. He never cared about aesthetics other than to keep himself clean and well groomed, to give away the best impression—the rest, as the bareness of his room at Meg’s house would attest, was inconsequential. Meg, however, delicate as she was, still paid attention to such things. He knew she liked to sit in a properly furnished room. Such is what happens when you grow up rich, he supposed.

She didn’t put her head on her hands this time: She looked at the coffee table, deep in thought.

“Failure,” Herbert said. “Not fresh enough.” “Yes…” She murmured, before staring up at him. “I have a proposition.”

“Yes?” She took her latex gloves off pointedly, dropping them on the hardwood coffee table, where they stood like bright blue spots, out of place.

“You’re using it again, you won’t stop using it. I don’t want to meddle in your life, you clearly don’t want that… I… I want to monitor it.” “Excuse me?” His tone was indignant. She remained impassive. “Remember at Old Miskatonic, when you found me? I asked you if it had any side effects on you, you dismissed me as usual.” He looked down, not wanting to be directly confronted by how his “dismissals” might have hurt Meg—he felt like the past three weeks of sole work talk had been enough. “I want to know.” “What for?” “The reagent needs work when it comes to dead tissue, clearly. What about living tissue? You don’t have to sleep as much, you are sharper. Let’s say you were sick, really sick, cancer or diabetes, something that might potentially end your life—could the reagent be used in that context as medicine?” “My reagent is not medicine...” “Our reagent,” Meg said sternly, sinking her eyes into him. He stared back. “I help you make it, I know it inside and out, I read your notes thousands of times. You said you gave me your work—it’s ours. I want to monitor the effects of this thing in your body. I want to run tests on your form now, then I want to test you on your withdrawal. I want you to stop using it for a time and if you want to, you can go back.” “So you want to make me into your guinea pig?”

“Are you opposed to it? You can say no. If you do, though, I’ll take it upon myself…” “...You’ll start using it?” “...And I’ll conduct the tests. Yes. I’ll do what I need to do. We’re not being objective enough: We’re focusing on death to get to life, but maybe we could prevent death.”

“Why, because it is less blasphemous?” Meg wasn’t having it. She sighed, getting up from the couch and going towards the kitchen, to wash her hands.

He followed, as he usually did, looking at her from the frame.

“Are you in or out, West?” She asked, the water stream only partially drowning her words. “I’ll do it anyway, I figured it’d be better if I didn’t get addicted to it. We should also test for that.” He waited until she turned the faucet off, until she looked out of the kitchen window into the cemetery gates—a beautiful view for any housewife.

With spite, he answered: “Fine.”

“Good. I’ll need to know when you use it, how you prepare it, how weak it is. I’ll take notes. All that.” Meg looked at the wall clock they kept in the kitchen, which she had recently bought batteries for. Turning around to go back to the basement, she wished him a “Merry Christmas,” before running down.

Meg was a diligent researcher. He didn’t expect any less, but he wasn’t used to being what was being researched. She took note of his habits—he injected himself whenever he felt “withdrawal” coming in, which he refused to name. It usually came at night, every two days. “Your use is not as frequent as I thought,” she said, sitting on his bed in his bedroom. Her blonde hair, now a little curlier and shaggier, fell over her shoulders, her bangs almost dominating her forehead. Her white sweater was impeccable, with a stethoscope hanging from her neck, and her notebook was balanced on her covered legs. They had just come from seeing Ace at the hospital—she’d be released soon and the Darbys planned on throwing an engagement party next week.

They were invited, of course. Meg said he didn’t have to go.

“It shows what you think of me.” She nodded.

“I suppose.” She wrote a perfectly cursive line of information. “Five ccs is all you administer, always?” “Yes.” “You never deviated? I’m not judging, I need to know.” He acquiesced.

“I deviated once, administered ten ccs, but I had… A headache.” “How strong?”

“I threw up in a trash can before class.” Meg smiled at that, thinking of the scene, before waving her head. He was grateful for that flash of normalcy, but didn’t say.

“I’m sorry.” “It was a long time ago.” “Zurich?”

“Yes.” Meg wrote it down. She wrote everything down. With the stethoscope, she got up.

“Open your shirt.” He did as he was told, trying not to think of whatever else he wished Meg did in close proximity—lest it starts showing somewhere else—when she put the cold object against his heart. When he involuntarily made a strained noise, she grimaced.

“Sorry. Rushed heartbeat. Do you feel it?” Herbert looked at her, confused. “No.” “You don’t? Huh,” she stepped back and sat down. He watched her pen.

“What did you write? ‘Subject is unable to tell when his heart is rushing?’” “No,” Meg said, not looking up. “West is unable to tell. Not ‘subject.’” She looked up. “It has an effect on your appetite, on your sleeping habits. Sex life?”

“No.” I’ll say. “However… Well. Nevermind.” “What?” He wondered if he should tell her. He didn’t really believe it mattered, but he knew that if the data was skewed, they wouldn’t get anywhere with this—and he wanted to know as well.

“I’ve been having… Dreams. They’re erratic. I never had vivid dreams, so this is new.” He buttoned himself back up. “I have correlated it to the reagent’s effect on my body before. I’m not sure that is the case now, but there’s no way to verify, is there?”

“No,” Meg said, making a small note. “Did you notice any difference in the brief time you were not using it?” Herbert waved his head. “What’s the longest you went without it?”

“Two weeks.” “In two years?” He knew how that sounded.

“Without it I can’t work, can’t concentrate. People drink coffee, it enhances their senses and you don’t see that being discriminated against.’

“Coffee doesn’t raise people from the dead.” “You haven’t met the people I’ve met, clearly.” Another smile.

“Coffee was discriminated against,” she said, instead of dwelling. “It was considered to be a drug for a time.”

“Aren’t you the know-it-all?”

“Glad to be of service.”

Meg monitored when Herbert injected the reagent at the end of the two days, documenting the initial reaction—the jolt, the even more rushed movements and heartbeat—before withdrawing to her room. It was around that time when his erratic dreams became solely about Meg, as opposed to Meg being only a prominent character.

They had breakfast together, then made their way to the Darby property to tidy up their lab. They spoke about work, Meg spoke about her plans and where she’d keep their subject for monitoring and he brought up Peru, but she dismissed him.

“Soon enough we’ll be able to sleep in this place,” he remarked, sitting at the kitchen table. It was clean, they made sure—or Meg made sure and he followed.

“Yeah, maybe. I still want to buy it.”

“You do?” She hummed.

“In any case, Johnson will have a new subject for us eventually, maybe it would be best if we slept here…”

Never a word of anything else. It suited him fine, usually. They had done all they could, they focused on the right things, but unfortunately his longing and obsession for Meg had evolved into something deeper. Her coldness, once desired, now seeped inside of his skin and nested.

At home, she opened his shirt and felt his heartbeat.

“Bigger rate than when I monitored before, which is expected considering how fresh the reagent is inside of you. Do you feel tired now?” “No.”

Two days later, she came back.

“It’s the same as it was on the day I tested you first. Seems regular. I’ll test it one more time, but then you’ll have to stop.” Herbert wondered if this wasn’t a secret ploy to keep him clean. In any case, he nodded, closing his buttons up.

“There’s something else I need to do.” She raised a scalpel, which he kept on his desk. “We need to know if your tissue is regenerating at a more rapid rate.”

So he cut his finger and bled, dripping on the carpet.

Herbert observed her just as much as she did him, lost in her work. When he met Meg, she had been a regular college student, with a bright future. Now, it was as if she had been sucked dry.

On the day of the Darby party, she looked fresh again. He had never seen her dressed up for such an occasion, which was supposedly formal. She had a black dress and her hair up—earrings and a necklace, discreet, but pleasant. He was trying not to stare.

“Are you coming?” She asked.

“I was under the impression you didn’t want me to.” “I didn’t say that. Ace told me to bring you.”

Ace told her. Did you hear that?

He closed the book and smiled, sardonic.

“I’m not sure I’d be the best company.” Meg nodded.

“Alright. Good night, West.”

He made some coffee and watched television while studying the frankly dizzying and uninspired material they were supposed to brush up on for the next year. He couldn’t wait to go back to the hospital, to get out of the house and perhaps recover himself—even if he thought there might not be a way to do it, not easily. In a childish way, he wished he had taken his chances and gone to another European institution. He wished he had never met her, Meg who used him as a guinea pig and who he wished kept using him and using him.

Distracted, something he despised, he flipped the channels and tried to focus on his own notes, a new formula he had been working on for the reagent, and a ridiculous exercise in boring academics.

Your little Meg problem is worse than you thought.

But he knew—he knew it the moment she opened the door of that very house and said no to his face. He knew that when he went back for her. They had gone over this, over and over…

He noticed it was around three am when the door of the house opened again and a giggling Meg walked in.

That’s new.

“Oh, you’re still… Of course,” she said, tossing her handbag on the couch beside him, on top of his books, burying herself in the chair. “God, I haven’t been to a party like that…”

She stopped dead in her tracks, looking at the wall. Herbert observed her lip tremble, her face flush red, her breathing become labored, all before noticing she was starting to cry. It was as fast as it had ever been––laughing in one second, tears in the other—streaming down her face as freely as anything else.

So Meg is a cry-baby drunk.

Are you really surprised?

“Meg…” “Don’t.” She said, her stern tone back. She dried her tears with her hands. “You don’t have to pretend you care, it’s fine. That part of our contract was rescinded.” “Meg, you’re drunk,” he said, mimicking her tone. She laughed.

“God Herbert, you are a genius.” “Meg. Go. To. Bed.” She scoffed. “No, why should I? What if I want to watch TV? You’re not my…”

“...Clearly I’m not anything to you...”

“...Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“What I wanted?” “Obviously!” She said, altered, then closed her eyes, pressing her palms against them to ward any oncoming headaches. “Whatever. I’m sorry for intruding into your studies.” “Meg, look at me.” “No.” “Meg, look at me.” She did as she was thought, mercifully. Her eyes were bloodshot and her lips were swollen. She didn’t look pretty, but it was Meg. “I don’t care about you? Is that what you think?” “Yes.” “So you speculate about my love life, make assumptions about my affairs, make assumptions about my “addiction,” then about my feelings for you...” “...Which are none.” He clenched his jaw. How to tell Meg that wasn’t true? It had been easier with everyone else he had been with—sex spoke its own language. His half feelings for Erich notwithstanding, Meg was the closest thing he ever had to something that seemed real.

Don’t say anything.

“Go to bed,” he repeated. “If you want to talk about this in the morning, we can. Not while you are in this state.” “You just don’t want to talk about it, period. Herbert, I…” She stopped herself. He looked at her sharply.

“Yes?”

A silence.

Tick, tock, tick, tock… “Sorry. Nothing. I’m going.” Meg got up and walked, tenuously, her high heels in one hand, handbag forgotten, to her door. Inside, he could still hear the muffled sounds of tears for a few minutes, enduring it as much as he could, debating whether to stay there, to go where she was, what to do in general.

He closed his books afterwards and retired.

Inside of his dream, Meg had a bob cut. She looked fresher than current Meg, whose eye bags and worrisome gestures—shakes and trembles she didn’t notice—were overcoming her.

This is Meg before I got to her.

She had a violin when she sat back with him. They were in Zurich, he recognized the walls, but not that this was a dream—even if the black outside of the windows that sucked up the trees would have been almost painfully obvious.

“Your ex-boyfriend knew how to play this?” She asked, playful. Herbert had a smile on his lips despite himself.

“Yes. Quite well.” “Really? Did he teach you?” Herbert waved his head. Meg looked down at the violin, observing the beauty of it, running her hand through the shiny wood, the polished sleek look of the neck, the peg box, the pegs one by one, the scroll… “It’s a nice instrument,” she said and he could have coughed at the observation, had he not been better at controlling himself.

“Yes,” he agreed, almost lamely.

She put her face to the chin rest, the melody she played was the same Ace was listening to when they were driving to Miskatonic, so long ago. He could almost not bear to hear it, and before she could get to any of the beautiful parts—the parts Erich would stress, the parts he’d study the most—he took it out from her hands and put it on the bed. Empty handed, Meg looked at him, and he placed himself onto her, kissing her with abandon.

In his dorm room it didn’t feel foreign to do something like that—even before he and his ex-boyfriend, as Meg put it, had an agreement they were engaged in such a relationship, he had others, men and women. Meg was different—soft, satisfying to touch, as if she were warmer than most. He let his hands roam her body, touching her blue cashmere sweater, her breasts, her jeans, her thighs… Meg lifted her own hands to his tie and to his neck—before kindly and gently squeezing it. She did it with only one at first, but her second hand joined over the other, tightly, until he needed to gasp for air, leaving her lips with regret.

Meg lowered him to the bed and landed on his growing erection, not being made better by the choking sensation she alternated between tight and soft. With her legs on either side of him, he was surrounded. When Herbert looked up, he saw that it was his current Meg, with her longer hair, though not as soft, with her bags under her eyes… So instead of moving her hands away, he held them in place with his own.

“Do you think I’d be happier without you?” She asked. He nodded and she pressed down. The sound he made was quite literally strangled, similar to the one he made in his own bed, in real life. “I don’t,” she kissed him, pushing his hands away to hold his shirt’s collar with fury. He gripped her wherever he could, moaning into her mouth. In reality, he'd find after he woke up, he was doing it against his pillow, the wet spot of drool forming on the case, the desperation visible on his limbs as he shook and convulsed in lonely, broken pleasure.

Meg listened to it in muffled sounds, but falling into a drunken sleep of her own she at first couldn't identify it for what it was, couldn't put the pieces together. Before their conversation in her room, she had figured that Herbert, if not gay, was nearly asexual. Even then, she’d probably be shocked to know how much it all hurt. By the time she realized what he was doing, she was too overwhelmed with sleep to think about it any further. It was a mercy, as Herbert only got louder.

When he woke up he was sure he had seen some semblance of whatever religion had promised him in the shape of his dream partner's body, as she had her way with him thoroughly and absolutely. Of course he took care of himself right after, and felt an unpleasant wave fall over him. He had never dreamt of something like that. His Meg dreams were usually tame.

Nonetheless, it seemed that daylight was coming through the window. Time to work.

When college resumed, everyone assumed Herbert and Meg were in a relationship. It made sense with their cover story, their living arrangements, and with their time spent together. They made no mention of correcting them. They also never spoke about their night after the Darby party.

The next subject came two weeks later, in the form of a twenty six year old man. He had brown hair, an olive, tanned complexion and brown eyes. In another life, Meg thought she might have gone for him. Herbert thought the same, observing his bone structure.

She spoke into the recorder and when he woke up, Herbert waited before he shot him. Too big to keep inside a cage.

“It’ll most likely have to be a woman,” Meg said. He nodded, taking his gloves off.

“Still. We’re wasting our time, clearly.” “Yes… I agree.” A truce. They both put their hands on the table, side by side, looking at the dead man among them. “What now? There’s no war.” “Yet. Do you agree I was right all along?” She sighed, rolling her eyes, but with a smile on the corner of her lips.

“Yes. Sure. I do.” “Do you still feel like living here?” Meg pondered.

“Yes… I do. It’s nice, nicer than our other place.”

“Yes. I agree.” It was as if the air had been cleared a little. Herbert’s hands shook as he gripped the wooden table.

“Open your shirt,” she said, and took the stethoscope from a nearby spot, feeling him, hearing his heart, which beat for her at that very moment. “Your heart rate is surprisingly normal. It only rushes when you’re under the effect of the thing. Your wound did heal fast, but we won’t be able to tell unless we do it again.” The reagent did have side effects on living tissue. They’d need a bigger place, more people, a controlled environment to really be able to tell—so Meg said she’d do it next, at least to have someone else go through it.

“If it’s not dangerous to you, then I should be fine, right?” Herbert couldn’t oppose the idea directly, but he didn’t like it, no. “I’ll do it next week. I need you to keep yourself clean so you can monitor me. Can you do that?” Herbert adjusted his cuffs, tidying his tie next.

“Yes, of course.” “Good.”

He slept like a log when he wasn’t under the effect of the reagent. He almost wished he still had it just for the dreams, which ceased. In the kitchen, with a cup of coffee, he went over that day’s lecture. He and Meg hadn’t found the time to be together lately—her hours at the hospital were swapped and she had nightly duties. He hated to admit that he waited for her to come back to sleep, his classes being in the afternoon.

Her own tests started in the morning of that day.

“This thing is making my head hurt,” Meg said when Herbert handed her her tea.

“I forgot about that.” “For how long did you have headaches?” He didn’t remember right away. “Two, maybe three weeks.”

“Fantastic.” Then she was off.

He wouldn’t see her again until two am, when her key turned and she opened the door.

“Hi,” she said, putting them in the bowl.

“Hi. How was…” He gestured, vaguely.

“Pleasant, as usual,” she said, breezy. He exhaled. It was nice to have a semblance of old Meg back, though he feared it might be short lived.

“You’re working..”

“I was looking over the… Whatever this is,” he said, indicating his books. Meg sat with him. He looked at her, examining her features. “Tired?” “Not at all, not yet” she said. “I should be worried, but I’m not. Another side effect, maybe?” “Maybe,” he said. He didn’t know if it had an effect on his emotions, made him more confident, more aggressive, more assertive. It had been too long. “Maybe we should monitor that.”

“Yes.” She didn’t seem to know what to do: Go to the living room or sit with him. Things were better, but nothing was officially patched up. “Did you leave some coffee for me?” “No. Do you want some?” She waved her head.

“No. Not really.” Herbert stared at her for a few seconds more, before hanging his head back down, writing a sentence.

“Hm. You haven’t eaten either.” “That’s my line.” Meg tentatively sat on the chair. “I doubt I’ll need food for a while. Or I won’t feel like I need it. The headache is still here and I… I had the strangest dream last night, when I did sleep.” “I thought you didn’t remember your dreams,” he said, but his interest was piqued, even if his eyes remained on the paper.

“I know, but I remember this one. We were in Zurich. We were in a dorm room, but it looked like my dorm room in my old school. It was kind of beige. I was sitting on the bed, listening to you talk in a language I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t even hear it properly, like it was muffled, so I was looking out of the window into this dark, black patio, and outside there were our corpses, walking towards the school. I tried to warn you, but you weren’t listening. The music inside the room was really loud, but I could still hear their moans, our moans. Like the dead.” She shivered. “I think after I started crying out of fear, you came towards me from behind and hugged me. We stared at them as if we knew they were coming towards us to kill us for what we’ve done, what we had become, but you still held me and I held you. Something like that.” Herbert held his books tightly.

“Consider seeing an analyst about that,” was what he said, forgetting the delicate nature of their unspoken peace arrangement. Meg took a deep breath.

“Yeah maybe, or, I’ll take note. It could be the reagent. I remember the dream, which is not usual. Anyway, I have to study…”

“I dreamt of you as well.” Meg looked at him—something he hated when she was this expressive. It was like being stabbed over and over again—or what he felt that would probably be like.

“Oh…” She sat back down. “What was the dream about?” West pondered for a few seconds what he would say.

Lie.

Don’t lie.

Nothing changes what happened.

What you feel, as ridiculous and base as it is.

Tell her and let her run away. You’ll be free.

“You and I were in my dorm room, in Zurich.” The Felix clock tick tocked, back and forth. Herbert refused to look up, closing one of his notebooks and casually picking up another.

“In Zurich?” Meg repeated. He sighed. “Yes.”

“Strange. Was it similar, the dream?” He wished he hadn’t said anything now.

“Not… Quite.” “How was it different?” Meg asked, interested.

“The events were different. There were no corpses. You had a violin, like my roommate at the time. You were admiring it. You played it.” “I never played the violin,” Meg said. “Well, except one time when I was little. My dad took me to a teacher and he only ever taught me one song, the girl with the flaxen hair. Debussy, right? I trained for so many weeks to play for my parents, but then they lost interest and so did I.” Herbert was stunned. Meg looked at him. “What?”

“Erich played Debussy, it was all he played. He played even after we…” He trailed off. Meg looked down, with a smile.

“I see.” “We had an arrangement at the time, which wasn’t exclusive. I brought other men… Other women.” She looked up.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

“Well, I thought…” “You thought wrong. You assumed, which is what you do.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, raising her hands in defeat. “Anyway, I know how difficult it is for you to talk…” But it was like a stream of incessant water now, pooling under him, gripping. “We were having sex, in the dream I had,” he continued and she stopped, statue-like, listening. “You played the song, la fille aux chaveux de lin. The same song. I stopped you from doing it, God knows how incessant Erich was, and I kissed you instead. You choked me, you put me down on the bed. The rest you can imagine.”

“We…” Meg trailed off. She swallowed, but he felt strangely light. Another book was opened in the beat it took her to complete the sentence. “Why were we having sex?” Herbert lost patience, looking at the clock,

“Why do people have sex Megan, hm? For pleasure. For fun. Because they want to.”

“You…” “Yes,” he said, a strangled whisper, so similar to the one he gave her in the cursed room so long ago. The weather was nearly warm again, pleasant. His eyes held the same expression they held when they buried Rufus and when she injected him with the reagent. The begging to be understood.

“I heard you,” she said. “You… I… I dreamt of something similar. I can’t remember everything, but I’ve been dreaming about you for months, I can remember that.”

“You murmured my name. You asked me if I had braces as a teenager.” “Yes. I did. I think I dreamt of you as my prom date, or something.”

Out in the open, it all seemed at once banal and urgent, small and gigantic—as if it was obvious to everyone but them.

She laughed, pathetic and strained. “I was obsessed with you.” “I was obsessed with you.” He repeated.

“You came back for me.” “You came back for me.”

It was all there.

“I thought you didn’t want me...” “Meg,” Herbert said, hunching his body over the table. She did the same. “I gave you everything.”

“I… I know.” He wasn’t convinced. “Do you? Because it doesn’t seem like it…” Getting up from her chair, the fastest of them considering the green liquid flowing in her veins, she made a short way to his chair and pulled his tie up, kissing him. Herbert got up and grabbed her waist, pressing her against the table. There was no dream. The hardness of the material against Meg’s back, the desperation, the lack of space between them, it was all real. Herbert’s hand went under her blouse, feeling the skin of her waist. She made a strangled sound and he panted against her as she touched him where he most wanted her to: Closing her hands over his throat and squeezing.

They were laid on top of each other, naked in the morning light, her lamp bathing them in yellow. Her bed was comfortable and warm with the hours they had been together there.

“You’ll bring me back if I die, even if I made you promise not to.” It was a statement.

“Yes.” Meg smiled instead of flinching. She buried her face on his neck and kissed it.

“Me too,” she murmured against his skin. There was a silence while he let that information sink in. “Maybe we can’t promise that.”

“Maybe not.”

She got up gracefully, light—lighter than he had even seen her—and he looked up at her, sure he was staring as if she were some otherworldly waif.

When she turned around to face him, she couldn’t help but think of the last time she had looked upon him without glasses on, so this was a rare moment of vulnerability. In fact, she felt like sleeping with him might be that—considering he didn’t do it often, and if he went back to using it…

She didn’t want to think about it, the thing going through her, doing God knows what.

Instead, she smiled at Herbert, nude, observing every single one of his features.

West opened the door, looking at his watch. They were about to walk out of the house when the phone rang, imposing, drowning all else. Meg, eyeing him, went back to get it.

The Halsey property had been sold.

“Congratulations, Ms. Halsey, you are rich,” he said when she gave him the happy news.

“I was rich before.”

“Well, you’re richer.”

A week later they acquired the property at six-six-six. It wasn’t half as expensive as Meg’s parents’ house had been—and it couldn’t have, considering the cemetery. Meg and West spent their time studying, practicing and fixing everything they could on their own—not only cleaning as they had before.

After that, Meg hired help—men who built and banged away at her request.

“Are you living your suburban fantasies now?” Herbert asked from the porch, where he was banned to. She sat beside him, feeling the withdrawal from the reagent, her test finally over. Neither of them were using it now, but she wondered if it was just a matter of time. The studies had concluded similar results. The differences were the dreams and the rate at which she healed up—West was faster. Prolonged usage and all that.

“Not really,” she answered. We’d have to be married for that.” Herbert picked another book from the stack and hummed, opening the large volume up. She continued. “If we get married, I’ll go with you. To the warzone.”

Herbert looked up at her.

“You’re serious?” She nodded.

“It’s easier if we are married. No separation.”

A beat, but only a small one, went by. “That can be arranged,” West agreed. Then he snickered. “A wonderful honeymoon in Peru. I’m sure little Meg dreamt of this all her life.” “What did you dream of?” He waved his head. “I never dreamt I’d get married. It wasn’t one of my priorities, as you must know. I didn’t grow up like you. I’d work, I’d be a doctor, I’d get a prize…”

“...No girlfriend, no boyfriend, no wife.” “No.”

“No children,” Meg said.

“I’m not really the fatherly type.” “Me neither,” she said, finally admitting it out loud, her biggest sin as a woman, the thing she never even told her mother. Herbert didn’t care, he simply stared back down at his books.

“Good. At least we won’t argue about that.”

When the hammering got too close he flinched away from the door. She laughed under her breath.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be done soon.” “Sure, we all know how reliable construction crews are.”

“We can go home,” Meg suggested, but Herbert waved his head.

“We are home.” Meg smiled at that and kissed him. He held onto her and she fought the urge to climb on his lap, no matter how much she wanted the proximity they had in the dark of their room where they panted and moaned with no fear of being heard—especially in such a secluded place, and especially with Herbert around—Herbert whom she was learning the language of, and who was so good at picking up her cues she couldn’t believe it.

“I’m a doctor,” he told her the other night, gently caressing her body up and down under the light of their new master bedroom, looking at her breasts, her clavicle, her neck…

“That doesn’t mean anything, trust me,” she said, burying her fingers in his hair and pulling him up to her, kissing and kissing, his naked body flush against her own. He was loud, he was sometimes submissive, sometimes controlling.

She didn’t mind it, she was the same.

“It’s getting warmer,” he remarked. “I heard we might have a new subject soon.” “Good. It was getting stale.”

“Really?” She smiled.

“A woman can’t live without a little bit of work.”

“Yes, I’m sure a woman can’t.”

“Ms. Halsey,” a man said from the door. She turned. “We’re going away for the day. Mr. West,” Herbert nodded at him.

“Good, thank you.” They watched as one by one the men who fixed up their house retired their tools, got into the cars and left.

“Shall we?” Herbert asked, getting up before her, looking down. She smiled.

“Yes. Let’s go to bed. We need some rest.”

That night, on the news, the war broke in Peru.

--- End Notes:

Cool! I don't consider the ending to be a cliffhanger---you can imagine more or less something similar to bride happened to them, though I have plans I might execute between now and 2026. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Meg and Herbert really became comfort characters for me to write about---as different and unique as a made them, barely fanfic at this point---and I'm glad to come back to them when I'm feeling overwhelmed by life™ Thanks for reading <3

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The Naked and the Blind | Chapter 11 pt. 2

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Explicit.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | End. pt 1 | End pt. 2

Synopsis:

"Meg Halsey had a problem. In fact, she had several problems, the first of which, she acknowledges while looking at her semi empty living room, is that she can't afford to live alone anymore. The second one is that she doesn't wanna go back to her daddy's house again. This would be an inconceivable notion to her thirteen year old self, even her sixteen year old self, but at twenty five, she'd really choose living under the bridge first. Ok. Maybe not that." Meg Halsey is perfect: Beautiful, accomplished, a bright future doctor. She escaped her hometown and moved to New York, where she likely would have stayed forever. After her mother dies, though, she is forced to move back to Arkham and face everything she wanted to leave behind. --- A.K.A I made a tumblr post about how Crampton/Combs are romantically involved in all of their collabs, got replies and decided to write down a suggestion of "what if Meg was the protagonist, not Dan?" Also I did the cop-out summary thing and pasted the first paragraph of the fic. It's highway robbery. Criminal (I'm sorry). Christmas edit: Changed the name of the fic, because it's finished now, and if I wanna write sequels, I have no idea what to name them. Might also alter chapter names later on :)

Word Count: 38,889.

AO3 Tags: I uhhh......... I have no idea what I made it started with one tumblr post then one reply and here we are, I included other works by Lovecraft here and rounded Arkham up and then ran, Character Study, In a way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he doesn't exist, Danbert shippers cry I get it, Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death, Eventual Romance, Slow Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, this fic is an affront to god just like herbert's reagent, Not Beta Read, Also this is gonna be a short fic, like a novella length one, so the chapters are not gonna be super long, Eventual Smut, changed that recently lol.

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma. Dead parents, dead cat. She also helps kill her dad later on, considering, so. It's a heavy fic, but if you liked the movie you'll be fine.

CW FOR THE CHAPTER: Everyone has watched the end of Re-Animator: MEG DOESN'T HAVE A GOOD TIME!!!! And I write about it from her POV, which is also triggering. I mean the whole scene is triggering, so please remember this is a heavy chapter, all that.

Chapter Summary: Meg goes to Hell.

AO3 link (now fixed to lead directly to the chapter, not the whole fic).

Tumblr didn't let me post it in one piece, so I'm dividing this in two. This is part two.

While Ace and Ed checked each other for heavy bruises, West managed to get away from their grip for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, rubbing his wrists while watching the gruesome display:

The dean was crushing Hill’s skull and he screamed. Meg had never really seen West scared. Sure, they knew each other for a brief amount of time, but when it came to emotions, he was either desperate or defensive—never scared.

I’m never going to be normal again.

Goodbye suburban dream.

Meg shook her head and sprinted across the room, going over all the ones who had fallen and writhed in pain, throwing up blood and air. She stopped at West’s side, took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her.

“West, what is the plan?” Hill’s eyes were completely sunken in. She didn’t really feel too bad about it, considering everything. “West!”

“My bag,” he said, looking at her. “It’s right there,” he indicated with his head. Hill was still screaming.

“Jesus, shut up!” She yelled, making a move towards the object and grabbing its straps.

“You made quite a commotion yourself,” he said when she came back. Meg could laugh, but instead she made a noise not yet discovered by science—somewhere between a laugh and a wail of pain.

“I was getting groped by a disembodied head, you’d do the same!” She said while he fumbled around with the contents of the bag.

“I don’t think I have to worry about that too much, he seems to be into blondes,” before Meg could say anything about how inappropriate it was for him to joke about something like that at a time like this, he handed her a needle. “You’re gonna like this.”

“What are you two doing?!” Ace yelled from across the room. Hill’s body had gotten up and was making its way towards the Dean, slow and uncoordinated, but steadfast. “We should be leaving, right now!”

“I have a theory,” Herbert said, looking at Meg again. She nodded.

The floor is hard underneath you. There's no wind, but there are sounds, and the smell, and…

“Overdose!” West, ever the dramatic one, announced, injecting his needle into Hill's body. Meg, following suit, did the same, emptying it. The body released its grip on her dad and seemed to lose balance entirely, falling down like a log. Meg looked at it with her nostrils flared, thanking God for at least one good thing happening.

She turned to West.

“Let’s go!” she grabbed his coat’s sleeve and pulled him out. He went against her.

“My notes! I can’t leave without my notes..."

“...Herbert!”

“I’m right after you, just go,” West said, nearly falling over himself reaching for the straps. Meg was going to argue, but both stopped to look at Hill’s body, static.

His stomach gave in, sunken as if someone had broken it with a hammer. Within it, Meg and West both saw the black pit beyond Hill’s ribs, where his heart once was. She screamed when his intestines attacked West, wrapping themselves around him.

“Meg!” Ed said, both he and Ace finally coming to fetch her. “Let’s go!”

“No!” She yelled, but had no strength to go against both of them. Herbert fought against the organs long enough to tell her to “Go!” once more, throwing her the bag—which Ace grabbed hold of, pushing her roommate, crying and screaming, out into the hallway. The subjects had made their way out as well, still confused. Within the room, everything was foggy, and the three were struggling to breathe, coughing as they walked down to the elevator. Meg was still trying to get away from Ed’s grip, while Ace led the way.

“Let me go, please…” She said, hearing the familiar ding.

“Meg, we need to get help, ok?” Ace said, trying to level with her. It didn’t last long: From the side, a less affected subject grabbed at her, pulling her away. With a screech, Ed let her go. Ace choked and Meg looked beyond the crushed skull of Hill, the other moaning dead, all the way towards the wall down the hall.

“Ed, look!” she said, pointing at the security axe. Not seeing any other alternatives, both sprinted down the hallway as fast as their aching bodies could. It was slimy with the blood that pooled from the bodies and Meg tried not to slip. Ed broke the fragile glass with his elbow, glass flying everywhere, and retrieved the heavy object from within, like the sword from the stone. By the time they reached Ace, she had her eyes closed. Lifting the axe, he cut down the corpse's arm. It wailed and let Ace go right into Meg's arms, both falling to the floor. As she felt Ace’s pulse, Ed gave another blow, this time fatal, to the throat—almost severing the subject's head.

By a miracle of fate, Ace was still alive. More than that, her pulse was steady.

Good news, right?

...She should be dead.

“Ed!” Meg called and he looked. “Get her upstairs, fast!” Ed appeared dazed, black blood all over his white shirt. Meg felt bad for him, bad that all of this was happening because of her, because of Hill… Because of West. “Ed, hurry!”

“Yes… Yes…” he said, dropping the axe, grabbing the fragile, unconscious body from the floor. Ace looked as if she slept, peaceful. “What about you?”

“I’m gonna get West, just go. Go!” She pushed the button and watched as he entered the elevator before bending down to grab the axe herself. All that experience pushing bodies might have paid off after all because even though she was weak, tired, more depleted than she had ever felt in her life, at least she could carry that damn thing to the morgue and cut the last piece of Hill that still insisted on haunting her life.

That had to count for something.

West struggled as the thing, whatever it was because it couldn’t just be an organ, dragged him down to the pits of darkness. He would take consolation in the fact that Meg, and his notes, were likely upstairs already—if he could think of anything other than the fact that oxygen was almost completely gone from his brain.

For someone who was going to live lifetimes, it seems yours is going to be over soon.

Any clever last words?

Maybe something about God, that is always original.

A grunt came next, with a loud, sharp noise and he was free from the spiralling, wet intestine. It fell limp to the floor beside his head. He had no time to say anything before another grunt, another sharp noise, and his body became decidedly less squeezed.

He looked up and saw both of Meg's hands reaching for his coat, dragging him out of the toxic smoke into the purer air from the hallway, the axe forgotten behind them.

“West, get up, c’mon,” she said, kneeling beside his now coughing, convulsing body. His glasses were foggy, his hands were stained with blood and viscera. He couldn’t breathe. “We need to go upstairs, you need to get treatment!”

“What… Are… You doing here…?” Herbert managed to cough out. When another one of the undead came towards them, Meg kicked the fire extinguisher that had rolled their way onto its feet, making it tumble down and fall into shaky convulsions.

“I came to get you. Now you have to get up, c’mon!” She pulled him again and this time he followed, grabbing her instead when she threatened to fall.

Together, entangled, both stumbled their way away from the morgue for good.

“Where are Ace and Ed?”

“Upstairs. One of those things grabbed and choked her. Ed killed it and took her up to get treatment,” Meg said, pushing the elevator button again. West looked to their side.

“I’m assuming that’s it,” he said, the corpse still oozing blood from the gaping wound inflicted by the axe.

“Yes, the same, now go.” Meg pushed him, following suit. They both looked at it and out for any other strays that might come their way, but the elevator closed its doors with them inside. They were safe.

“Oh my God,” she said, sobbing freely now. Herbert didn’t know what to say other than:

“Are you hurt?” Meg laughed, strained and mad. He remembered the laugh from when he suggested to re-animate her dad for the first time. He had tried very hard not to think about it.

Not that it worked too well.

“There’s nowhere in my body that doesn’t hurt,” she said. Before he could agree, the elevator door opened to the maddening chaos of the main floor.

“Go get yourself checked in,” Herbert said immediately, knowing Meg enough by this point to know she would run to her roommate.

“I need to find Ace first,” he held her back and made her look at him.

“Go get yourself checked in,” he reiterated, sternly, and for the first time in his life, she actually listened to him.

Turns out that being thrown about, attacked, and almost killed did nothing to Meg’s body that a few stitches (on her head) and a little ibuprofen couldn’t fix. God bless modern medicine. She was out of the room as soon as Harrod could spare her—she had bigger fish to fry, namely all the writhing convulsive once dead patients that seemed to be dropping dead like flies by the minute. Meg’s dad was one of them. She expected as much, and considering all hope of retrieving him had already left her, she took solace on the fact that he had remembered her—though she figured she’d never stop dreaming about his face as he crushed Hill’s head for as long as she lived.

Which was fine. She didn’t recall her dreams anyway. Maybe not getting a journal was the best move after all.

As soon as she was out, she went to look for Ace.

“Where is Ace?” She asked one of the nurses, who looked at her first with a compassionate expression, and a second one of confusion. “Sorry, Edward Darby's girlfriend? The one dressed in black.”

“Oh, that girl, yes, she's in room 202.”

“Is she alright?”

She can't be alright. She was squeezed too tight, for too long. Her traquea…

“Don't worry, she didn't sustain any extreme injuries, but she's still unconscious. Mr. Darby took her in and went to the waiting room, if you want to talk to him. He was asleep last time I checked, though. We gave him some pills for the pain and he dozed off… I can’t imagine what you kids went through. What a night. Only in Arkham…”

“And West?” The woman’s expression soured.

“Haven’t seen him, sorry honey.” Meg smiled and left her to her duties, sprinting down the hallways. She stopped by Ace's room, making sure it was true and that the nurse had not been mistaken.

With her injuries…

As it turned out, though, Asenath slept. Her make-up was smudged with sweat, her hair was almost completely down, her clothing was torn, and she was purple all over—but alive and well. Her viral signs were strong.

Meg couldn't believe it.

West… Where's West, Meg?

Likewise fine, he was sitting inside the empty, cursed room, alone. Not only was he perfectly healthy, but he had one of his notebooks in hand, using a pen to mark things down on it. He murmured to himself as he wrote a rushed entry. Meg observed him from the door, still wearing only Ed's heavy coat, thinking about how unphased he seemed about the whole thing.

He only looked up when she said…

“You’re okay.” There was a pause where she knew he scoured her visible body for any bruises—as any doctor would. He landed his eyes on hers, but briefly before going back to his notes.

“Don't be so sure. No doctor came to tend to me yet, apparently they’re all busy. For all I know, I might be bleeding internally.”

“You’re in luck,” Meg said, entering the room, going towards one of the cabinets. “I’m a doctor, almost.”

“Almost. How comforting.” She took the ibuprofen out with an eye roll and checked the date to see if they changed the medicine in the cursed room. “Your friend Ace?”

“She's fine, actually,” Meg said, coming up on the bed. He looked at her.

“You almost sound disappointed by that.” She waved her head, giving him the pill. He dry-swallowed it and she avoided his face.

“No, of course not. I'm still shocked, though.”

“Shocked?”

“Yes. She couldn't have lived, she was choked for too long. Re-animated subjects don't have the same strength we do. Ed took several seconds to sprint down the hallway and get that axe…”

“...Oh, so he's the one I have to thank for that…”

“...And to come back down. He was quick with it, but she was already unconscious.”

“Hm. Maybe she was lucky.” Herbert said next. “Well… Half lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you notice her eyes?” Meg looked to the side, thinking for a second.

“Yes… They were a little puffy. She said it was allergies or something.”

“She’s lying. She has Innsmouth disorder. Shoggoth.”

“What? Herbert, there hasn't been a case of that in over thirty years…”

“Which isn't that long. Innsmouth is still a port town.” Meg looked up at him to argue, but was faced with the burn mark left by Hill’s “laser drill” on his forehead. Closing her mouth, she silently turned around and headed towards the cabinet again.

“If Ace has Innsmouth disorder,” she began, opening the cabinet, putting medicine and bandages aside. “She’ll be ok. It's not incurable, she'll take some antibiotics, be under observation for a while. She probably already knows and didn't want to share it with us.”

“So you're not afraid she's gonna turn into a fish person?” Meg half smiled.

“No. No fish people and no Dagon, though I had to go to school with boys who liked going around the halls, chanting the thing... I’a Dagon, I’a Hydra. Something like that.” She turned around, coming towards the bed again. Herbert grimaced.

“Arkham has too many legends.” She nodded at that, gluing the bandage down on his forehead.

“Thanks,” he said, patting it lightly. Meg looked down again.

“Herbert… What happened to Hill?” He straightened his back and she continued. “Last time I saw him, he wasn’t in two pieces. It was you, wasn't it?” There was a pause before he averted his eyes to his notebook again, scratching something off.

“He came to visit me, at Old Miskatonic.” Meg looked up.

“How did he know you were there?” He gave her a wry smile.

“As it turns out, he kept a closer eye on you than you thought. Apparently, when you took an interest in me, no matter how hateful, I became even more ‘public enemy number one’. He followed the rumors that I was staying there and saw you when you took your nap. It wasn't difficult to figure it out from there, even for him.”

“Oh God…” Meg said, putting her hand on her forehead. “Then what?”

“Well, we talked for a bit and then he had an accident.” She stopped.

“An accident?” West nodded, trying not to smile.

“He… Fell.”

“He fell and got decapitated? He fell into what, a saw?”

“No, my shovel,” she opened her mouth, but he cut her, “after threatening to steal my entire research and reduce me to mere lab assistant. He wanted the credit for himself, and I couldn’t let that happen now, could I?”

“You killed Hill? And then what, you… You re-animated him?”

“I wanted to test a theory about body parts, which I have to say was a success. Hill was a better specimen than he was a doctor.” Meg bowed her head.

“God, Herbert,” she sighed. “I could kill you. I should kill you.”

“But you won’t.”

“No. I won’t.” She turned around, looking out the door. No doctors were coming in. West and the room's reputations really preceded them. Meg wanted to ask, she wanted to know—she didn’t want it to mean anything, but she wasn’t a teenager.

She took a deep, silent breath.

“You killed Hill and he came back to life, to get me…”

“...Instead of doing something useful…”

“...And you came back to save me instead of running from Arkham. Why?”

Because he's not normal.

“Why do you want to know? Isn't it enough that it happened?”

“You came back and saved my life West. I…” But instead of arguing, Meg realized she couldn't continue. With a sigh, she put her head in her hands, propped her elbows on the soft mattress—at least softer than the slab—and looked down. She and Herbert were silent for a while. With all the physical pain gone, from the past and present days and the knowledge West was safe, she could focus on everything, from the beginning—his visit to her house, her detour from studies to study him, the rumors, the death of her father caused by his hubris, the fact she let it happen, that she wanted to know, that she wanted to stay with him out of sheer interest, ambition, lust, whatever… How she accused him of being selfish, how she still felt he was selfish and obsessive, how she’d go down with him if this continued, everything with Hill, how he came for her without thinking twice… It all culminated into one simple, even if childish, thought that she regurgitated from God knows where—unfortunately out loud.

“God, I'm going to Hell.” It made sense in her head. All the bodies, the corpses, the experiments, Rufus, her dad—even her mom, how she wished she could have re-animated her…

Herbert scoffed.

“Oh, I’m sure you don't believe that…”

“No, I do,” Meg said with a sniff, looking up. “I did, at least… My mom did. I don't know. I went to church until I moved out to New York.” Before he could quip, she spoke again. “What about you? Did you ever go? To church, I mean.” Herbert looked indignant.

“Why would you wanna know that…?”

“Because you saved my life and I know nothing about you.”

“So stealing my file didn't yield the results you wanted after all and now you want my autobiography?”

“I want something, something from you. You give me nothing. Thank you for coming back for me, for giving a shit, but you also don't say why you did it. So yes. Yes.” Herbert pursed his lips and for a second Meg thought he'd be reticent as usual—she was ready for it.

Instead, he closed his notes.

“I used to go to church, before my parents died.” He was so contrived, she could almost laugh.

“How did they die?” West could feel the pain of the intestines around him still, crushing. Or maybe that was just Meg's presence. Either way, both were terrible.

He looked down.

“Car accident. I was at a friend's house at the time, they were coming to pick me up, believe it or not. No close relatives. All that.” She nodded, straightening herself.

“I'm sorry.” Herbert dismissed her. “How old were you?”

“Eight. I don't remember them. I do remember this,” he indicated the bag, “and all I have to do. Death and re-animation, so close together. My work is…”

“Would you have brought them back if you could?” She said, cutting him. He snapped his jaw shut.

“I feel like that's obvious…” Meg accepted the answer with another, shorter, nod.

“If I died, would you have brought me back too?” She looked up at Herbert, scouring his expression. They were so close together, their noses were almost touching. His eyes were shiny, brown or hazel, but they always looked green in the light. She could feel his breath on her cheek and she was sure they both smelled of death and sweat—nothing like the fresh weather from outside, the calm, gentle wind.

“Yes.” He whispered, hushed, like it was an impropriety. Meg swallowed, her body going limp and loose. She gripped the bed as discreetly as possible.

“Don't,” Meg said, firm and unshaken for the first time in what seemed to be weeks. “Not until it's perfect. Promise me,” she added, looking at him. He didn't say anything, but nodded, short and brief. Meg looked down. They let the answer hang among them a little, both knowing it was a lie.

“We should go home,” she said, breaking the stagnant air. West blinked.

"Home?"

"Yes, home. You’re not going back to old Miskatonic, at least not until we decide what we're gonna do next." She averted her eyes and turned around, crossing her arms, facing the door. “Or do you prefer to go back there?”

West, behind her, hopped down from the bed.

“No, I don't. And you're not leaving to go on anymore virtuous crusades?" He tossed his notebook inside of the bag. She heard as it reached the bottom with a muffled thump—loud in that silent room.

"No. My father is dead, they retrieved his body first.”

“I'm... Sorry.” It sounded sincere and strained. She accepted it.

“It's ok. He was already dead.” But West was right. He recognized you. Meg waved her head. “Turns out I don't have anything other than... Well you and myself…”

“...And our work,” he ventured. She nodded.

“And our work.” He stopped by her side, likewise facing the door.

“Well, that has to count for something.” Herbert said, finally. Meg hummed.

It really had.

Together, they went out of the room into the buzzing hallway, with nurses and doctors zipping by them carelessly. There were gray looking people who should be dead all over the beds, wailing and moaning. The attendants were frantic with needles, medicine, small cups, defibrillators…

Everyone was going mad. When West and Meg paused, it was to look at the handiwork of their reagent, to hear the pitiful, but shallow and faint, sounds of the dead. A nurse ran so close to them that the wind from her motion ruffled Meg's hair. They didn't look at her.

“We should go,” Meg said. Herbert looked at her.

“Yes,” he agreed. “We should.”

End notes:

Herbert and Dan never kissed, so why would Meg and Herbert kiss? Think about that. In all seriousness, I do intend to make them kiss sometime, especially in the next parts.

Thanks for sticking with this fic and I hope you'll check out my other work (though it's for other fandoms...). All that. I'm bad at end notes.

Bye~ <33

[gigglemugger]

The Naked and the Blind | Chapter 11 pt. 1

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Explicit.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | End. pt 1 | End pt. 2

Synopsis:

"Meg Halsey had a problem. In fact, she had several problems, the first of which, she acknowledges while looking at her semi empty living room, is that she can't afford to live alone anymore. The second one is that she doesn't wanna go back to her daddy's house again. This would be an inconceivable notion to her thirteen year old self, even her sixteen year old self, but at twenty five, she'd really choose living under the bridge first. Ok. Maybe not that." Meg Halsey is perfect: Beautiful, accomplished, a bright future doctor. She escaped her hometown and moved to New York, where she likely would have stayed forever. After her mother dies, though, she is forced to move back to Arkham and face everything she wanted to leave behind. --- A.K.A I made a tumblr post about how Crampton/Combs are romantically involved in all of their collabs, got replies and decided to write down a suggestion of "what if Meg was the protagonist, not Dan?" Also I did the cop-out summary thing and pasted the first paragraph of the fic. It's highway robbery. Criminal (I'm sorry). Christmas edit: Changed the name of the fic, because it's finished now, and if I wanna write sequels, I have no idea what to name them. Might also alter chapter names later on :)

Word Count: 38,889.

AO3 Tags: I uhhh......... I have no idea what I made it started with one tumblr post then one reply and here we are, I included other works by Lovecraft here and rounded Arkham up and then ran, Character Study, In a way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he doesn't exist, Danbert shippers cry I get it, Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death, Eventual Romance, Slow Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, this fic is an affront to god just like herbert's reagent, Not Beta Read, Also this is gonna be a short fic, like a novella length one, so the chapters are not gonna be super long, Eventual Smut, changed that recently lol.

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma. Dead parents, dead cat. She also helps kill her dad later on, considering, so. It's a heavy fic, but if you liked the movie you'll be fine.

CW FOR THE CHAPTER: Everyone has watched the end of Re-Animator: MEG DOESN'T HAVE A GOOD TIME!!!! And I write about it from her POV, which is also triggering. I mean the whole scene is triggering, so please remember this is a heavy chapter, all that.

Chapter Summary: Meg goes to Hell.

AO3 link (now fixed to lead directly to the chapter, not the whole fic).

Tumblr didn't let me post it in one piece, so I'm dividing this in two.

Chapter notes:

So, this is the end. Ok, probably not because I'm writing a companion fic, so stay tuned. I'm scheduling this on Christmas, actually, so merry Christmas to all who celebrate! It's well into January rn and I probably have the next part written by now, so... Jan 18 edit: I have fourteen pages completed, that I kid you not wrote in two days, but I haven't got nearly enough to post :( I'll try to complete something, though I'm sure I'm writing more for myself. I still love these two, but I've been working like crazy on other stuff AND replacing some seriously old hardware, etc. It's a whole thing. I might also workshop some other fanfic in the meantime and I don't post stuff I havent completed soooo thx for your patience <3

Oh yeah I have a Playlist for them. Here. YouTube playlist. Sorry.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed if you read this far! <333

11. In the shape of things to come…

Before she woke up on the dreadful slab, in the dreadful morgue, with the worst headache of her life, Meg had been dreaming. She dreamt for an hour and didn't remember it, as usual, but as she pulled at the straps which held her arms down, and screamed for no one outside of the door to come save her, she clung to the sensation of it.

It was West of course, but it was distant.

(She also suspected that the reason why Hill was a disembodied head and not a full person likewise had something to do with West, but she preferred to focus on other things).

In her dream, she wasn't sure if they were having sex again—she thought not, but she didn't want to think about the fact that her attachment to West might not only be carnal—not right now while Hill was looking down on her, and she was stripped bare. Meg preferred to remember the wind on her face. Were they walking somewhere? There was water. Like a river, like a bridge, maybe London? She never went there…

Her father was foaming nearly black blood at the mouth and not looking like he understood much of anything. The room was like a bubble ready to burst—bodies everywhere, smelling, past the point of rot; Hill, bloody, looking at her from the tray with empty, shiny blue eyes; The cold of the slab so familiar on her back from other times in which she wished it was someone else there with her.

She managed to free one of her hands, but the “head” on the body was the same that had been on Hill’s desk.

Fantastic.

“Oh… Meg.” Hill’s raspy voice said, echoing in her head. He laughed. West laughed too, in the dream she had, it reminded her of it. He never laughed. He snickered, he smiled… Maybe he laughed a little at his own jokes here and there, but it wasn't very long and it was always mean spirited—an actual laugh, a real laugh was different. He had laughed with her, she thought.

Hill's breathing was irregular. Maybe that's what happened when you had nothing from the neck down. When the body reached for the head in the tray, she understood why his hair was tousled.

“I’ve always… Admired your beauty, my dear.” His body, previously roaming her own with its hands—for it was an its—now approached the severed limb. He spoke nearly mouth to mouth.

“Fuck you!” she said, vitriol coming back briefly. He laughed again and tried to kiss her, but she raised her bruised, scratched hand and stopped him with all the strength she still had.

She had woken up because there was a noise, she remembered now as Hill spread blood on her. She had been sleeping in the living room and there was a knock on the door…

“I think I’ve always loved you…” Hill said, going down.

Always?!

Please, please…

The clock had told her it was late, before. Putting numbers together five seconds after opening her eyes had never been her strong suit. The knock had become a bigger noise. She remembered that it had startled her enough that she became fully alert, but rigid. Her arms didn't move, her legs stayed in place.

What are the odds I'm gonna be kidnapped right now?

Don't be silly. It's probably just a raccoon or something.

Maybe I should go upstairs to actually sleep…

She didn't want to move, though. The house seemed a thousand times more menacing, darker and scarier, like it had been when she was little—and when the hand came through the window of the living room, Meg screamed loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood. It was inconsequential, as she never heard her parents fight unless she was right outside the door for good reason. The neighbors didn't hear them at all.

Her former dad came after her without missing a beat, step after wonky step, empty eyes scouring the scene. Whatever Herbert had said about consciousness, life, about anything, had to be a lie. Meg felt her heart beat faster, trying to focus on the floor underneath her feet as she sprinted away. He might not recognize her, but she recognized him which meant that throwing anything heavier than a book would kill her.

How did he escape?!

How did he get here?!

“Daddy, stop!” She tried. When he picked her up she managed to fight him off, which landed her on the floor, with scratches. She knew it was just a matter of time, until it was over, and crawling away from him was just survival instinct kicking in. “Daddy, don't…” Meg sobbed. He paused, tilting his head. She stared at him with her wet face. He bent down to pick her from the floor, holding her tight... And tried to suffocate her. Meg pushed him away, making sure to remember what Becca had taught her, anything Becca had taught her about being attacked by men much bigger than her.

You’re small and soft, Halsey, you need to learn to throw a punch.

Noooo, thank you.

When she kicked his groin, he let her go.

“Daddy…” Her voice was strained, the tears were flowing unencumbered. She stared at her him with her eyes twice their usual size, as he looked ready to jump. He was looking down and a flicker of recognition…

Was it recognition?

Wait…

“Daddy?” She asked, putting her hand on his face.

When she did though, he took her by the shoulders and flung her into the wall, leaving a blood red mark and an easier subject to carry to the car. So, Meg screamed. Hill licked her nipple first, mouthing it with pleasure and she wished she could have kicked him, until he was dead.

“Oh my God!”

“Yes, my dearest Meg! More passion!”

Having a disembodied head going down on her definitely wasn’t on her college plans, but things had been going to Hell for a while, so all in all… She would curse Herbert’s name if she were stronger, but all she could do was beg it was over soon. The moment Hill’s mouth touched her she would wish she were dead instead.

It didn’t happen, though. Meg barely registered that the door opened, barely saw anything with how much her head hurt, how much she focused on just screaming her lungs out... But she had the impression people were talking. Moreover, she had the impression that it might be West, making fun of Hill for… Not even being a second-rate scientist?

Am I finally going insane? I'm imagining West now... God!

“You will never take credit for my discovery. Who would believe a talking head? Get a job at a sideshow!”

Wait.

Meg could never make that line up.

When her eyes shot open, she felt something cover her body. Before she could say anything, Ed shushed her. He had taken his jacket off while Ace was working on the remaining strap that trapped her in.

  “God, this place is packed!” Ace exclaimed when they came in.

“I doubt they’ll be up here,” Herbert said, not stopping while nurses and doctors zipped by, his unlikely companions on his heels. “He’ll be down in the morgue.”

The first thing they heard when the elevator door opened were Meg’s screams, echoing down the hall. The security desk was empty.

Typical.

A good thing when you’re the one stealing bodies, but not when one was stolen from you.

Meg is not a body.

You really are in love, aren't you? So easily attached... So eager to risk everything...!

Ace began running, but Herbert stopped her with his hand, gripping her arm.

She looked down, indignant.

“What are you doing? We need…!”

“We need to discuss the plan. When you walk in there, you won’t exactly be seeing anything you’ve ever seen before, ms. Waite.”

“Try me,” Ace said, eyes defiant. For the first time, Herbert noticed the slight protrusion, but instead of saying anything, he let her go.

“I re-animated dr. Hill, after he had an unfortunate… Accident.”

“An accident?” Ed repeated, pulling his girlfriend closer. Meg was still heard, drowning in whatever was happening to her.

“Fuck you!”

“Yes,” Herbert reiterated, trying to cover her with his voice without attracting attention—though he didn’t think Hill would hear them either way, “an accident. He lost his head, not that he ever had it. I took that as an opportunity to test a new theory and re-animated his body… And his severed head.”

“Ok, sure, whatever, we should get going!” Ace said, frantic.

“Calm down, I have a plan,” Herbert said, feeling his needles, still covered, in his pocket. “I’ll need you two to fetch Meg while I distract Hill. No going towards him, you bring Meg out. Did you hear me? Out.”

“Ok,” Ace said. Herbert nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

  “Oh. I have a plan,” Meg heard West say while she stood up and buttoned herself in Ed’s warm coat. A hand—Meg didn’t know whose—pulled at her, trying to drag her out of the door, but she stayed put.

“So do I.”

The whole room came alive. Meg had seen it before, but it was always a shock when you faced your first re-animated subjects. Ace yelled and Meg pulled her close, while Ed made sure to cover the two women.

“What the fuck is this?!” He screamed as soon as a woman tried to lunge at him. Ace and Meg yelped, with Ace managing to flee from a man who groped her, violent and ready to kill. The soundscape was intense: There was a saw going, glasses shattering, the moaning of the dead on every corner and all four of the living were attacked at the same time.

“There’s too many of them!” Ace screamed, getting out of the way of a man while Ed was thrown against the wall, breaking a table on the way down. “Ed—!” she yelled, but was lifted from the floor by a woman with her hand on her throat. Meg broke a beaker on her head.

She fell down with a thump, coughing.

“Get her out!” West screamed from the other side of the room. Meg looked at the sound, but her vision was blocked by two, gray skinned bloody men who stretched their arms like zombies towards her. She jumped out and hit a slab on the way, right on her side, making her cough with the impact. Ace helped Ed get up. Herbert was flung to the floor. Hill’s head seemed to control every single corpse.

“West…!” Meg said, trying to cross the mob of subjects, but both Ed and Ace twisted their arms around her waist and held her back. “Let me go!”

“No, we have to get you out!” Ace said, sweat making her big, curly, teased hair glue to her forehead. Ed was grabbed by the shoulder and punched the man on the face. His hand was nearly broken on impact.

“No!”

“That’s what he told us to do—!” She was interrupted by a slab, which was thrown towards the three of them. They ducked and the thing made a horrible noise, also hitting the wall.

The room was spinning. One bad experience hadn’t been enough—Meg had to have nightmares about that place for the rest of her life. Ace and Ed were taken from her, but she had been equally trapped in the arms of a man with his guts spilling out. Everyone was horribly rotten, disfigured, dead down to their bones and beyond. Meg struggled in vain, looking at West from her privileged high position,

“Enough!”

She fell, grabbing her throat once more. Behind her, Ace and Ed were let go too, she knew from the sound of their bodies hitting the tiles, and how Ace yelped her boyfriend’s name. West and Meg exchanged a look before he was grabbed by two subjects, one horribly burned, and taken up, arms stretched and head facing Hill, who was now deposited back into the pool of blood.

“Meg…” Ace whispered and she looked back. Both she and Ed beckoned her closer and she crawled towards them.

“I will show you power, Mr. West…” Hill’s raspy voice filled the room. Ace, Ed and Meg were static. West’s eyes were big, his mind clearly at work—Meg knew the look, even through their brief acquaintance. She looked at the rest of her group.

“Did Herbert share what his plan is with you?” she asked, so quiet as to not alert a mouse. It was a miracle they understood, but both waved their heads negatively. Meg’s head fell to the floor, her forehead touching the cool tiles before she whispered, “Of course not.”

“—surgical drill,” Hill was saying, when she finally went back to paying attention. “It makes possible a new technique in lobotomy which results in total mastery of the human will. Re-animated subjects have proven to be the best. They will give me power!”

The subjects raised West and put him on top of the same place Meg had been laid not so long ago. She got up, but her dad came towards her, blocking her path to Herbert.

“Daddy!” She yelled. Ed got in front of her, but was raised from the floor soon after once more, as if he weighed less than liquid. He gripped at the dean’s hands—but it was useless to scratch, as Meg herself had learned. He just stared as if nothing was happening. “Daddy, please, it’s Megan, Megan! Please…” While Ace tried to hit him from behind, three other subjects cornered her and Meg warded off the limbs that grabbed at her body. “Look at me!”

The dean turned. Herbert’s head was almost drilled through, Ace was kneeled beside Ed, and Meg’s dad suddenly regained the gift of consciousness for long enough to almost show the worried expression Meg was used to seeing lately—the same he used the last time she faced him as a living man, in his office where they fought.

“Daddy…” She whispered. The three subjects that victimized her were on the floor. Ed and Ace got up and managed to grab her hand to pull her away from them, but she never stopped staring as he made his way to the other side of the room, hitting the others.

“Look out!” Ace yelled. Meg looked and the three managed to defend themselves against yet another table being tossed, covering their heads with their arms and ducking it out. “Goddammit, man!”

Ed hit another subject that approached with a rogue broom. The dean was attacking Hill’s body, blow after blow and when Meg opened her eyes again, she noticed that the subjects were shaking.

“What’s happening?” Ace asked, looking at the living corpse straight in front of them.

“They’re… Convulsing?” Meg asked. She could hear Hill grunting from the table, in pain. “I think it has something to do with Hill’s grip on them!”

“Obviously!” West yelled. Meg looked at him, scowling.

“Do you wanna share your plan so I can help now?!” She asked, trying to ward off a heavy set woman who didn’t seem impressed by the others’ artistic dance routine. She saw her dad coming through again, making way towards the table—and Hill’s head, grabbing it. “West! Tell me or I’ll—” she didn’t finish the sentence. All the subjects stopped, this time without exception, and raised their hands towards their faces, wailing in pain. Ed, Ace and Meg watched the display in mute horror. It seemed like anything done onto Hill was done onto them, which was helpful considering the situation.

[gigglemugger]

Just got a comment on my Sundown fanfic I thought no one liked let's goooooo

[gigglemugger]

Posted the second part of the last chapter of my fic by accident, oops. I'll have to redo the post. Gotta love tumblr <3

[gigglemugger]

I had to private the post. God I'm so mad, this is so the worst case scenario...

[gigglemugger]

Second worst case scenario just hit, I posted the other one as well by accident. My life is a joke <3

[gigglemugger]

The Naked and the Blind | Chapter 10.

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Explicit.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | End pt. 1 | End pt. 2

Synopsis:

"Meg Halsey had a problem. In fact, she had several problems, the first of which, she acknowledges while looking at her semi empty living room, is that she can't afford to live alone anymore. The second one is that she doesn't wanna go back to her daddy's house again. This would be an inconceivable notion to her thirteen year old self, even her sixteen year old self, but at twenty five, she'd really choose living under the bridge first. Ok. Maybe not that." Meg Halsey is perfect: Beautiful, accomplished, a bright future doctor. She escaped her hometown and moved to New York, where she likely would have stayed forever. After her mother dies, though, she is forced to move back to Arkham and face everything she wanted to leave behind. --- A.K.A I made a tumblr post about how Crampton/Combs are romantically involved in all of their collabs, got replies and decided to write down a suggestion of "what if Meg was the protagonist, not Dan?" Also I did the cop-out summary thing and pasted the first paragraph of the fic. It's highway robbery. Criminal (I'm sorry). Christmas edit: Changed the name of the fic, because it's finished now, and if I wanna write sequels, I have no idea what to name them. Might also alter chapter names later on :)

Word Count: Multi Chapter, so far 30,000

AO3 Tags: I uhhh......... I have no idea what I made it started with one tumblr post then one reply and here we are, I included other works by Lovecraft here and rounded Arkham up and then ran, Character Study, In a way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he doesn't exist, Danbert shippers cry I get it, Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death, Eventual Romance, Slow Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, this fic is an affront to god just like herbert's reagent, Not Beta Read, Also this is gonna be a short fic, like a novella length one, so the chapters are not gonna be super long, Eventual Smut, changed that recently lol.

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma. Dead parents, dead cat. She also helps kill her dad later on, considering, so. It's a heavy fic, but if you liked the movie you'll be fine.

Chapter Summary: Herbert goes on a small trip.

AO3 link (now fixed to lead directly to the chapter, not the whole fic).

Chapter Notes:

No notes.

10. Another love I would abuse, no circumstances could excuse.

The ride to her house was less tear stricken than she thought. In the Mood was playing and she could almost feel her mother beside her, drinking her pick me up from a flask, telling her to go slower. That was comforting.

Meg parked her car, looking at her front door. She was ready to go in, take a shower and sleep in her childhood bedroom. In the morning, there was a lot to be done.

First, forget Herbert West, back to the old Meg. Maybe continue med school, maybe not. Sell the house, get your dad, get the hell out of here…

God what happened to you? West is right, you can't just throw it all away…

I don't wanna think. I just want to… Forget for a while.

Incredible how in just a few days, her life had been ruined—by ambition, no less. The street was quiet and the autumn wind rustled the leaves, like the world was letting her know it went on despite her troubles, natural and unflinching: No fathers in straitjackets, dead mom clubs, horror movie villains or creeps could stop it.

Comforting, in a way.

He's still there, probably. At Miskatonic, gathering his things. What will he do? Will he really leave?

Couldn't I really…?

Meg opened the car door. No, she couldn't. There was no turning back. Some things couldn't be mended.

Well, maybe now you know why West could still walk after being thrown every which way. That reagent was doing something, but as curious as Meg was about it, she had other things to do.

It was always going to be like this...

She waved her head.

Last time I chose work, my mother died. My father got reanimated and zombified.

I need to be better.

She threw her keys in the bowl and went upstairs.

Her room was exactly as she left it, as her mother kept it—pink and pretty. Her bed still had a veil and several teddy bears, which she was too emotional to donate before leaving to college. The mattress was soft, different from the aluminum table, and every inch of her body begged her not to shower, to just give in to sleep…

Nonetheless, Meg got up, making way to the bathroom.

It'll be good, wash away everything.

She tried to think of the last time that she had showered there while peeling away every garment like dead skin.

19? 20? Probably more, right? How long did she stay away from the house? How frequently did she visit her parents again?

The water hit her face and she leaned into the warmth.

Christmas last year. I think. I stayed at a hotel. I didn't wanna stay here. I didn't wanna hear them fight.

Oh, yeah.

As Meg washed her hair with the shampoo there was still left (her mother made sure to keep her bathroom stocked, which was frankly cute now, and creepy for years before she died—throwing all those unused bottles of shampoo out…) she remembered that her driving force to get out of that house was just that—not hearing them argue, which was weird, cause she hardly ever heard them. They had a habit of doing it so quietly, as to not scare her away. So it made sense she wouldn't have showered there in a while. It was nice, though. The water pressure was better than the one she had at her own place, considering the quality, and the dorm showers were terrible.

Freshly showered, she put on one of her old, fleece robes and dried her hair. The goal was to do nothing. She needed to go to bed, or at the very least watch whatever was on TV. Tomorrow was for work. Yes.

Limits. Sure, she wished she were dead, but what good would she be to her dad dead? Someone needs to take care of him.

How much can I ask for the house? It’s a good place…

I’ll be rich.

You are rich, Meg.

Good. At least I don’t have to worry about that…

She stopped the hair dryer and looked in the mirror.

God, my hair is long… She didn’t think she ever wore hair that long past the age of sixteen, like in the photo Hill…

Oh yeah. That. She cringed, finished drying herself and tried her best to close her eyes hard enough that the memories would go away.

A different kind of uncle for sure…

When Meg laid back in bed, she hoped she’d have no dreams.

When West woke back up, he was on the floor. The light maimed his eyes, and he blinked twice before realizing what had happened.

My notes…! Gone. It was all gone. He should have known better, but then again…

“Parts?!” He exclaimed to no one. “You idiot…” Hill's blood was still all over the floor and, looking down, he was surely covered in it himself.

Thankfully I have spare shirts around here… The blessed shovel the construction crew had left for show laid in front of him, discarded as soon as it was utilized. He could laugh. First Meg walks out to do her virtuous crusade, which he should have figured she would—people like her always do—then he loses his work because he wanted to resurrect his plagiarist professor who…

…Spoke. He stopped.

Hill said my name.

He had consciousness.

Maybe…

No. He knew Halsey was a complete loss. Of course he should be kept alive—in the eventual case his reagent had a regenerative property that couldn't be tested without appropriate passage of time, he should be monitored at all times—but it also came down to the fact that it was Meg's dad. He might not… Care as much, the old man hadn't been exactly welcoming as time went by, but…

Nevermind.

Herbert changed into a fresh shirt.

Once done, he looked at the trail of blood starting at the door to the room, which stopped around the middle of the hallway. Old Miskatonic howled around him, wind going through ever crevasse that the construction crew, wherever they were, never mended.

Where would Hill go? He stole his property, he walked out a talking head—psycho killer, c'est que se—with all of his things. To do what? Test it?

I'm the last one who knows about the reagent. He didn't finish me off, he'd have to come back to me… Or Meg.

“Meg,” he murmured. “Damn it!”

“Where's Meg?” He asked when Ace opened the door.

“What, why?” Herbert looked beyond her. On the table were a set of playing cards, which he recognized as the traditional tarot.

Of course.

“Is she here?” Ace looked back at Ed, who shrugged. She looked at West again, before stepping out and closing the door.

“No, she's not. She must be at her dad's house, why?” Ace asked. He didn't answer. “Is Meg OK? Does this have anything to do with whatever you and Meg have been doing?” He straightened his back.

“What do you know about that?”

“Nothing, Meg wouldn't tell me.” He suppressed whatever feeling insisted on clawing at him.

Hm. She is trustworthy.

“Where's the dean's house?”

“Some twenty minutes from here... I think.”

“Good. I need you to drive me there.”

“Why, what happened to Meg?” He paused.

“If you don't tell me anything, I won't drive you.”

“Fine, stay here and play witch with your boyfriend, but if Meg dies you're responsible for it.” Ace scoffed.

“Why should I trust you? I don't know what's with you man, but you're weird and that's coming from me.” Behind her, Ed opened the door, attracted by the loud voices. “Everyone at the hospital hates you, Meg hated you until you did God knows what…”

“Of course they hate me. They are afraid of what they don't know.”

“And what is that?” Ed asked. Herbert looked at him, for a second. He averted his eyes towards the trees, the wind blowing through the branches, the world moving on around them.

He's handsome.

Isn't one little infuriating little crush enough for you?

Herbert sized both up. Considering what they looked like—a Siouxsie Sioux wannabe and a, frankly, bigger nerd than him—he didn't think they'd be that much of a hassle.

You're telling the whole world now?

No, but what if Meg dies?

Well, that's your fault, you and your little obsession with her.

Your fault she dropped out.

Your fault her father is in a straitjacket.

Your fault the reagent doesn't work.

Your fault Hill is running around looking like a contortionist who didn't calculate things well.

Your fault Grueber—

“Oh, alright,” he said, speaking out loud again, “I'll tell you, but I'll do it on the way to the dean's house, and if anything ever comes out of your mouth I'll make sure it's your last word. Deal?”

“Well…” Ed began, but Ace's eyes sparkled.

“Deal.”

Ace was driving as fast as she could to Meg's dad’s house, given the situation at hand. If West was telling the truth and things were really dire, she didn't want to take any chances.

“So, you're telling me that you have resurrected dead tissue?” Ed asked. Herbert tried to keep his eyes on the road, but grimaced at the word “resurrection.”

“I prefer the word re-animation considering, but yes. A series of guinea pigs, rabbits, rats… And Meg's cat, whatever his name was.”

Rufus.

“Rufus,” Ace said. “You reanimated him? He was dead and buried last time I checked, the poor thing.”

“Well, Meg happened to offer the poor thing to me. She said it was the only way she'd know I was telling the truth.”

How romantic.

“OK, sure, so you reanimated him or whatever. How come he's not walking among us, then?”

“Well… it's not perfect yet, which is what I wanted Meg's help for.”

“So you and Meg simply… Ran around and did this?” Ed asked. Herbert made a face, a clear not-so-sure expression.

“Not… Exactly. We reanimated a cat. And…”

They both looked at him, though Ace was briefer.

“And?”

“...Her dad.”

“Dean Halsey's dead?” Ed asked.

“Not anymore. He's probably rocking inside of a padded cell in Hill's office.”

“That's bleak.” Ed continued. Ace agreed.

“Well…” Herbert needed to give it to him, yes it was bleak, but he wasn't gonna say it. “The point is that if Hill hadn't gotten to him first I might have been able to study him, to make observations...”

“And bring him back?” Ace asked.

“Maybe one day I could have, but Hill destroyed that.”

“How?”

Tell them, you're already saying everything anyway.

I hope she's worth it.

I hope you know what you're doing.

“He lobotomized him. Did it with that… Invention of his.”

“Lobotomized?”

“What an amazing night,” Ace said, taking a turn. Herbert's head turned towards her.

“You wanted to know. Next time, maybe don't ask any questions.”

“Sure, whatever,” she acquiesced, “and what does that have to do with Meg being in danger?”

They arrived at the house at the same moment, the street lamps illuminating their car, but not much beyond. The place was deserted, the wind still blew, and without voices to add to the scene, everything was eerily quiet. The door, they realized by joining their heads together to look, was open—not a sliver, but fully.

Still, inside it was dark.

Like the rapture, when we were little.

Remember being afraid of that when you still believed in God?

“Maybe you'll see soon enough,” Herbert answered instead of thinking, moving to get out of the car. He was followed by his begrudging entourage almost like clockwork.

“Is it safe to go in there?”

“We'll see.” After sharing a look, Ace and Ed did the only thing they could and followed, their footsteps echoing all the way up into the door.

“The lock is broken,” she said and Herbert looked at her. “What?”

“Do you have any more good observations?”

“Maybe my next one is going to be that shooting you would be one less asshole in the world.”

“How charming.” He turned to Ed, “I see why you like her.”

I for sure see why Meg does.

He looked towards the dark, and walked fully in. The house was warm, like old Miskatonic was, unbearably. It was as if it sucked every single thing in, a true black hole in the middle of Arkham's richest, most successful neighborhood.

“Meg?” Herbert asked, loud enough for someone inside to hear, but not enough that the neighbors would wake up.

Nothing, for a string of seconds. The three huddled together, waiting.

“Meg?” Herbert repeated—faster, more impatient, more frustrated…

“Is that blood?” he turned his head. Ed pointed at the wall, where a small, but clear smear of dark red was visible. He looked closer, but how close does a doctor really need to get before identifying one of the most primordial things in our bodies, in his own body?

The thing he was covered with not so long ago.

You didn't share that with the class.

“Should we call the police?” Ace asked. West looked at her.

“You want to be entangled with the law? I was under the impression you ran from any sort of notoriety.”

“Well, usually yes, but…” Herbert wasn't listening anymore.

“Where could he have taken Meg…?” He murmured to himself.

“Who?” Ed asked. He rolled his eyes, still frustrated, growing worse.

“Hill.” He struggled to keep his voice leveled.

“Hill as in Dr. Hill?”

“Yes, that's the only Hill we know, unless you have a friend I haven’t heard of.”

“We have only known each other for twenty minutes…” Ed argued, but was interrupted.

“What's that?” Ace asked, away from the branch they were following, going somewhere else entirely—in this case, towards the living room table. She abruptly stopped. “Oh, what the fuck…”

The file.

“Oh, that,” Herbert said, looking as well. “That's Hill's.”

“He kept a file on her?” Ace reached for the lock of hair. “Jesus, is this…?”

“Yes,” Herbert said, going back into his head.

Where, where, where…

Like a blood sniffing shark.

You always attach yourself to people so easily…

Where could Hill have taken Meg…

Where does Hill have power? Where can he hide?

He expelled all air from his nose, frustrated at himself.

“He’s at the hospital.”

Obviously.

Maybe if your mind had been a little clearer…

“What?” Ace asked, still holding the lock of hair, but Herbert was walking out and away from her field of vision. Both took off after him, though she closed the door behind her, careful not to let Meg’s house open to common burglars or literally anyone, before sprinting and repeating her question to West.

“Where he took Meg,” he enlightened, opening his door.

“Are you sure? That’s not very private, is it?”

“No, but at any rate it's our only guess.”

“Maybe he took her to his house,” Ed suggested. “Makes more sense, there’s less people. He'd be able to get in and out without suspicion.” Once they were all in, Herbert snickered.

“Oh, trust me. He's never not going to rouse suspicion ever again.”

“Why…? Actually, I’m not gonna ask,” Ace said, turning the key as fast as possible, her heart thumping and her hands shaking. She took a deep breath. “Ok… Miskatonic, here we go.”

The car started moving and its passengers were silent. Herbert was thankful for it, at least for a second. He wasn’t good at keeping his thoughts controlled necessarily—too loud, noisy—but sometimes he liked to close his eyes and think of nothing, if he could.

He, of course, couldn’t.

When Ace turned the radio on, he half expected it to be Pennsylvania 6-5000 like it had been with Meg, a clear quick delusion of his worried mind. Instead it was a classical piece by Debussy.

He squeezed his eyes shut harder than before.

His roommate in college liked Debussy, back in Switzerland. When Herbert needed to study, he used to play him, and incessantly spinned his several records in their room. He accompanied it with the violin on occasion and never stopped the music, even when he was having sex—or when they were having sex, which Herbert accepted as a quirk. Maybe it was because he was loud.

Nonetheless, he recognized the song.

The girl with the flaxen hair, how fitting.

“I didn’t expect you to listen to classical music of all things…” he said, breaking the silence, covering the noise with his voice, however briefly. Ace took another deep breath.

“It calms me and I need to be calm right now…” they were silent again, but Ace spoke up once more, “If Hill got Meg, what do you think…”

“What do you think?” Herbert replied.

“Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick,” Ed said.

“I guess the feeling is mutual for once,” West said and tried, again, to be quiet. The song was almost over, but it was oddly peaceful amidst the gripping feeling on his stomach, the rushing, guilty thoughts—like a sliver of the past in the future, a past where nothing had happened yet.

Meg longed for that past right about now.

[gigglemugger]

The Naked and the Blind | Chapter 9.

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Explicit.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | End pt. 1 | End pt. 2

Synopsis:

"Meg Halsey had a problem. In fact, she had several problems, the first of which, she acknowledges while looking at her semi empty living room, is that she can't afford to live alone anymore. The second one is that she doesn't wanna go back to her daddy's house again. This would be an inconceivable notion to her thirteen year old self, even her sixteen year old self, but at twenty five, she'd really choose living under the bridge first. Ok. Maybe not that." Meg Halsey is perfect: Beautiful, accomplished, a bright future doctor. She escaped her hometown and moved to New York, where she likely would have stayed forever. After her mother dies, though, she is forced to move back to Arkham and face everything she wanted to leave behind. --- A.K.A I made a tumblr post about how Crampton/Combs are romantically involved in all of their collabs, got replies and decided to write down a suggestion of "what if Meg was the protagonist, not Dan?" Also I did the cop-out summary thing and pasted the first paragraph of the fic. It's highway robbery. Criminal (I'm sorry). Christmas edit: Changed the name of the fic, because it's finished now, and if I wanna write sequels, I have no idea what to name them. Might also alter chapter names later on :)

Word Count: Multi Chapter, so far 29,608.

AO3 Tags: I uhhh……… I have no idea what I made it started with one tumblr post then one reply and here we are, I included other works by Lovecraft here and rounded Arkham up and then ran, Character Study, In a way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he doesn't exist, Danbert shippers cry I get it, Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death, Eventual Romance, Slow Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, this fic is an affront to god just like herbert's reagent, Not Beta Read, Also this is gonna be a short fic, like a novella length one, so the chapters are not gonna be super long, Eventual Smut, changed that recently lol.

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma. Dead parents, dead cat. She also helps kill her dad later on, considering, so. It's a heavy fic, but if you liked the movie you'll be fine.

Chapter Summary: Meg puts her foot down.

AO3 link.

Chapter notes:

There's gonna be some end notes for this one as to avoid spoilers. Nothing to say here other than I hope you like it, happy 2025! I'm drafting this on Nov 3rd, so I'm not there yet, but you are! Insane.

9. Sucker love a box I choose, no other box I choose to use.

“Meg?” He whispered. She opened her eyes slowly. The light was on above her, which made her squint and put her hand up.

“Herbert?” She asked. When she looked to the side he was staring at her, unmoving.

“I figured you'd be at home.” He was wearing a coat over his suit again. As Meg raised her body, she wondered how many suits he even owned, or if he ever dressed normally.

They looked at each other for a long minute. There was no sound, no wind, nothing. That place was all that existed—as usual when West was around.

How romantic.

“Hill is gonna conduct exploratory surgery on my dad,” she said, without pause or thought. It was a sure thing in her head, as sure as the coldness of the slab, now that there was no body to warm it. Herbert clenched his jaw, straightening up.

“You gave him permission…?”

“Of course not, but I’m not sure it matters at this point. I think he’ll go over my head.” Meg looked down, knowing she was not wearing her top, but not really remembering why. Something about not being able to breathe, wasn’t it? “If he does it, he’ll know my father is…” For all she thought of it, and consciously knew, she still couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Herbert was less subtle.

“Dead—at least to the untrained eye.” She looked back at him, no wonder filled with hate by the way he hardened his position. She could feel the anger of the previous day bubbling up, the vitriol building.

Maybe I would have what it takes to take Hill to court…

“You killed him.” Herbert scoffed.

“Oh, please…”

“It’s true. You killed him and now he’s in Hill’s office, in a straitjacket…” “Your father is not dead..."

“...You killed him…”

“...I didn’t kill him. He reacted to you, he knew who you were. You watched. You saw it.” The weather outside was probably finally cold, considering he was shivering—she could see it in his hands. When he noticed her staring, he put it inside of his pocket. “You wanted to know what was going to happen.”

“You said you could save him.” He approached her, his footsteps happening twice—once when he took them and once when the echo came through.

“I did. I brought him back. He was conscious…” Meg laughed.

“Conscious? Is that what you call it? You brought something back, sure, but not my dad. You brought back a soulless…”

“...Soulless?...”

“...Thing who can’t actually talk, who can’t actually listen, who can’t do anything…” She was crying again, but in front of West, which was like crying in front of a white wall. His face twitched. “You killed him, and you don’t even care. He was nothing to you, he was just another experiment, but he was my dad. I begged you not to bring him back, I let you because I… Because I trusted you…!” Herbert was close now, above her. She refused to look, making her eyes focus on the buttons of his shirt. “Now there’s nothing I can do…” She sobbed. “I thought I could fix it, I thought I could fix everything...”

“Meg, look at me.”

“No.”

“Meg.”

“No,” she said once more and finally left the slab, bending down to grab her blouse and sweater. “I… I need to go to him. I need to see him, to make sure… Maybe I’m wrong about Hill. Maybe he didn’t do it.” Herbert snickered.

“I wouldn’t count on it. I'll come with you, your dad is the closest thing to true reanimation I have got, and don’t tell me again that he didn’t know you. He did.” Meg didn’t want to think of the possibility. She put her blouse and sweater on.

“Fine, but after we’re done I never want to see you again.” She turned around. “My dad was the only reason why you even picked me to be your little assistant anyway. If you are wrong, like I know you are, it won’t matter anymore. It’s over, West.” His eyes turned poisonous like they had been when they first met.

“As you wish, ms. Halsey, but I’ll have you know that if any piece of my research is ever leaked from you…”

“...Oh, don't worry, you can have it. Truth be told, I’m not even sure I want any of this anymore,” her words cut. He was silent as they echoed back. “In fact, I hope it kills you—but you’ll probably just find a way to inject yourself before you go. You’ll live lifetimes, right?”

“And you’ll do what? Be like your mother, get married, have children? How nice, how very suburban and normal...”

“...Maybe I was born to be a normal person…”

“...You’re throwing yourself away…” She scoffed.

“...How do you know?” Herbert was openly shaking now. Meg wondered if instead of the cold, it was anger.

“You could have warned your dad about me right away, but you didn’t. You wanted to know. You wanted me to bring your cat back, you offered it to me—” He stopped, closing his eyes mid-sentence, burying his shakier hand on his hair.

“West…?” Meg asked, lifting her hand to reach his forehead and feel his temperature.

A doctor's reflex. He flinched away. She could see that he was sweating.

“It's nothing,” he said, struggling to speak. “You… Your dad… Responded. I need to examine him…”

“Look at me,” she said, to no avail.

“Your dad…” Herbert tried, but it was useless. With a grunt of pain he took his coat off, the scarf going with it, and disposed of his jacket. Meg watched without action, not knowing what was happening until he lifted his sleeve and she could see the tracks once more, the same she had noticed and forgotten. He sat on the floor, shaky, and made a tourniquet like someone who had done it a thousand times—which she figured was likely the case. Instead of heroin, or whatever else that Meg imagined, he took a vial of his own reagent out. He could barely hold it.

“Wait, is that…?”

“No… No, it’s a weaker solution, to keep me…” he grunted, “...keep me sharp, so I don’t have to sleep.” Meg put her hand on her forehead. He hung his head down, in pain. “I just need some. Ten ccs…”

She observed the pitiful view in front of her: His hair was glued to his forehead, his once pristine white shirt was sweaty and open on the sleeves, his jacket was discarded on the floor, his coat a pile of nothing.

He lifted the vial to her.

“Please…”

In any other circumstances, she’d have said no. Enabling an addict? Especially an addict to a substance that, should it be injected in recently dead tissue, brought it back to life? Who knew what that was doing to his system… No, in a regular situation, she wouldn't do it.

“Meg…”

She approached him—trying not to show any sympathy, any pain—taking the vial along with the needle.

How many times do you think he said please to anyone in his life?

“A weaker solution…” she murmured, piercing the lid and counting. “I’m not sure there is such a thing...”

“Meg…” he repeated and she looked at him, the syringe still inside, full. He was looking up at her.

It was the same look he had in the backyard of her house, the one that begged for understanding more than it begged to be let in...

…Or maybe your little crush on him is making you see things.

Meg took the needle out and removed the air from it.

“Here,” she said, handing it to him. He took it and aimed at his arm.

It was a sad display. In his abstinence, his hands had gotten too shaky, and not even the most experienced of doctors could ever hope to puncture a vein like that.

With a sigh, she kneeled beside him. Given what she knew about her subconscious thoughts, she could only hope her feelings, for lack of a better word, didn’t show. Herbert was alive near her, though: Shaking, human, and when he handed back the needle, the holy grail of drugs inside, pulsating green, she felt the touch—and worst, when she injected him, ever so carefully, he held her arm.

Maybe Ed was right. You should have gone out for a drink, met a guy, any guy, brought him back and…

Shut up.

He got up with a jolt, startling her out of her thoughts. Meg saw the reagent making his veins pop out, his muscles clench… The room was quiet and everything was static for a second, before Herbert took a deep breath.

She turned away, throwing the needle out.

“You need to stop this,” Meg said, getting up, making sure she was presentable.

“Why do you care?” Herbert asked, shirt buttoned again. “You're leaving. Aren't you?”

“I haven't seen anything in your notes about this,” Meg continued, ignoring his last statement. “Do you even know what it's doing to your system? Have you studied the effects?”

“It helps me with sleep. I work better under it, note that down for what it's doing to my system.” She finally chanced a look.

“Side effects?” He looked away.

“I believe that the sooner we get to your dad, the better it is, don't you think?”

Typical, but Meg was in no state to argue back.

“Sure. Let's go.”

Hill's door was unlocked, which Meg knew to be a stroke of luck. They went in quietly, making sure to softly close the door, lest a janitor heard. The University was full of students wherever it was open, though they huddled together mostly in the library, which meant Meg and Herbert were lucky not to be too late to enter the main building.

“He has a television?” Herbert asked and Meg looked, leaving the glass to the hallway alone. “A lot of work being done here, I'm sure.”

“Let's just get it over with, ok?” He toyed with some of the video tapes.

“Whatever you say.”

The room where her dad was remained closed. It was dark inside and she couldn't see him, nor his shape. She faced the window with a slight tremor.

“He's in there.” Herbert stood beside her.

“I'll go and look at him…”

“No, I'll do it. I have to.”

“I'm not sure you're in the best state...”

“You're an addict and that's my dad, none of us are in the best state.” Without waiting for his response, she took to the door, hearing him expelling air through his nostrils.

“Fine. I'll go through his things.”

“Whatever you say,” she mimicked, closing her hand over the knob and turning.

She had never been inside of the padded cell before—and it was a cell. Every inch was conceived with the prevention of escape at the forefront of the mind. She couldn't believe that a week ago her dad was sitting at his chair, in his office, with no signs of trouble and now he was in there, sitting on the corner—in a fetal position.

“Oh, God…” Meg whispered. She could hear Herbert opening drawers behind her, but the noise ceased.

It was just her and her dad, staring at one another.

Maybe Herbert is right. Maybe he can recognize me… Meg kneeled beside him. He looked scared, lost. The straitjacket suppressed the erratic movement and in his eyes there was nothing but complete fear.

Maybe not…

“Daddy…” She whispered, caressing his hair lightly. Behind her, Herbert walked in.

“How is he?”

“Awake, but unresponsive.” Her finger went over the hole on his forehead. “Hill did it. He went over my head.” Herbert kneeled beside her, his hand going over the perforation as well.

“He ruined it. We could have nurtured him to health, treated him…!”

“It doesn't matter anymore. His brain is gone.”

“He's still alive,” Herbert said, as Meg dried another tear.

“I know. I'll… I’ll take care of him. I'll drop out and… Take care of my dad.”

“You'll drop out, give everything up, to take care of him?” Meg nodded.

“He's my dad. What else am I supposed to do? I might hire a nurse, but I'm not sure I'd be able to go back to school anyway...”

“We can leave,” Herbert said, cutting her off. “Our research doesn't have to be confined to a school. We can do whatever we want, we can arrange for your father to have proper care in a facility, a good one,” he added when she opened her mouth to protest. “If you graduated, if you did anything with your education you'd be able to take better care of him than if you left, and don't tell me I'm wrong.”

“You're trying to convince me to stay and help you by using my dad's handicap?” Meg asked, shocked, but not as shocked as she felt she should be, unfortunately. That's Herbert for you. In the end all she truly wanted to know was: “Why?”

Her father had been lobotomized, even thinking it was enough to make her stomach churn. He had been killed, reanimated. He'd never be dean of medicine again. Herbert didn't need her to aid him anymore, he could get anyone else—or no one, if he really meant what he said about leaving the school.

So why?

“Yes?” She sounded hopeful, which was bad. Instead of answering, he said:

“You're going to want to see what I found,” before getting up and leaving.

Meg took another look at her dad.

“I'll be back, daddy. I promise. I won't let him get away with it.”

I'll fry him. I'll make sure he never practices again.

I'll kill him.

She took her aching body out of the cell, finding West by the file cabinets, standing like an omen of death. She crossed her arms.

“What is it?” In return, he handed her a file. “Is this my dad's file?”

“Oh no,” he said. “Open it.”

Meg took it from his hands and flipped it—stopping in her tracks immediately.

She felt her entire body aflame. Inside of the file were articles, clothing, pieces of hair, pictures—all of her, which seemed to have been collected over the course of years.

By Hill.

“Megan Halsey pronounced Sophomore Sweetheart,” Herbert read, over her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin—a feeling that was getting too familiar.

We were close in the room, weren't we? He kept letting me touch him… “Must be some other Megan Halsey...”

“This…” She couldn't speak.

“Yes,” he said for her, stretching his arms from behind and taking it from her hands—which remained static in the air. “Quite comprehensive, too. If he had put half of the effort he put into this into his career, maybe he'd have one… Meg?” She looked at him. He closed the file and stared back. Her eyes were wide.

“That's… That's my hair. That's a picture of me when I was sixteen.” Herbert looked back at the file briefly, disgust coming through before he could school his expression.

“Well, he's worse than we both thought.”

“Oh God. I've known him since I was twelve. Has he… Oh God.”

“I'm sure he wasn't happy when he heard about our fake relationship.” Meg hugged herself and waved her head.

“He also told me to stay away from you every chance he had…” she thought a bit further. “In fact, he treated every boyfriend I had with contempt when he met them. He was frequently at my house for dinners,” she clarified when he raised an eyebrow. “Daddy said he was like an uncle…”

“Well, daddy was wrong, unless he has a very different idea of uncles…”

“Give it to me,” Meg interrupted, stretching her hand. Herbert obliged, silent. She didn't look at it again. “You examined my dad, your half of the bargain is done. I'm going back home.” She turned around. His eyes followed her, shocked.

“What? You're actually leaving...”

“I can't stay...”

“You have to.”

“No.”

“Meg, think,” he said, approaching. “With our reagent, we can stretch natural life into hundreds of years, or more...”

“You will, I'm sure. I'll go home, look into places for my dad, transfer back to New York, sell his old house... I'll take Hill to court for what he's done and for this…” She lifted the file, “though I'm not sure that without an outright attack the cops will be able to do much. Whatever, I have enough for a lawsuit with that abomination of a medical treatment he did. Riley will back me up, he knows I didn't want Hill to get involved.” She looked up at Herbert for the first time during her speech. She couldn't decipher the expression on his face: Sadness? Disappointment? Betrayal? “You should leave too. Take your research elsewhere before anyone here finds out…”

“...It was one result. Your father is alive, we can fix this…”

“I'm going home,” she said, categorically. He stopped and looked down at her. The light coming from the window illuminated West's face, making it pale and marble-like, his glasses absorbing and reflecting it back. His lips were parted. His eyes were expectant. They were always so close.

I should hate him…

What's wrong with me?

Through it all, she wished more than anything to stay, to live with him—but the world wasn't fair.

“Have a good rest of your life, West.”

With that, she took off.

[gigglemugger]

The Naked and the Blind | Chapter 8.

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Explicit.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | End pt. 1 | End pt. 2

Synopsis:

"Meg Halsey had a problem. In fact, she had several problems, the first of which, she acknowledges while looking at her semi empty living room, is that she can't afford to live alone anymore. The second one is that she doesn't wanna go back to her daddy's house again. This would be an inconceivable notion to her thirteen year old self, even her sixteen year old self, but at twenty five, she'd really choose living under the bridge first. Ok. Maybe not that." Meg Halsey is perfect: Beautiful, accomplished, a bright future doctor. She escaped her hometown and moved to New York, where she likely would have stayed forever. After her mother dies, though, she is forced to move back to Arkham and face everything she wanted to leave behind. --- A.K.A I made a tumblr post about how Crampton/Combs are romantically involved in all of their collabs, got replies and decided to write down a suggestion of "what if Meg was the protagonist, not Dan?" Also I did the cop-out summary thing and pasted the first paragraph of the fic. It's highway robbery. Criminal (I'm sorry).

Christmas edit: Changed the name of the fic, because it's finished now, and if I wanna write sequels, I have no idea what to name them. Might also alter chapter names later on :)

Word Count: Multi Chapter, so far 26,682.

AO3 Tags: I uhhh……… I have no idea what I made it started with one tumblr post then one reply and here we are, I included other works by Lovecraft here and rounded Arkham up and then ran, Character Study, In a way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he doesn't exist, Danbert shippers cry I get it, Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death, Eventual Romance, Slow Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, this fic is an affront to god just like herbert's reagent, Not Beta Read, Also this is gonna be a short fic, like a novella length one, so the chapters are not gonna be super long, Eventual Smut, changed that recently lol.

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma. Dead parents, dead cat. She also helps kill her dad later on, considering, so. It's a heavy fic, but if you liked the movie you'll be fine.

Chapter Summary: Meg deals with grief, unresolved feelings and Hill.

AO3 link. (now changed to lead directly into the chapter, not the full work).

Chapter notes:

This fanfic is officially finished and just being posted at this moment! I have chapters all the way up to the 20th of January, every Monday as usual. Enjoy ✨️

8. Every me and every you.

Meg was staring at a full cup of Earl Gray tea. It was five am, Ace was nowhere to be found yet.

What the fuck was that? Turns out that even when she can't remember her dream, the sensation of it is just enough. West's hands were still burned on her stomach. She could feel his lips against hers, just slightly.

She raised her cup and drank it. Even the silence of the kitchen, apart from the clock, made her want to throw up. She didn't recall why, or anything else. Not visually, at least. She could feel herself respond to the feelings still. Her hair was cold against her neck, the room was warm. She put a hand over her necklace.

Nothing was enough.

C’mon, you must remember something. But it was hopeless. One of the holistic psychiatrists her mother was into recommended that she wrote in a journal, at a party or another, when she was sixteen or seventeen. She never touched the thing. Too holistic for me, she thought. Dreams are nonsense. They don't mean anything, remember?

Maybe I should have written in a journal.

Another sip.

At least I can raise my arms.

Everything hurts so much…

It was five o-five am. She could hear the birds chirping faintly outside. She enjoyed that about Arkham, how there were still enough of those sounds to ground her. She knew she had to face classes today, but she didn’t feel like it.

Who would? No one would mind much if I just stayed in, given the circumstances.

I never wanna leave the house again.

Will he be going?

Everyone already thought they were in a relationship—a secret relationship. The weird West and the accomplished Dean’s daughter, Halsey. Romance of the ages. She could hear the gossip.

She barely talked to him.

Yeah, but she did ask around a lot, remember?

She was always so… Goody-goody, you know? In a split second, Meg was out of her chair and in the bathroom, throwing up the bit of tea she had just ingested. She barely registered the movement, only when she saw the white tiles and heard the sound of the sick being flushed she realized what had happened. Worse than that, Ace was staring at her from the door. Meg didn’t even hear her key turning, the door opening.

“Hey,” she said, faintly. Ace was frozen.

“Hey,” she repeated. “Did you… Did you just throw up?”

“Yeah, but I feel better now.” “You have to tell me what’s up. It’s killing you.” “Having my dad in a straitjacket somewhere is not enough reason for you?” Prickly. Not at all ladylike.

“Well, yeah,” Ace said, not caring about the perceived rudeness, “but I thought you were tougher than that.” She approached and helped her up. “You’re going to class or…?”

Meg supported herself on Ace's shoulders.

“No. I… I think I’m going home.”

The Halsey house was one more in the high end neighborhood of Arkham. Meg and Ace leaned to look out of the driver window.

“Is this it?” Ace asked, parking the car when Meg nodded. “Cool place.”

“Thanks. Does Ed live around here?” Ask anything, think of anything else.

Silence the screams. Or the dreams…

“Nope, he lives in one of those cool, secluded horror movie mansions.” Meg looked at her.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Swear to God. I didn’t wanna step foot in it when we first met. He actually lives in the adjacent house, the one for employees? Anyway, yeah. His family has a property in the outskirts of town, next to the woods, which is basically abandoned. We sometimes go there to fool around, but the lights barely stay on. All that.”

“When you said he was old money, you weren’t lying,” Meg said, opening the door and stepping out. She felt the Arkham air on her face for a good second, before turning around and lowering her body. Ace approached. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. I’ll pick you up after class?” Meg nodded.

“Yeah.” Turns out that letting Asenath in as a roommate had advantages. After carrying Meg out of the bathroom, she told her that back in the day, when she was living with her family, she suffered from such bad anxiety that keeping herself from throwing up was almost impossible.

“Sometimes I threw up air,” she said, helping Meg down on the couch. “So I get it.”

She got a lot of things, apparently.

Once Ace drove to class—she was a history major—Meg turned around to watch her previous home. She still thought of it as her house, of course, as much as the house she rented with Ace was hers as well. Going up the steps, seeing the garden her mother took care of, and stepping foot inside, though, she knew she was home. It was a different feeling from when she was there to cook dinner—at the time, she was pissed off for even doing it.

Now, she had a vague feeling of emptiness.

None of my parents are coming back. The property is effectively mine.

Her stomach hollowed out and she felt sick once more. Grief, I guess.

She closed the door, put the keys on the bowl—as she did every day after school when she still lived there—and made way to the living room. There, her father had a fireplace and her mother a huge, thirty-six inch television. Only a few were made, she remembered her telling. A woman who stays home a lot needs certain things to keep her company, and one of them is the incessant buzz of daytime shows. Her dad didn’t skimp on the budget for her little gadget. They didn’t have as many video tapes, though.

Meg sat on the brown leather couch, which creaked underneath her body. The first thing she noticed was how the place sucked up everything—sound, air, whatever was put on the coffee table. Maybe incense would help, would make the place a little more like her other homes. Too bad she didn’t have any.

She put her head on her hands for what seemed to be either three seconds or three hours. A quick glance to the clock and it had been ten minutes. Close enough.

So, what was she going to do? On that morning, a few realizations hit. The first one was that she was alone. She had seen the reaction from her father, from the man they reanimated before—the idea of the brain being able to regenerate from that was almost absurd. Impossible. The person was effectively dead, a zombie forced to keep walking the Earth. Deterioration was too extensive. Maybe nothing would ever be fresh enough.

Or maybe Herbert is a genius. That was obvious. No other doctor ever achieved actual reanimation, even partial.

Her next realization was simpler: She had a sex dream about West, she likely had feelings for him that went past obsession. Sure, she was twenty-five. She could recognize certain things, especially when her body was so inclined to someone—ignoring it was easier, though. Now, it might be unsustainable. Love? No, probably not. It was too early. Besides, Meg only ever had one steady boyfriend she dared say she loved: His name was Tommy and they went out steadily in High School, for three years. After it was all said and done, she had changed her worldview too much for him to be able to keep up, traditional as he was. She felt like she had been a test-tube Freudian patient.

It seemed like ages ago.

It seemed like ten minutes ago.

This is a dream…

Meg laid her head down on one of those beautiful satin, embroidered pillows that were never as comfortable as they should be for the price. She stared at the ceiling and closed her eyes for a second.

She couldn't possibly forgive West. She asked him to stop… But she let him do it, at the end. She should have held him down. She was so exhausted though…

How was he even walking? Dragging him…

My dad.

Crying was a pipe dream, Meg was done with that, but throwing up…

Control yourself, now. It's going to be difficult to clean this rug.

I should sleep a little more…

Yeah. Sleep. That will fix me, right?

When she woke back up, it was the telephone that did it.

The clock said it was twelve past noon.

At least I slept comfortably, with no dreams… She raised her neck and felt the pain all over again. The telephone continued ringing in the background. Meg had always hated that noise, the horrible pitch of it as if it was inside of her head—worse today than ever.

She put her feet on the floor and made a valiant effort up. They were bare and the rug underneath was comfortable. When did I… Well, nevermind. Her sluggish body managed to take her from point A to point B without much effort. She closed her fingers over the receiver and answered it.

“Meg Halsey.”

“Megan. I figured you’d be home.” She paused, looking at the receiver, looping her fingers through the wire like she always did.

“Dr. Hill? How did you…”

“I called your house and no one was home to pick up, so I decided to try your father’s telephone.”

“Yes, of course.”

And you have my other number, how?

“I was looking for you, but you didn’t come to class today.” “No, I did not. I decided to take some time out, at least for a few days.”

“A good decision. I was calling about your dad’s case.” Hill insisted on being in charge of it, as an esteemed friend and colleague. And the best doctor the university has. He caught her right before Ace came back, expressing his deepest sympathy…

“Yes, of course,” Meg said, putting her hand on her neck. “How… How is he? How bad…”

“I’m afraid it’s nothing I can discuss extensively on the phone. I’d prefer to show it to you, from one doctor to another. I called to ask you to come to my office this afternoon, if you can make the time. I wanted to start working on your dad’s diagnosis as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course,” she said again, like a robot. “My roommate is coming to pick me up after her classes are done. I might be able to make it around four. Maybe five…”

“Yes… I’ll see you then,” Hill said and hung up. She listened to the dial tone for a long time before finally putting the receiver down.

Hill’s office was different from her dad’s. Sure, it was smaller—he wasn’t the dean—but it was oppressive, dark, gray. Her dad’s office always seemed illuminated in her mind—probably because of the larger windows.

There was also the case of the adjacent observation room he had, where her father, in a straitjacket, tried desperately to escape…

Fantastic. Inviting.

Please don’t throw up…

“Ms. Halsey,” Hill said, from his desk. He had files in front of him, an abundance of them, almost like props. “Do sit down.”

“I’d rather stand for now,” she said. The sound of her dad struggling was almost unbearable. She needed to make sure she could run. (Maybe if she didn’t know what the case was, she’d be more inclined to look through the glass).

“Of course.” Hill stood up as well. The extent of that was short: He circled his desk and sat on the edge of it. “There is no reason to hide this from you: We have no idea what is wrong with your father. One moment he was perfectly sane, and the other…” “Yes,” she agreed. Hill did her the courtesy of looking down.

“I’m sorry. This must be difficult news to receive. Considering we don’t know what is truly wrong, as a doctor, you must understand the need for exploratory surgery...”

“I do understand,” Meg said, nodding, “but I’m afraid I can allow it.” What for?

Hill raised his hands as if he expected this.

“Let me explain the procedure first,” he asked. Meg acquiesced. She could feel her body wanting to give in. “Are you sure you don't wanna sit for this?” This time she took the suggestion.

You'll pass out otherwise.

He had one of those stereotypical heads on his desk, which he now used to show her what he was going to do.

Everything is moving so fast…

“I'm convinced that your father's problem is neurological. I want to take a look at the

right frontal lobe. I'll open the skull here…”

“I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I can allow it.”

“You haven't even heard what I have to say.”

“I'm sure it's brilliant, Dr. Hill,” yes, good, flattery, “but I'm not sure I'm willing to let you crack my father's skull open. That sounds almost too much like a lobotomy.”

As if agreeing, Meg's dad made a noise.

She fought against the tears.

Daddy, daddy…

“You have to trust me.” With that, he stared straight at her.

Oh no, not now. Meg, the floor…

“I must insist you leave his treatment up to me.” Small room. Oppressive. Daddy in the padded cell… I'm too weak. “Meg… I want you to think of me as someone you can come to with your problems. Or if you're ever lonely. I know you're all by yourself now.”

All by myself…

“Dr. Hill…” Meg felt her body respond before she did, leaning towards him. She couldn't think. Her mind was foggy, hazy. She felt like she couldn't conjure up images or movement, the limitations extending to her limbs.

At least the pain was somewhat gone.

Maybe this is good… Having someone…

Her dad banged his head against the glass and she screamed for the first time in a long time, as if she were watching a horror movie and a zombie jumped on screen. Dr. Hill, taken aback, looked at her sharply, then at the patient.

What the fuck… What the fuck…

“No surgery, Dr. Hill. I'd rather have a second opinion,” she spat out, getting up as fast as possible. “I'll ask Dr. Riley. Thank you for your offering, though.”

“Megan, just a minute.”

She refused to turn around. She looked forward, at the door.

So close…

“Yes?”

“I'm afraid your increased exposure to West has clouded your judgement. I didn't want to believe the story that you two were together…”

“Well, we are,” Meg said, defiant. Leave me alone… I wanna be alone…

Hill was silent

“I didn't think you'd be so… Naive as to fall for West and his lies.”

“I'm not sure what you're referring to, Dr. Hill, but it's not important. I made my decision. I'll take care of my dad and ask for a second opinion.”

“Riley won't be able…”

“Dr. Hill.” He got up from the desk and approached her, too close.

You know him since you were twelve. Sure, he's weird, but it can't be anything bad.

Don't be stupid.

“Megan. Let me take care of you…” her dad made noises behind the glass. The lights were dim. Were they always this dim? “Meg, look at me…”

The door opened and a wide eyed student walked in. They both stared at him.

“Oh, dr. Hill. Meg. I'm sorry, I'm not outside of office hours, am I?”

“No,” she answered. “I'm sure Dr. Hill will be happy to help, I was just leaving.” She walked towards the door, passing the student, oh so grateful he walked in. “Is dr. Riley available right now?”

Meg asked Riley for the impossible: A diagnosis for her father's condition. He would have agreed, not only because her father was a benevolent boss, a friend, and the dean of medicine, but also because of his not so secret distaste of Hill—which Meg was happy to use as leverage.

Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” he said, at the end of their meeting, while her legs were turning to jell-o and she could feel the room spin. “I’m too busy lately; I think Hill will have to take care of this. Listen, for what it’s worth, he can be a brilliant neurologist—sometimes.” That made her snicker, but only briefly.

“Are you really sure?” She felt like a child. Here, Riley looked sympathetic. He had small eyes and a white beard, which he had since she was at least ten. At the time Meg thought that it made him look just a tiny bit like Santa. Her dad used to joke that it was his side hustle, and fittingly Riley used to reply that he wouldn’t have time for a second job, no matter how virtuous.

Great.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” he repeated. “I’m at a loss.”

“It’s ok, thank you for everything anyway.”

The hallway was closing in. Meg started to walk towards the entrance.

If I don’t sign anything, he doesn’t have permission. If he does something, I can sue.

What a comforting thought.

She counted the odds in her head. Hill was smart and he knew her father wouldn’t just snap, which meant that his ambition might make him do something stupid—go over her head, in this case. Sure, he could lose his medical license but if he did find something out, wouldn’t he be her knight in shining armour?

He wanted to take care of you.

Like a father? God…

It sounded so much like a lobotomy. Herbert would laugh…

She halted herself. Another ibuprofen had gone down before she left for the university, but it was wearing off slightly. Every move was laborious, every step painful. Being thrown every which way by an undead man will do that to you.

Would he really go over my head?

I’ll take him to court no matter what.

Would you even have what it takes?

Meg took a deep breath. When she was certain about something, she was stubborn. When she was angry, she took it to the end. Still, given the circumstances—unique as they were—maybe her anger would be for nothing.

At the entrance, someone called her name.

“Meg?” She looked up. It was Ed.

“Oh, hey.”

“Hey, are you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out.” He approached her. “Nath told me everything. I’m sorry about your dad. He was a nice man.”

“Yeah, he really was.” Both let that statement hang for a second, before she continued, “did Ace send you here to supervise me?” Ed smiled fondly.

“No, but don’t put that kind of thing past her. She can be like that.” They started walking, side by side.

“I wouldn’t really mind, honestly. She’s been a lifesaver lately. I can’t even begin to thank her.”

“It’s because she understands.”

“Yeah, she keeps telling me that. Anyway, are you heading over there?” “Yes, I am. We’re gonna watch something at your place for a change. If Ace goes to my house too much she starts feeling guilty she’s feeding off of me or something, like a leech.”

“Ok, I’ll stay out of your way.” They both stopped, people zipping by them, the sun setting in the background. Ed was a tall man, with brown hair and more hazel-than-brown eyes—which were presently hidden by huge glasses. He was lanky, and dressed like a college professor, but Meg figured there was a sort of peaceful energy who came out of him—something that most quiet, unassuming people had, she guessed. Different from West, whose energy was somewhat mysterious, standoffish—and desperate. Frenetic.

“You’re sort of lonely, aren’t you?” Ed asked, all of a sudden. Meg blinked, then looked down.

“I guess I am.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not making a pass, I’m happily betrothed,” she laughed at that.

“‘Betrothed’.”

“What? It’s a good word.”

“An English major word,” Meg joked, but didn’t look at him, just at the floor. “Look, I understand. You’re one of those people who are happy and want everyone else to be happy as well.” He shrugged.

“Yeah. Everyone should be. I think given the circumstances, it’d be nice for you to go out and have some fun. Get drunk? I don’t usually partake, I’m more of an indoor man, but…”

“Yeah. Thanks, Ed. I’ll think about it, ok? Tell Ace I’m gonna be at my house—my other house. I don’t wanna worry her.’

“No problem. Take care, Meg.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Meg didn’t go to her other house, at least not the one she told Ace. Old Miskatonic was less threatening by day, even if by waning day. The sun was almost gone, and the path was clearer, but not any less empty. She figured that she had nothing to lose at this point and climbed through the open window with relative ease.

God bless ibuprofen, I guess.

The decay was more perceptible now, with ample light coming from the windows of each classroom, which were open. Meg figured the place must have been beautiful, that place of legend, where every single Arkham story seemed to start. She wondered about the way it must have looked originally—the wood carvings intact, the desks well arranged, the floor not yet eaten by termites. She also quickly figured she was right: Apart from leftover construction things spread about, whatever the university said about security guards and renovations was a lie. The place laid as dead as it had been when she broke in at night, and unfamiliar, which was what she needed. She started walking.

Will he…?

No, too quiet.

When Meg arrived, the room was indeed empty. The slab was still there, the singular light turned off, the middle of the room corroded by time. No rat, no notebooks, but some green stains remained—and she was certain that he’d be back. Meg wasn’t sure she wanted to see him.

She was also unsure that she wanted to do anything other than see him.

What a ridiculous mess.

She made way towards the middle of the room, sitting up on the cold surface of the unflinching, metallic slab. She felt it under her thighs and remembered the sensations from her dream, trying to take another deep breath. It wasn’t as hot in there as it had been, but it was as if it were. Her head was light, and she took her sweater off, then her blouse, leaving only her old combination over her bra—which she was happy to have worn that day, considering. The cold stung her shoulder, but she found it comfortable. She looked at the ceiling, the only light going slightly back and forth, with no wind. Meg wondered about her dad.

If Hill does go over my head, he’d be doing it about now. He’d tell Riley I gave him permission. No one would go against him on it, it doesn’t make sense for him to lie.

Still, maybe he won’t do it. Maybe I’m just going insane, maybe I’m seeing things, making up things.

God, why am I here?

Maybe there are certain events you can’t stop. The light kept moving. Her mind conjured him up as if he were looking down at her. She tried to think of other things, and as if put in her brain by divine providence, she asked: How did Herbert know where I went to school in New York? How did he know I was lying when I told him I had class, in the office?

Does it matter?

He did his research, like you.

He watched you like you watched him.

The cold was grounding, comforting and she pressed harder against it.

Good.

She slept as soon as the sun finally set behind the clouds.

[sagethemes]

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[gigglemugger]

The last fic post got a lot of traction but I think it's probably because of the gifs? There's a few regulars that come back to read the chapter, but idk that anyone likes this so much to reach like 44 notes.

[gigglemugger]

The Naked and the Blind | Chapter 7.

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Explicit.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | End pt. 1 | End pt. 2

Synopsis:

"Meg Halsey had a problem. In fact, she had several problems, the first of which, she acknowledges while looking at her semi empty living room, is that she can't afford to live alone anymore. The second one is that she doesn't wanna go back to her daddy's house again. This would be an inconceivable notion to her thirteen year old self, even her sixteen year old self, but at twenty five, she'd really choose living under the bridge first. Ok. Maybe not that." Meg Halsey is perfect: Beautiful, accomplished, a bright future doctor. She escaped her hometown and moved to New York, where she likely would have stayed forever. After her mother dies, though, she is forced to move back to Arkham and face everything she wanted to leave behind. --- A.K.A I made a tumblr post about how Crampton/Combs are romantically involved in all of their collabs, got replies and decided to write down a suggestion of "what if Meg was the protagonist, not Dan?" Also I did the cop-out summary thing and pasted the first paragraph of the fic. It's highway robbery. Criminal (I'm sorry).

Christmas edit: Changed the name of the fic, because it's finished now, and if I wanna write sequels, I have no idea what to name them. Might also alter chapter names later on :)

Word Count: Multi Chapter, so far 22,356.

AO3 Tags: I uhhh……… I have no idea what I made it started with one tumblr post then one reply and here we are, I included other works by Lovecraft here and rounded Arkham up and then ran, Character Study, In a way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he doesn't exist, Danbert shippers cry I get it, Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death, Eventual Romance, Slow Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, this fic is an affront to god just like herbert's reagent, Not Beta Read, Also this is gonna be a short fic, like a novella length one, so the chapters are not gonna be super long, Eventual Smut, changed that recently lol.

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma. Dead parents, dead cat. She also helps kill her dad later on, considering, so. It's a heavy fic, but if you liked the movie you'll be fine.

Chapter Summary: Things get much worse. In the aftermath, Meg watches Ghostbusters with Ace. Yes, that's right. Ghostbusters.

AO3 link. (now changed to lead directly into the chapter, not the full work)

(Happy holidays!)

Chapter notes:

Continuation of what I said before. This is also where the explicit rating comes in, in the sexual sense. Weeee! Also, if I got the chronological order of Ghostbusters scenes wrong, I'm sorry. I only watched once.

7. Cause there's nothing else to do...

Silence, in Meg's head. Complete void. Her very core shook, her hands, legs, everything with it. The crunching sound of her dad's bones, the man walking over him with force beyond what would be possible—those came in slowly.

West was mangled, but breathing.

She herself was breathing. Was she?

The room started up again around her almost too fast when her dad started crying out. The subject mimicked the sound, putting his hands over his ears…

And Meg could do nothing but stare.

The subject—the reanimated subject that both she and West had been responsible for—started hitting her father's head against the cold floor.

She watched.

Herbert made a noise behind her. Why couldn't she move?

This is a dream… A weird, horrible dream. When I wake up, I won't even remember.

“Stop!” Herbert yelled, a mimic of his early cry. He sprinted towards the subject, taking his arms, but was unable to move him

The dean cried.

This is what shock feels like from the inside.

The beige telephone, the breeze.

You've felt this before.

After the phone call you couldn't move.

You needed to go back home.

It was exam week. You stayed.

She died.

“Meg!” Herbert yelled. She looked down at him. “Snap out of it!”

A move, a twitch of the leg and she was on again. She threw herself at it—fruitless, as the corpse flung both of them away with ease.

The dean cried. Meg looked at him from a distance, being raised, hit against the wall.

He wouldn't be strong enough to fight. The subject bit his fingers off.

Meg heard the saw buzzing before she saw it. West perforated the center of the body, coming through bloody and victorious.

She watched as he laid him on the floor gently, before sprinting towards her father.

He shook him, he checked his pulse. Meg laid down, looking at the bright fluorescents. They pierced her eyes, which she welcomed, considering the alternative was replaying her father's fingers being bitten off one by one.

The room was silent, as silent as her brain had been, but not still.

She was cold.

“He's dead.”

“I know.”

Meg raised her body and threw up. She saw the vomit and only then computed what was happening. When she turned back to West, he was dragging her father's body.

The floor is cold… The floor is cold.

“What are you doing?” Her voice came out labored. Her throat was sore. When she screamed she couldn't feel it, but now it was burning. Old Miskatonic had nothing on it.

“I'm getting results,” he answered as if it was obvious. His reagent was removed from his pocket, a new syringe was employed—and her hand was on West's thigh in a second. He looked down at her with wide eyes.

“Don't.” She sounded confident and determined. She felt like she had fallen from a building, broken through the floor and kept going for several floors. He kneeled to talk to her, eyes wide in desperation, begging to be let through into her brain.

“The subject listened to us, made a conscious move…” She grabbed his shirt on the shoulder, bunching it up. The blood and sweat were cold against her skin. They were close together, noses almost touching.

“Herbert, you will not turn my dad into that.”

He paused.

“You're right,” he nodded, agreeing. “Maybe the subject just wasn't fresh enough, but I can bring him back…” She waved her head and he looked at her.

“Don't.” West's face contorted into a mask of annoyance and impatience. Meg's didn't move.

“This is the freshest subject we'll get save for killing one ourselves…!” She laughed, more of a shriek really, making him pause mid sentence. Her body convulsed forward, the smell of vomit, blood and chemicals making her stomach churn again. (She continued laughing for ten seconds. He counted).

“Sure!” Meg said, finally. “I'll kill someone. We'll get someone straight from the main floor. I don't care.” She held him even tighter, knowing it was bound to hurt. “Don't. Touch. My dad—he's not a subject.”

“If you could have done this for your mother, would you?” He asked. She remembered the conversation she had with her father mere hours ago.

“How did you…”

There is nothing one can do against death.

“Yes…” Meg admitted, softly. She let her forehead touch his shoulder, feeling empty. His tie was crooked. She fixed it before moving away to lay on the floor, limp.

“I will bring him back,” Herbert assured. Without further argument, he picked the flask back up, not bothering with recorders, the freshness of the subject taking priority.

Meg didn't do much, just laid there, waiting.

“I’ll show you…” Herbert murmured. The fluorescent lights didn’t bother her anymore. “I’ll show all of you...”

A beat, two beats. Meg was shaking, but didn’t feel it—she knew it from seeing it.

When her dad started moaning to indicate he was alive, West spoke again.

“Dr. Halsey, you once did me a favor by letting me into your medical school. Welcome back to life.”

Meg was sitting at a hospital bed. That was the first real recollection she had of that day, or at least of after she successfully reanimated her first corpse. Her father was dead.

Twice, Herbert's voice said in her head. He failed…

They failed.

“Meg?” She lifted her head. It was Harrod. “Here, it's for your throat.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the plastic cup, but holding it limp over her knees. “Did she pick up?”

“Yeah, she's coming to get you.”

“Thank you.”

“Take those,” was all she said in return before leaving.

The official story was that Dean Halsey ‘went crazy’ after finding out that Meg and West were indeed together—behind his back. He flipped out, attacked both her and West, before being mercifully stopped, leaving behind two victims in a complete state of shock. He was in a padded room, taken away in a straitjacket. Meg was sitting, free, in a hospital room. Her pills were limp in her hand.

Her parents were dead, her cat was dead… All she had in the world was her roommate, who was coming to pick her up.

And West…

She shook her head, like an etch-a-sketch. At least the hospital was calmer. Meg wondered if she could ever step foot there again without having a mental collapse.

She finally dawned the pills.

When Ace arrived, she hugged her.

“So your dad flipped out?” She nodded. Ace smiled, sympathetic. “Don’t worry, I get it.”

They stood huddled together against the cold. It was getting firmer, the weather, which meant it was only going to get chiller.

“Where's West?” Ace asked. Meg sniffled.

“No idea.” It was true. After being cleared out, he looked at Meg briefly and disappeared—probably knowing that once she recovered complete control over her body, at least psychologically, she was gonna rip his head off.

It’s not only his fault, but you know that don't you?

“I know we haven't known each other for too long, but you could have told me you two were like that. I wasn't gonna say anything.” Meg smiled.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“It’s ok, I have my private life too… Still, next time I’ll cover for you.” She hummed in response. “Is your dad going to be okay?” Instead of answering, Meg started crying.

Home was inviting, warm. Felix the cat greeted her, a souvenir from better times.

“I'll make you some tea.”

“Thank you,” Meg said. Ace arranged for Ed to bring her car back home. Nothing to throw on the bowl. Her face was swollen, puffy. She had an extreme headache and when she finally found the couch, she knew she wasn’t getting up.

“Ow…” Meg said. Her body ached—she could remember being thrown all over the place. The pills weren’t enough to make it all go away. No amount of ibuprofen could, probably.

I held onto West’s shoulder. There was a rotten smell. I gave up, we were getting ready to leave…

“Here,” Ace said, putting the mug in front of Meg. She stared at it. Yesterday it had been coffee… “Have you slept?”

Oh yeah… Right…

“No,” Meg admitted, taking the mug. Earl Gray, the only type of tea she had around, the only one she drank. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

Ace sat down, criss crossed her legs and looked at Meg with her big brown eyes.

They were shiny, like West’s.

“I think the right thing for me to say would be yes: Yes, you should go to bed, yes you should try to forget this for a second—but you won’t. So, instead, I’ll ask you: What do you need?”

Meg cried into her mug. The ride home wasn’t enough? But Ace looked like she expected that.

“I have Sixteen Candles on VHS. Do you wanna watch that, to take the edge off a little bit?”

“Is that the one with that red haired girl?” Meg asked, using both her hands to dry her tears. She could barely lift her arms.

“Molly Ringwald, yes. She’s sixteen and her parents forgot her birthday, real tragedy.”

“Why do you have that on VHS?” Ace shrugged.

“I have Christine too, if you wanna watch a killer car. I also have The NeverEnding Story and Ghostbusters…”

“How many VHS tapes do you have?” Meg managed to ask. Her throat was sore and her tears were still flowing—she wasn’t hiccuping or convulsing, but she was steady.

Perfect little cry for the perfect little girl.

“A couple. They’re expensive, but I buy the ones I like, or stuff I saw on TV and wanna see again.”

“Sixteen… Candles…” Oh, here we go. The hiccups. Not so perfect after all.

Well, at least you are human, unlike that… Her brain conjured up the image of the subject hitting the door. Next came the feeling of West holding her back, his arms around her as she cried out, his breathing on her neck, his voice close to her ear…

“Yeah,” Ace said, unphased. “It’s light, but it’s romance…” Meg waved her head.

“Let’s watch Ghostbusters. I didn’t catch that one in theaters…”

And you go to the theaters since…?

Not since 1979, at least.

“Ok, it’s good. Doubt it will make you laugh, but it’ll try. You should really finish your tea. I’ll make popcorn, do you think you can eat that?”

Meg wasn’t sure.

“I’ll try.”

Ghostbusters was fun. It didn’t distract her—her thoughts were with her dad, in a padded cell somewhere, in the dark—but as far as comedies went... Ace did a lot of the talking about how it was much more accurate when it came to real life ghosts and supernatural phenomena than she expected when she took Ed to see it with her.

“Since when have you two been together?” Meg asked. Rick Moranis was running through New York. She was trying to eat some more butter popcorn—it was soggy and it stained her fingers, making them slimy. She appreciated any other sensorial sensation other than pain, though. At least the tears were gone. Small talk would surely fill the crater forming slowly in the decaying tissue of her heart.

Dramatic much?

Shut up.

“We met during a club meeting, at Miskatonic. People who believe in the paranormal, all that,” Ace said without looking at anything other than the screen. “He was interested in my history with the practice, I was interested in why someone who looked like him was interested.”

“Why do you say that?” Meg asked. Ace smiled.

“Eddie looks like a rich boy and is a rich boy. I wasn’t poor growing up, my family does pay for my education, but Eddie is old money. It made more sense when he told me he was sick a lot as a child and read copious amounts of… Anything, really, to pass the time. His family is also weird, not like mine, but…”

“How weird is your family?”

There was silence. New York boomed through the speakers. Meg looked at the screen and fought her feelings.

She desperately wished she hadn't left, that she hadn't come back for her mother's funeral, to take care of her dad, to meet Herbert West…

“I’ll tell you if you tell me the truth about you and West.” Meg looked at her, glad to ignore the television. Ace continued. “I know you and him weren’t together. Sure, it made sense, but other things didn’t click. Your dad suddenly losing it, really losing it makes no sense. I mean, I thought it did, but then I thought about it again, and…”

“Ok,” Meg said, stopping her. She put the bowl down. She had no idea it had even been on her lap—she must have eaten almost all of it. Ace looked expectant. For a second, Meg almost felt like telling her everything—to unburden herself:

Let someone else have all this mess, go to bed and don't think about it for a while. C'mon. Of everyone you've ever met, she is probably the least likely to judge you.

C'mon, Megan. Say it.

Say it.

“It's complicated. It's…”

“OK,” Ace said, with a nod. “I get it. Let's finish the movie, ok?”

Dark at first. Slab, in the middle of the room. A corpse, looking at her. It was her own mother's, of course. Her dreams were getting less subtle.

“Meg,” a voice, a hand on her arm. Herbert materialized in front of her, the needle full of green—pulsating and neon. The newfound fluorescents did nothing for her complexion.

“You are cold, sure, but you have some warmth to you. Your aura. I read it somewhere…”

“Thanks mom.”

“How old am I?”

Why do you ask?

“Meg,” Herbert's hand went further up, to her forearm. He was closer, the needle squirting reagent. “I can save her. I can cure her. I can experiment on her.”

Less and less subtle.

What?

She didn't know. She looked at her mother's corpse. She had no head.

“She doesn't have a brain.”

“She doesn't need one,” Herbert said and smiled. With an almost skip of his step, he walked to the slab.

Meg watched. She also wanted to know what would happen.

“The head is in the trash can,” she said. “I should put it back.”

“No. It'll cost us results.”

Meg watched.

“Maybe if I…” Herbert looked back at her. His eyes were green. Expectant.

There was a tick tock. It was her Felix clock. Eyes going back and forth.

“Ms. Halsey.”

“Yes. I want you to save her.”

I want to know.

Meg watched. Herbert injected the reagent. He looked at the watch he had on his wrist.

“Twenty seconds…” She approached the body, and him. She put her own hand on his forearm. He didn't move. He seemed to be sweating, damping his blue shirt. “Thirty seconds.”

The trashcan started screaming. Both she and him looked at it, startled.

“Go get it,” Herbert said, finally. Meg turned towards him, an indignant expression on her face, nails against her palms. “Well? It's your mother. Not mine.”

“Your parents are dead.” The screams were louder, but she didn't budge, she kept looking into his eyes. Herbert looked back.

“So are yours. Fetch the head.”

Meg walked to the trash can—her doctor resolve on, her pink scrubs immaculate, ready for surgery—and pulled it out. Her father looked back at her. He was screaming, but no sound came out. That seemed natural to her.

“What now?”

“We'll sew them, of course.”

Meg never did see the sewing. The dream shifted. It was her house—not her old house, the house she shared with... Her mother and father were drinking tea with her. The television was on, airing Sixteen Candles.

“I'm so happy you invited us here,” her mother said, putting her cup down. Her head was sharing a neck with her dad's.

Meg beamed.

“I'm glad you could make it at a time in which… is at home.”

Her fiance… Husband… Was a doctor. She stayed at home a lot. She was happy. He was making noise in his office, getting something. She didn't know what.

“A bright young hope for the future of medicine,” her dad said, assuring her mother. He turned his head towards her. They had half clothes, her mother wore red, her father wore tweed. He had an earring on, she had his reading glasses.

“I'm back,” he said, entering the room, well humored. Meg was happy with the choice: He was tall, athletic, brown eyed and brown haired. He was bright. He was perfect.

She fixed her bob, making sure it was flipping inwards.

“...Is happy to finally get you here, mom,” Meg said, when he sat down.

“Oh yes, Meg talked so much about you. You're basically her idol.”

“Oh, please. I did my best with Meg, but it was all her. She's the bright one. She gave us no troubles.”

“No bottom drawer files,” her dad said and laughed. He laughed too, her mother laughed. Meg didn't laugh immediately, but read the room and followed suit.

The dream shifted. Meg was fucking West on the slab. There was no mother, no father. The room was darker. The clock was gone. They panted and sweated out.

She had her old white bra on, which she sometimes wore beneath more sheer blouses. It was loose on her, he had pulled it down to see her body better. Otherwise, she was naked. West dragged his hands up her torso, towards her breasts, and squeezed them. She was on top. His glasses were gone—had fallen somewhere.

He looked up at her while she looked down.

The room seemed to be composed of them alone. There was no sound other than the metal underneath, the panting, her moaning, his moaning.

More vocal than originally expected…

But he is intense, isn't he?

That's a way of saying it…

“Harder,” Herbert said, commanding. Meg stopped, locking her legs on both of his sides. “Meg,” he said, putting his hands on her hips, to pull down. She didn't budge. They were both out of breath. Her hair definitely looked ragged, but he still looked prim.

She hated that. She wanted to keep hearing him make those noises. His naked torso was illuminated by the shallow fluorescent light, his legs were half naked…

God…

“Or what? What are you going to do?” His eyes sharpened.

“Leave, but you don't want that, do you?” Meg locked him further in place. He smiled. “I figured as much…”

Mockery. His main defense mechanism.

That and attacking.

Silence again.

“Why?” Meg asked. The question seemed to echo throughout the room. Herbert raised an eyebrow.

“Why?” He repeated, half laughing. She wanted to kiss him, but had a vague notion that much of the sex was prefaced with her being pressed against a wall—or vice versa. “Why do you think?” He buckled again, she didn't let him.

“I don't know. That's why I'm asking.” He grunted, squirming.

“You and I… Are similar.”

“How?” Meg asked. She couldn't possibly understand. Herbert stopped trying to push into her and she counted that as a victory. He raised his body, pulling her closer, his lips touching hers briefly. Meg didn't try to pretend she didn't want to and raised her hands to bury her fingers into his hair.

“The main difference between you and I,” he began, looking into her eyes, caressing her neck, going down to her collarbone, with the hand he didn’t squeeze her waist with, “lies in upbringing. You were appropriately raised by a cushy family, in a cushy neighborhood. Had I been brought up as you were, maybe I'd be more like you. I'd be a nice proper doctor. I would have had swimming lessons. I'd have an alcoholic mother. I'd learn how to pray. I'd have found myself a nice girl…”

“...Or boy…” Meg completed. He smiled.

“Oh. You're not even sure I'd be interested in having you like I am now, are you? Pretty little Meg Halsey…” He took a strand of her hair in between his fingers and let the thought trail off as he began thrusting into her again, with some effort. “How long have you wanted this?” Meg sighed. He sounded perfectly normal, unphased. The sounds were gone.

This was natural to her.

“A while…”

“What's a while?” Meg didn't want to say. Herbert laid her down on the slab once more, for a more comfortable position. She flinched at the cold against her back. His head covered some of the light in that strange space and she saw him with a halo around his head. “What's a while, Ms. Halsey?”

“A… week? Two… weeks?” She asked. She didn't have the capacity for coherent thought while he was fucking her. “At least since… Since you…”

“Yes?” He asked, leaning his head slightly to hear her better.

“...Came to my house…” He laughed. Meg hated the way it made her body tingle. She put her hand over his heart and the facade fell through when she felt how fast it beat, pumping blood into his veins.

He didn't stop. It was as if he wasn't human.

“God, you are such a little whore, ms. Halsey. Maybe our sweet red haired classmate was right…”

“I didn't… Think about it…” Meg explained. “I don't think I know. I wanted you to…”

In the car. She remembered. You stared at his hands too much not to want them on you.

Herbert hummed as if he heard her thoughts, putting his hands over her again. She had one leg raised—he had a hand on it and another over her stomach.

He thrust into her harder and she moaned louder. It was rare she had full freedom to make noise like that, to show how pleased she was. He smiled.

“You used to ride those stupid men, in dormitories, inside your childhood bedroom,” he dropped his body further into hers, kneading them together. She put her legs around his waist. “And now look at you. You're under me. You and I, ms. Halsey…”

“Yes…” Meg agreed, powerless to think or say anything else. Her mouth was dry. She dug her nails into his shoulder, wanting to grab him as strongly as she felt, as much as she wanted. He didn't seem to mind.

Didn't you have a husband? Fiance?

You did…

Somewhere…

“You and I…” He repeated, thrusting, slightly out of breath. Meg put her head against him, moaning against his skin. “...Will live lifetimes together.” He raised his head and kissed her forehead, next to the roots of her hair. “You'd make a fine specimen.”

When she came in the dream, she woke up.