Time rolled on, a luxury that was plentiful and undiminished in quality. Patches had never found reason to judge his lifestyle at the church, the one he’d experienced for a decade now, but with the introduction of these new thoughts and sensations to fill his time, he found that days could pass more smoothly and pleasantly than he ever considered possible.

Much of his time could be passed with him in dutiful silence, but Val provided a constant stream of innocuous sights and sounds that put him at ease. It was better than staring into wood grain or dark corners. His eyes didn’t dry, he didn’t fall asleep. Unlike watching the contenders of the Ring, he did not have to be ready to react. He did not have to strain to keep up with Castor’s reflexes or Ferris’s five-man takedowns. He was not watching for trouble, he was watching for pleasure. And he did not have to act, but was more often acted upon.

Their touch tended to be brief, and not always intelligible. Patches had attended enough of his lower school years to know what might be lying down the path of intimacy. Admittedly he had mostly overheard them over bland lunches or while tailing his fellow schoolkids in the street to their homes, but he did not have the imagination to see such things reflected in what Val did.

Val enjoyed shadowing people, which is to say, he would stand directly behind Patches, noiselessly and moving only slightly to peek around. This put himself at risk of receiving an unintentional headbutt or kick to the shin at any movement. When Val did this, he did not touch the back of his mark, nor did he speak until the most inconvenient moments - when a surprised jerk would hit him for sure. There could have been any number of times he was behind Patches and went unnoticed, but there were also a fair number of times where a shoulder checked him in the face or collarbone.

The reason Patches knew Val enjoyed this was because he never seemed upset nor embarrassed. And he continued to do it. Patches had become accustomed to moving even more slowly when Val was out of sight. He listened for breathing. Often, if he didn’t hear it, he could still feel it. The warm unseen swash of heat against the back of his neck had become as calming and welcome as any touch. Sometimes, if he were particularly taken, particularly calm, Patches would lean into it and with slow, fair warning, Val’s chest and arms would float up from behind and take him in.

But sometimes Val would be sunk too low - for whatever reason - and nearby be bowled over, else have an elbow crack his jaw. And sometimes when Patches submitted himself to a fall, nobody had been there at all, and those times were just a bit humiliating. In general, however, the risk was worth it.

Another habit of Val’s was to pick at the bandage on Patches’s face. That was what it was, picking. It was never a simple tracing around the edge, or full-handed stroking. He would start that way, so Patches was aware of an approach to his blind spots and not hastily tear the offending fingers off (which he had nearly done that rainy day) but once his hand covered the spot a strange needling would occur. He’d scrape the netting and tug the layers of cotton. He rarely talked about it as he was doing so, and he did not remove the bandage altogether, though he did sometimes bunch the gauze up oddly or loosen the tape so it lost its stickiness. Patches had no idea what he was doing. It was one of the oddest sensations he had ever witnessed, since ordinarily nobody wanted to fiddle with the bandage or what was underneath.

His judgment was not so far gone as to call it a joy, but he could say it was not unpleasant.

His stability was siphoned much more effectively by the one thing he knew was drawn up in teenage scenarios - without much warning or relevance, generally after a meal or when otherwise calm, Val would swoop upon him and catch him by the neck or the shoulder, and then close their mouths off in a mess of hungry kisses. The sudden influx of smells and taste was overwhelming, and there was the huge swaying shadow that closed in and consumed all within eyeshot. There was no way to ask, or prepare for it.

Accidental percussion on bone or teeth were no longer an issue - at least, they were no longer accidental. This being one of the few cases where Val could effectively surprise, Patches often wound up unsteady, rocking back into the wall, or the window, or over the table. It if went on long enough, he’d get a grip. He could try to push back. But Val always detected this. He planned his meals. He’d pull away just as the rose fog over Patches’s eye cleared and leave him mid-breath, dazed and off-balance.

So it was always short. Maybe that was for the better that they never moved much further.

Short commotions aside, Patches spent a huge amount of time staring into Val, past him, or at the walls when he wasn’t there, picturing him there. Generally doing what he usually did. Eating. Reading. Talking and not caring if he was heard. Smiling. Twirling old bandages, tying supermarket bags in knots. Eating again.

Never sleeping. Patches had still not seen him sleep.

Sometimes, if Patches was drifting off, his focus fell elsewhere, and only when he was no longer watching Val would approach and settle next to him. It may have been to recapture his attention for another round of chatter. On the bed or on the bench, side by side, they would breath or speak and absorb the vibrations of each others’ sounds but never touch, it would have been sorely out of place to do so, at that point.

A week passed, then maybe another, gently and easily. Patches thought comfortably, it was much like the summer they had spent in their childhood. He was too distracted to realize that he had blotted out the largest and most important moments of that peak in their history. The distractions grew larger and more numerous by the day.

Val lay on the bed, fully clothed, facedown for no apparent reason, and mumbled into the pillowcase, "I wish I could stay here forever."

"You can. Stay as long as you want." Patches gazed defiantly at the ceiling. It's stare no longer affected him.

"I meant, I wish I could stay lying on this thing forever." Val tilted his face up for air. "Your bed is perfect. Everywhere I go, the pillows aren't properly broken in. You know what I mean? Like bricks, smells like them too. You wake up with neck cramps, can't even get to sleep in the first place."

Patches waited for elaboration. Val tapped his arm thoughtfully and flipped over. "Being with you again isn't bad either."

"I was thinking the same thing."

"Really? It's strange to hear that kind of talk from you. You're different now. It bothered me at first, but... I suppose you've still got some of that edge in you, just enough to stay alive. Well. That's good enough." Val appraised him with the darker of his two eyes. "So - I could stay forever, huh? That's a big invitation. What can I even say to that? What can I do about it... being given that kind of time."

"You can do what you like. Stay on the bed, eat what you want. This only started because of you, and I've never felt more-"

"More...?"

"More of anything."

"Huh." Val twiddled his fingers together on his chest. "Patch, do you really trust me?"

Patches didn't so much as blink. "Yes."

Val smiled. "I need to think a little harder about what I say, then."

---

Though it felt like the right thing to say at the time, neither of them could really afford to stay in bed all day. Sometime during Patches's nap, Val walked off. Despite the affirmation of trust, he left without a word.

"Do you have some time?” Tiamat asked, knowing full well that Patches had time to spare. “The kitchens need restocking, and it’s a busy day. It’s always like that, one day there’s nothing to do, the next everyone’s got everything to finish. Anyway, would be able to pick up a few things?”

This was how Patches wound up at the local supermarket. When he stepped through he clattering plastic doors, he had to take a moment to adjust. For days he had been, in a way, purely living off Val’s presence. When Val was around, he went where he was told, ate and spoke when spoken too. When Val found some reason to go out - generally in the night, without saying anything - he would blankly eat from the communal kitchen and return to his room to do nothing. Still as a corpse until that knock came at his door.

This was a shift he had not experienced before. At the back of his mind, he wanted to return to the room and close his eyes and wait. But the supermarket wasn’t so awful he had to run out immediately, and failing a job so simple over some vague whim would be a pointless exercise. So he judged his situation much how he would anything else.

Not good, not bad. It’s fine. It could be handled.

He took a deep breath (now the air in the building was something he’d definitely deem ‘not good’) and started on the grocery list required for the next Ringside lunch.

It was an easy enough task, and one he had done before. The supermarket was cold, and filled with stale, slightly sour air, and he knew where he had to be and had to go, so he could be in and out within minutes. Nobody really wanted to make eye contact unless they were being forced to hawk of end-of-life products, and even the hawkers didn’t try to accost the church staff, though Patches realized now that removing his black coat might change this. As would-be shoppers shifted their eyes and swerved around him, Patches moved to the side and removed his coat.

Once he entered the aisles, another change set in, though he didn’t dawn on him immediately.

It happened when he passed the aisle of candy. Not a route he’d ever thought to take before. The noisy colors and dots and stripes of the packaging, screaming out for children who never seemed to be around. They weren’t Patches’s favored scenery, but today he took a walk through the neon plastic and found himself slowly, intently, inspecting every bag.

There were packs and packs of red licorice sticks. In similar blue and pink packaging, small oval sponges in powdery colors, labelled FISH GUMS. Chocolates the shape of mushrooms, with small pastel green caps. Tiny biscuits with a drop of icing on the tops, pills that alleged tasted like fruit, square shaped pastilles that allegedly tasted like soda. FISH GUMS in red. Tucked in at the back of on shelf, a single bag of black licorice.

One hall down, chips. Barbecue, pepper, extra salt, shrimp paste, caramel and apple, steak, squid, seaweed and bacon. Flavors based on foods he had never even seen in their own right. An equal variety of biscuits and cookies, with infinite variety of jams and butters, packed into tubes and boxes.

On frozen boxes, glistening steaks and cheese soaked meats. Crisped breads and browned burgers, pizzas and pastas and puddings. Full cakes and pies and rich brown and gold loaves, as promised by their photographs. The communal kitchen had a stove and microwave. He had never used them for anything but Ringside leftovers before.

Patches approached the sauces and seasonings aisle in a daze. This was intended to be his first stop, but it had taken far longer than expected. He bumped into a passing cart and had to apologize. People made way. His hands were both fully occupied.

“Having some friends over?” the cashier chirped.

"Just one."

"You two have good taste."

The bags were heavy. In the past Tiamat and Lazlo had complained when the bags were too light - full of air, a scam, a rip-off - so he assumed this was a good sign.

It wasn't much trouble lifting them, but it was a bit of hassle getting through the doorway, coat tucked over one arm. He had to wedge himself out sideways, bags held wide so they had space to hang, but he still heard a small crack as he passed through. Hopefully it had been the frozen pizza taking the damage and not the door hinge, or glass wall.

Patches circled a group who were wrestling with shopping carts and attempted to cross the parking lot. He slackened his arms slightly and rebalanced the three jugs of juice and carbonated water. Sidling between cars, he couldn't see much, and collided with a frantic man who was clearly not a shopper.

A pair of clear square glasses flashed, magnified eyes blinked wildly. Two hands gripped Patches's forearms. They were stronger than he would have imagined, but there was some fear fueling their newfound strength. That, and the bags were taking a toll on Patches's elbows.

The bespecled man whispered, "It's you."

"It's you," Patches repeated dumbly. He wracked his memory for glasses-wearing strangers. "Oh. I have seen you before. I saw you after I ate steak, that street grillhouse. How... are you?"

The stranger stared back at him, equally stupefied. The man's hair and tie were in a disarray, and his suit jacket had been ditched somewhere. That wasn't the only thing missing.

"Where is your friend?" Patches asked.

"My friend? My friend??" The man let go of his arms and shook his head. "Like this is just some casual matter. He's gone. I don't mean he left, not that I know of. Someone got to him. We should have just gotten on the train when..."

He wrung his dirtstained fingers. Patches saw blood under his fingernails.

"Can I help?" Patches offered stiffly. "Do you still need me to come see your boss?"

"The boss? Oh yeah, that's what we told you." A snap of a laugh. "God no, you're not needed anymore."

Patches shifted. His plastic bags in his hands were beginning to cut into his hands. "Then I'll be going. Good luck."

"Yeah, right. With you and your people running around. That fucking lunatic. But you, maybe, if I... no, no no. No-"

The man rubbed his hands over his face, under the glasses, and made a noise like a cat in pain. Then he began to pat down his jacket, as if he itched all over.

"If you need someone to talk to..." Patches started to recite unhelpfully as the man searched his pockets.

He didn't get to finish. Unable to find what he was looking for, the man in glasses gave him a final wary look and charged off.

---

Half of the groceries were left in front of the Ringside kitchen’s door where they belonged, and he hauled the rest back to the cloisters. Cain was emerging from his room as Patches fumbled into his own.

Over a hurricane of plastic bags, Cain seemed to be repressing a nasally giggle. His fake front teeth clattered. Amusement aside, he helped drop a few bags near the foot of the bed. As Patches took inventory Cain had to ask, “What is this, Patch? You having friends over?”

“Just one.”

"Lot of food."

"He can eat a lot."

Cain was surprised that his guess was correct. He surveyed the room, without looking at the ceiling. There was no sign of Val, Patches knew this. Val didn’t throw disorder anywhere it couldn’t be picked up. And though he frequently snacked, or dragged in newspaper, trash always exited the room in his pocket or a used plastic bag. Cain turned back, uncertain.

“And he’s…”

“The same one who’s been visiting recently,” Patches assured him.

“Oh, I thought I had heard you talking in here, but I hadn’t seen anyone.”

“He’s always been… private.”

“I see,” Cain said. “No wonder I never heard much. That does sound like your kind of friend, though.”

“You think so?”

“None of us are fans of noise, noisy neighbors, party people. So a laid-back sort of character, for you...” Cain shrugged cryptically and headed for the door. He stopped by the wall and took an affirmative glance at it, tapped it briefly. “In any case, it’s good news to me if you’re, uh, settled now.”

It was such an unnatural comment that Cain bolted out of the room in embarrassment. Patches had to close the door after him. He unloaded a few of the foods into the bed and set them out in a grid. With the snacks that were packed into less shapely bags, he forced them into a box shape as best he could, for the sake of appearances. More than a few chips were heard shattering with his efforts. Finally, he regarded his display. There were so many options, it gave him a mild headache, but when he thought of Val, teeth and firey lungs and all, and found himself at the window bench with a irrepresible smile.

He gazed into the waves of the wall behind his bed while he waited. A network of long wooden streams running from the right end of the room, near the window, to the door. Somewhere along the line was the spot Cain had seen which inspired his offhand comment.

It was a few inches from his bed, and in this particular noonday light, from his vantage point at the bench, Patches saw that he had over the years, worn a length of the wooden edge down to a sandy blemish.

He knew exactly what had depleted the glaze, the resin, down to the base. Over the years he had beat himself against that edge, tearing wounds into his shoulders, chest and back for reasons he could not put into words. It was right next to the bed, so he could do so while sitting. It was convenient, but on the other side was Cain's room. That was never a consideration when he got the impulse.

At the time - more than one time for certain - it had been the greatest sensation imaginable. Or rather, the only sensation within his grasp. To burst open his chest, cut his shoulder on a wooden edge, it gave him a little satisfaction. Something would register, something thrown through that constant haze of gray that had congealed over his mind since the end of that childhood summer, when the accident happened. Open a fresh wound, pop some stitches, as a reminder. He could repeat the things he'd learned that day with some conviction. You’re human. You must be prepared. There’s something - someone - out there more powerful than you.

The latter part of that was still true, but pain was no longer requisite. The challenges this great and powerful something posed were completely different from how he imagined.

With his remaining daylight hours, Patches proceeded to botch preparation of a frozen pizza in the communal kitchen, before the other priests came in for dinner. He tore through the box, nearly pulling the pizza in two, an inauspicious start. The dough folded haphazardly on the foil as he shoved it into the oven, and flopped as he dragged it out, sending a few precooked peppers to the floor. One end was burnt, from the other, cheese and sauce sagged, steaming globs joined the peppers on the ground.

The white sauce pasta had better results, because it only required the microwave. It steamed under its smooth blanket of oily sauce. Appearance-wise, there was nothing wrong. But the entire kitchen smelled of cheese.

To balance it out, he heated some tiny garlic bagel pieces. The resulting odor matched that of a dumpster. Patches wiped down the counter and microwave until it seemed better (or his sense of smell finally gave out) and bailed.

He brought the platter to his room and opened a window. He was sampling some of the yellow Fish Gums and watching the muggy night settle over the courtyard when Val returned. Val froze in the doorway as if caught in headlights. He tilted his head (towards the strongest savory scent, naturally) and smiled gleefully.

“Are you having a party?”

“I was asked to go to the supermarket, picked up a few things.”

“It’s dark in here. Is it a surprise? My birthday?”

“Is it your birthday?”

“No,” Val said, and turned on the lights. His eyes shining, he circled the table like a predatory fox. “So you stock up like this every time your boss sends you out?”

Patches stared him down and felt a slight warmth spread across his skin. “No, it’s for you.”

“Seriously, are you - you - you shouldn’t have,” Val wheezed. He came in slow but was clearly homing in on the mutilated pizza.

Patches was drifting off. Fish Gums were as flavorful as styrofoam but they were a pleasant occupation for his hands while he watched Val indulge himself on his gift. Val, for his part, had been given so much he had no idea where to start. Patches's eyes washed over with a placid haze as Val circled the table, a slice of pizza in one hand and five-fingered attempts to open fresh snack bags with the other. Patches shut his eyes and faded into the sound of foil crinkling and the sight of Val frantically downing pizza so he could start on his next conquest.

He could count the number of breaths he took on one hand before his rhythm was offset by another set of breaths hitting his face.

He opened his eyes, and there were Val’s mismatched eyes, somewhat crossed from this distance. Val wasn’t closing in for a kiss, he just was waiting for Patches to notice him. He had something to say, that was actually intended to be heard. And he may have been hoping for a dramatic crack of foreheads with his usual poor placement.

Patches tilted forward drowsily and tapped their heads together lightly. “Yes?”

“You’re amazing, you realize that?”

“You don’t have to keep sayingthat.”

“It makes me feel a little bad.”

Val’s face was steely, wide eyed and serious. Patches pulled back slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a flaw on your part. I just feel bad because here I am, with a home… cooked… meal and all these things that I like, and I never have anything for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Patches said.

“I want to, I just - I’m not used to this,” Val laughed nervously. “But I’ll make it up to you.”

Patches was silent.

“Something on your mind?”

“There’s no need for anything,” Patches began, and felt a weight suddenly place itself on his tongue, “You. You have already given…”

Val waited, but the sentence had given up midway. He flopped to the carpet in mock exhaustion and Patches felt his breath lighten up. Val pawed at contents of the table. “So how did you come to pick out all this?”

“I chose what I thought you’d like. Or find interesting,” he added.

“Well, that smell sure is something. You were spot on.”

Patches didn’t feel the need to respond to this. He was aware it was a compliment, but there was coldness to any reasoning or continuation he might have for it.

Val licked his upper lip. “You could guess, you knew, just from watching.”

“Yes. What else is there?”

“You’ve been watching pretty hard.”

“I’m always watching.”

Val eyed him, sideways. “Yeah, you were always observant. Always good at looking and sticking to it, for as long as I knew you. A little too good at it, if you ask me. I guess I should have expected this. What can I say, though, grandpa would be proud.”

Patches’s head grew heavy. He got up to move to the bed and the Fish Gums that had been sitting on his lap nearly wound up on the floor. Val’s arm shot out like a whip at the last moment. Fish saved. It was an inhuman movement. Patches thought somewhere in his addled head, even Castor wouldn’t be able to stop him. He was proud.

Val chewed and stared peacefully at the little angels sitting on the ceiling, the ones that Patches was about to face from his bedspread. He inspected them each, before turning to Patches, who was loitering over him.

"What are you looking at?"

Patches shook his head. "Nothing. I'm going to lie down."

“Take it easy. I’ll make it up to you. You know, I’ve already thought of something! I think you’ll like it. Or at least find it interesting.”

---

It was a painful week for Uriel, who had been tasked with helping Magnus on his search for the missing inspector, but had been given virtually no leads or correspondence. In reality, he suspected Magnus was trying to keep him out of the way, since he had plenty to say in opposition to how the case was being handled and they both knew Magnus despised hearing even the most truthful criticism. Also high of Magnus’s list of repellents: personal appeals and human interest anecdotes. An emotional appeal in Val’s defense might have given him an aneurysm. So there was no way he would be willing to hear Uriel’s story, and that made Uriel want to shout it out all the more.

Magnus was good at setting up barricades to his meeting room, as well as hiding where exactly his meeting room was, so Uriel was stuck trying to expound on the nature of the human heart to Ritz, who was proving to be as sensitive as a brick wall.

“I don’t know if you’re right,” Ritz said. They were people-watching. Ritz was slouching on top of a car and the people passing were trying not to look at him. “Val might have a lot of friends who we never get to see. I almost never see him anyway.”

“That’s because he’s never home.”

“Because he’s busy. I bet that’s it. With other people.”

“How many other people could there be, and what kind of crowd is it that Magnus can’t track him down when he’s needed?

“I don’t know,” Ritz reiterated. “But they must be really good friends.”

“Ah, you’re getting it now. The point I’m making is there are people closer to him than you or me. Or people he allows to be closer.”

“Oh, so you know these people?”

Another close guess from the master of witless intuition. Uriel was not yet ready to resort to fanciful examples yet. Hand-holding or heavy petting and then mention Val in the same breath - he wasn’t that sure. He just wanted to make a few jabs and jeers with someone in the know. Why was that so difficult?

Ritz nearly got proof firsthand later in the week. Uriel was on his bike, hideous sidecar in tow, ferrying Ritz to some ivory manor in the Eastern quarter so he could trim some hedges. This was all the explanation he had recieved, and Ritz was squeezed beside a huge duffel bag of tools, so it must have been a major job.

“Look at that,” Ritz said at a traffic light.

There was Val. And beside him was Patches. A unicorn of a situation had appeared before Uriel for a second time.

They were standing side by side in a moderate crowd. Patches was utterly unremarkable having removed the usual black priest’s outfit and marked only by a clean, nearly-invisible bandage. Val was easy to spot, though. He always was, in the cases where he allowed himself to be seen. Patches was holding Val’s arm discreetly, in the midst of the crowd. But something was different about their interaction this time.

Val was standing out, but it became clear to Uriel that he didn’t want to be seen. He also knew he was being watched. And he didn't like it.

Val was mouthing off quickly and intently at Patches, whose eyes were glazed over, whose arms and legs were held still and solid as tree trunks.

“Don’t point,” Uriel hissed at Ritz as if he were a child.

Neither of the pair on the street looked in their direction, but Uriel knew that Val had sensed something, if not seen them for sure. He began to wriggle.

The light stayed red, and he stayed put, in spite of his efforts. Whatever Val was doing, it wasn't working. He was being held.

Val’s arm was struggling futilely as a strip of rubber in Patches’s grasp. For a moment, Uriel was afraid, though it was a ridiculous notion that Val, a shadow being who had managed to harass Uriel and Magnus and who knew how many others, and escape each time with a laugh, was imprisoned by some bigger monster who was just awkwardly holding his hand. Reduced to a small, frantic animal in large, stupid hand. Even if he wanted to flee he couldn’t, shackled with a force that didn’t even have to pay him any mind. Uriel wondered if he had been wrong somehow and his sympathetic imaginings had to be reformatted. Thank goodness he hadn’t blabbed to Magnus yet.

But then, Val calmed - almost seemed to shrink - slid his hand free and out of sight. Loosed from his anchor or whatever may registered in his hollow head, Patches slipped back to reality and swivelled stiffly about in confusion. Val could have easily slithered out of the crowd, but stayed, set a hand on Patches’s upper arm - hard or sudden, judging by the jump, and said something short and fast. Patches hurried to respond; he was shying back, eyes down, penitent. He was clearly apologizing. Val directed him away from the crowd and they disappeared in the opposite direction.

“They're going the other way. We’re an hour early, let’s go say hi,” Ritz said. “Magnus is looking for Val. It’s lucky he’s here.”

“No, I’m not wasting time on that.”

“It will be fast. I’ll go over and--” Ritz was about to drag one leg out of the sidecar when the light turned green, and Uriel took off again. There was a thump, and then Ritz was back in the sidecar curled around a bruised knee.

“You can hunt him down later. I’m dropping you off and then I’m getting that coffee I desperately need.”

Huddled back in the sidecar, Ritz scraped at the piping that ran along the edge of his duffel bag. “That was Patches.”

“No kidding.”

“I see what you were talking about. They looked close.”

“Hm.”

“Closer than they will get to me or you, right?”

“Yeah. Though it’s not that Val’s never breathed down our necks before, it’s more like they’re willingly close. No one’s running away.”

“And that’s...” Ritz narrowed his eyes. “That’s... bad.”

Uriel inhaled sharply.

“Right?” Ritz said.

“You're asking me? I wouldn’t know.”

The sky sailed overhead; the city was experiencing a stretch of good weather, but the forecast was not optimistic. Uriel tried to concentrate on the road, Ritz had managed to throw him off even more than he already was.

“I did have a weird feeling about them,” Uriel said, “But now that you’ve seen it, why do you think-”

“Oh!” Ritz broke in with a sigh, “So you think I’m right. I was feeling bad for a moment, I thought you were going to argue and say… what you usually say. The opposite. That they’re good together, some… some shit.”

“This is Val, we’re talking about,” Uriel chuckled flatly.

“Yeah, you’re not stupid. You wouldn’t miss it.”

“Well, being close to Val is like stepping into a furnace. And one of those priests-”

“It’s not about being close.”

Uriel bit his tongue.

“It's not a bad thing. Not really. They get close and they don’t run away,” Ritz said, “They are close but they can't be happy like that."

---

One afternoon, Tiamat had Patches carry a delivery out to the far side of town. Large, metal boxes - if asked, he was to claim they were electrical equipment. It didn’t bother Patches that he didn’t know for sure what they were.

Val had left early again. He was no longer leaving notes, but Patches was not duly concerned because he seemed to return reliably by the end of the day. And this morning he had done something different, tiny but extraordinary. Patches had been woken by him, or rather, the warm swells of air against his face. It was before sunrise, which had been getter later and later as winter dragged itself in. When his eyes opened, the ceiling could not be seen, and though it was dark the darkness that obstructed his view was something closer. He swept a hand before him drowsily and clipped Val’s jaw.

The skin didn't pull away. Instead, he felt another hand fall over his, keeping him close, brushing over faint unshaved bristles to the lips. He felt a soft, warm pressure graze over his knuckles. A link so small it was unreal. He didn't move.

Patches's arm was set down on the covers, and he saw Val was looming overhead like a vulture. Val hung there for a while, then murmured in a bashful voice, “I’m going now,” and that’s what he did. A slight weight lifted from the covers as he did so - not anything near the weight of his body, but a noticeable change.

This tiny encounter had settled itself in Patches’s head and did not leave him for the further hours he slept and after he woke. It had the perfect quality of dreamlike aura but lifelike clarity that stuck with him. It was also the first time Val had actually said goodbye. The realization of that would sustain him through any task he was given, he was set for the day.

Patches lugged the two rectangular silver cases out of the church and across the grassy field, which the gardening crew had taken pains to restore in the past week. They had done a good job. He tried not to upset the mud any more than he needed to. The boxes were large, but thankfully not too heavy.

With a few worried glances from the driver, a bus carried him to rust and red brick vistas of the Southern district.

The boxes were dropped off at an unlabelled warehouse. Nobody was there to receive them, but nobody was there to steal them, either. Patches lingered in the abandoned lot around the warehouse for a few minutes, admiring the quiet, the staple gray of empty parking lot asphalt. There were no birds, no humans, not a speck of greenery to be seen.

A near-perfect little block in the city. A week or two ago, he would have considered it legitimately perfect, by the reaches of his (admittedly stiff) imagination. Now, he was not so opposed to including one or two people.

Fifteen minutes away was a familiar alley, and coffee shop. The staff were pleasantly unobtrusive, speaking mostly in muffled sounds, and moved at their own pace. It took fifteen minutes for a breakfast tea. Patches sat in one of the black iron chairs and inspected their ceiling while he waited. There was a network of orange cracks and mould radiating from the light fixture. He opted to close his eyes instead. Picture that morning greeting again.

He exited the shop to the bright white of the day and the roar of motorcycles. Patches rubbed his eye, and coughed, bitter exhaust swept down the street. The noises, for the most part, passed quickly - save for a single bike that remained, purring, in front of him.

“Strange seeing you here.”

Patches strained to take in fresh air. Through the fog he saw Uriel perched on his sleek black bike, with a capsule containing an extra seat jutting out artlessly from the side.

“And how have you been?” Uriel asked, unaffected by the smoke.

“I’ve been well. I’m just here to deliver a few things.”

“What a coincidence. Delivering is my entire business.”

Patches nodded, it sounded like something that could keep a man busy. “I only had to move a few boxes. I’m headed back to the church now.”

“I’m about done, too.”

Patches nodded again. He was trying to remember the bus route back but seeing Uriel sparked a question he hadn’t had to ask before. “How’s Val been?”

“You’re asking me, of all people?”

Uriel was not angry, nor was he panicked and offended as he had been the last few times Patches had met him. He had a lopsided smirk on his face. He may have been telling a joke. It was hard to tell. Could Val not have been well?

“Well, I’ll see you around,” Uriel said.

“Wait. He is okay, isn’t he?”

Uriel had rolled a few feet past him by then, but puttered a stop. “You know how weird it is to hear that?”

Another possible joke. Patches advanced on the bike, arms tensed at his sides, and Uriel scrambled to reconstruct his answers. “I’m sure he’s fine. He always is!” This stopped the threat, at least temporarily. “No need to get wound up over Val, I’m sure by now you know how he is.”

Patches seemed to deflate where he stood. It was amazing that such a brute could turn inept with a mere sentence. Uriel watched him, moved an inch, looked back, moved another inch and sighed. “Why don’t you hop on. My guys can handle things for today, I can take you back to the church. I have a few questions too.”

---

Don’t encourage it. Don’t touch anything. Don’t stick your hand down that hole. Remember what Ritz said…

What the hell does Ritz know, Uriel growled to himself. And there he was, zipping through the Southern Quarter with Patches wedged in the sidecar, his thick coat bunched up like blankets.

“So how have things been on your side?” Uriel asked. “No more walks down the highway?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m guessing not. You shouldn’t be running around, aren’t you on leave or something?”

“I’ve been resting. Did you hear it from...”

“Magnus was the one who told me. He’s been speaking to your organizer lady, grilling her about that missing man, the guy who was at the church, got dragged out, and Magnus thinks he probably got dragged back in. Blood on the pavement, something like that.”

“They haven’t found anything.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. I stopped by there a couple days ago, they really combed the place through.”

“They ruined the park and found nothing.” Patches seemed to be struggling with his own mouth as he said this. “But they are working hard.”

“Think they’ll find him?”

“I don’t know.”

No productive answers to be had. Uriel stopped at the next light to scrutinize his passenger. “How’s Val? As much as you’ve seen of him, anyway.”

“He’s… good.”

Another limp response. But Patches wasn’t struggling with this one. He had simply gotten distracted by some image that existed only in his head. Uriel tapped his handlebars impatiently. “Maybe I can guess. He’s been eating a lot, and he’s probably fine.”

“Yes, he’s good. When I see him.”

The sunlight glinted off the glass face of the Phoenix Building as it flew into view.

Patches might have been dozing off. He was relaxed - possibly for the better. Uriel lowered his voice. “You two have been seeing each other often, haven't you?”

“Once a day. Sometimes it’s a long visit. Sometimes he only comes back in the evening. It’s not too often.”

“Once a day is often for him. Unless you get a lot of other visitors?”

The answer was predictably no.

“I’m going to level with you, Patch,” Uriel said, “You’ve probably seen him more in the last couple weeks than Ritz, Magnus or I have. You guys aren’t planning something, are you? Magnus already suspects Val of all kinds of things, the missing man being one of them.”

Patches had the dazed look to his eye again.

Uriel streamlined his question. “So what do you guys do when you manage to meet up meet up?”

“Eat. He always wants to eat. Talk.” Patches stared at his knuckles. The scars were lighter than they had been before. “For the most part, nothing. Eating and talking are his pastimes. Sitting and watching are mine. We do our own thing. I feel that…”

“Yes?”

“It’s not important.”

Uriel waited, but Patches had given up on that tangled line of thought. Uriel said, “Being able to do what you want, allowing each other to do what you want, that isn’t unimportant.”

Patches looked up from his hands. “That’s how it is. You understand.”

“I’d hate it if Val forced me to eat whatever he was eating. Jesus Christ.” Uriel shook his head. “Never really gone to dinner or anything with him, though. You guys used to do this when you knew each other before?”

“If you mean, before this month, no. We were really young, wanted different things. He always came back, though. It was a lucky thing for me.”

“Must have been good friends.”

Patches struggled to confirm this. “It’s different now. He’s very much the same, and he says I’m still a lot like how I was, but we pass the time differently. The mood is different, it’s good but it’s not the same at all. A friend...”

“He’s not a friend like your fellow priests, huh?”

“No, he’s closer. Sounds strange. Uh, it’s hard to say this, but I’d let him closer and he-”

Uriel hit the brakes. A long light on a four lane intersection. He cross his arms and creased his forehead. The whole conversation was starting to aggravate him, but at the same time, he wanted an answer. The impulse for insufferable gossip, the worry that Ritz’s omen would lead to some horrible bloodbath, whatever, he needed the truth. Better to make a grab for it while the interviewee was at his mercy, locked in that shitty sidecar. “You don’t have to answer this, Patch, but I’ve been wondering. Are you guys together?”

Patches’s cracked his knuckles, staring ahead. The noise made Uriel’s hair stand on end. “Alright, alright, it’s alright, if it’s too personal. I mean, it doesn’t have to be the bed- uh, private business, I wasn’t even thinking of that, I was just thinking of it as an everyday thing, the time you spend and things you do and I don’t know what you-”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yup. Of course you do.”

"And..." Patches slumped down in the seat. “I didn't know how much I wanted to hear it.”

Uriel stared dead ahead. Patches took a breath.

“It sounds good when you say it like that. Together. I’ve actually… I’ve actually been wanting to heard that. Or to say it. And you saw it, you think we are...”

“Well, uh, I just guessed. I did see you out a couple times. So you two are a thing.”

“A thing, or things. I forgot you could call it that. Yeah, I know what these words mean, but I didn’t know if I could use it. If it was right to. I haven't... had much reason to think about it before. You think it works?”

“That’s up to you.”

“It works for me.”

Patches was managing what Uriel could almost recognize as a smile. His bandage creased, he touched the edge absently, pushed the tape back. Almost human. Uriel moved his eyes to the road. “So you don’t mind.”

“Mind?”

“You don’t mind that I know, that I said that, that I know.”

“Not at all. No, I’m glad. There’s so much that’s happened since Val arrived, all that confuses me, I should be thanking you. Together - it’s good to hear. So much is always out of place that when I hear the right thing it’s-”

And he dropped back into his catatonic dreaming.

Uriel smiled. “People are confusing. I had no idea what to make of you when I first saw you, but who knew you’d end up with him. He baffles me. And the people we know, Magnus, Ritz. Even before I got here I was never good with people. The biggest challenge came with this girl, this woman who drove me crazy. Hah, you don’t meet as many around here, but maybe you can still relate to this. I couldn’t get anything done, she always wanted my eyes on her. We really raised hell - well, it’s more that she got me to raise it for her. I felt like such a moron, all the time, it was like being hypnotized. But you know what - I asked her to marry me.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

“That was years ago, but what the hell. I can’t see her anymore, and she really put me through the wringer, but between you and me, I wouldn’t change anything. Sometimes that feeling is a good enough answer.”

“I had a lot of those times. Mostly, things that happened a long time ago.”

"Same here." Uriel turned them down a local road. “For my girl, that is. I’m still looking for answers when it comes to Val, though.”

They continued in amicable silence. Patches appeared to fall asleep with his eyes open, but the look on his face remained, his dream was a pleasant one.

“So how did you two really meet?” Uriel asked.

“When I… it was a long time ago.”

Uriel had been pondering how the two could possibly have hit it off after the attack in the Ring, but this detour took him by surprise.

“Ah- you're talking about when you first met. You’ve known each other for even longer, then. What was it, met in school?”

“I don’t know if Val went to school. But he did always knew a lot more than me, so maybe he just did classes at home, or in the city. Though I never saw where he lived, he always came to my house. I didn’t know why and I hated it sometimes, but now I look back and see he was my only friend.” Patches rolled his eyes up skyward. “He was a good friend. He always had better manners, too.”

Uriel swallowed a laugh.

They passed through a neighborhood of dull, low rise concrete blocks. Uriel stopped beside a rather pathetic looking lawn that was half bald yellow sand.

“Want to drop by?”

Patches blinked, leaned over the edge of his seat. “I’m sorry?”

“Want to drop by Val’s place, see if he’s in? Since we’re in the neighborhood.”

“I don’t know where he lives. Is it very close?”

Uriel frowned. “He hasn’t shown you his place yet?”

“We’re always at the church.”

“The church? Man…” Uriel ran a hand through his hair. “We can still check out his place, if you want.”

“Is that okay?”

“Val’s leaked my address to all kinds of people, you wouldn’t believe it. What I don’t get about that is that he's giving up his own address too, since we’re neighbors. I’m sure he won’t mind me doing the same, if it’s you.”

“And you?”

Uriel shrugged. “He’d take you there himself eventually. And then there’d be no point in hiding.”

"Should I..." Patches struggled to think of the appropriate course. "Should we call, first?"

"Go on ahead."

Patches stared ahead, blank as a sheet, and something clicked.

Uriel raised an eyebrow. "No phone?"

"I have a phone. It's back in the church."

"And number?"

Patches fixed on the nearest building, trash bags in the open halls, one balcony overflowing with plant life. His gaze softened and he sank back into the seat. “I can wait. If he’d take me there eventually, I’ll wait.”

“Patient. Bet he appreciates that. Well, since you don't know yet, I'll let you in on something - he almost never picks up the phone anyway.”

They continued on their way. Phoenix Tower dropped out of sight, and ahead of them, cropping over the skyline, was the blocky silhouette of the church.

“Is Val at home often?” Patches asked.

“Nope,” Uriel replied instantly. But he considered this. “I’m out all day, so I may not really know. Ritz might know more, of course he’s out most of the day too. That’s right, in case you didn’t know yet: Ritz is our neighbor too.”

“Oh.”

Uriel had to watch the highway, but he wondered at the brief answer. Was that jealousy? Or was Patches simply spacing out again?

Patches spoke up again, faint over the sweeping wind. “What exactly is Val’s job?”

“God, what a question. Like I said, I don’t see him all day. I can’t even be sure he sleeps at night, much less what he does during the work day.”

“He said he works for Magnus.”

“That may technically be true, but Magnus is having a hard time tracking him down, so who the hell knows what’s really going on in that head of his. Whatever. As long as he’s not wrecking the place. He wouldn’t be the same without the mystery.”

“That’s true.”

“It would be a load off if we could get answers from him, just some of the time. Magnus really thinks he could have done something to this inspector.”

“Oh.”

“What do you think, Patch? Does he have it in him?”

“To have done something to this... inspector?

"Well, I can't say what-"

"Of course.”

Uriel turned his head, in spite of himself. Patches was still staring ahead contentedly, head tilted back. Totally serene. Without further prompt Patches mumbled, “He wouldn’t be the same without that impulse.”

Uriel opened his mouth, but had to swerve to avoid a sedan changing lanes.

They continued on, no more to be said. When Patches unstuck himself from the sidecar and lumbered across the green, back to his room in that fortress, Uriel recalled what Ritz had said. Not happy? Well, Patches didn’t seem like a person capable of delight, but he wasn’t upset.

Together. Not upset at all. Uriel tried to tell himself that was what mattered.

---

Patches took Uriel's shred of notepaper to the church foyer. This was where the telephone was. It was, of course, not his personal phone. He'd never had anyone to call, anyway.

It wasn't even near his room, it was behind the reception desk, and someone else was already using it when he approached. One of the chapel service priests was speaking softly into the reciever, though he hurried with his message when he saw Patches seat himself on the nearby bench.

"Yes. Yes. I'll be by tonight. Yes, I'll pick up the chicken - not the chicken? What was it- I'll think of something. Yes, of course. Love you."

The priest hurried off, nodding to Patches briefly.

The phone was old, red plastic with a large, simple keypad. Patches thought of Magnus and his secretaries, and their dextrous hands on their tiny computers and telephones. Their jobs were so complex. What if they misdialed? How did they decide what to say, if someone did pick up? It occurred to him that he hadn't made any personal calls in years. Perhaps it was not the time to start. Simply calling Val up to see how he was.

He was stalling.

Uriel's handwriting was neat and clear. There were 8 unambiguous digits. He was sure he had gotten them for admitting what he thought. He wasn't sure if he deserved it. Hearing Uriel speak of his wife had indicated that something else was expected. But Uriel knew that he'd wanted this number. He'd been right. Patches collected his thoughts and keyed the numbers in.

The phone rang twice before it picked up.

Stiff with nerves, Patches said nothing.

Likewise, nothing was coming from the reciever.

"Hello?" he said, at last.

There was still nothing. Then, a thud. He thought he heard a voice, but when he strained there was only a wash of background static.

"Hello? Val?"

Patches waited. He thought he'd hear another thud, but it had been the front door of the foyer. A small group entered the chapel, chattering quietly. They did not give him more than a glance, did not loiter, but they were within earshot. He felt horrendously out of place, speaking into the void when people were watching.

He listened intently to the sound of the static. Had it gotten louder? Sharper? Hardly. He thought he heard some distant thumps, but as the visitors headed up the stairwell, he realized it was there footsteps. From the phone, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Well, perhaps nothing was the preferable-

"Hey," drawled Val's voice over the reciever with a furious crackle.

Patches frantically searched for something to say, but Val's voice cut him off.

"This is, uh... if you called, you'd know who I am. I can't come to the phone right now, so just... leave a message after the beep. I - uh - beep. There. Did you hear it? Di-"

The message ended abruptly. The line fed him static for another few moments, then went dead. It was a relief. Patches concluded that he wasn't made for phone conversation.

But it had been good to hear that voice.

He nearly considered dialing again.