At last, Val slept, long and heavily. His body was unused to sleep, strugged with it among other inflictions it had recieved that day. He blinked in and out of conciousness a few times. He had a dream which involved horses, an animal he had never seen in person. Apparently in his subconcious, their legs moved like the spokes of a wheel. They were red and brown with green eyes and huge rows of teeth. Their bones were very brittle. They tasted good. Some of them had horns. Those didn't taste so good.

Patches was there, to be devoured as well. In his horrible, noble way, he went down, but it wasn't easy. He did not taste like anything Val had eaten before.

As his body warmed, Val rolled onward. Sometimes he saw hills, as though Ritz and the priests had really just left him where he fell, staring up and out of the collapsed walls of the Ring. Their ridges were perfectly formed, perfectly spaced, draped with a faint blue-green mist. The rain must have stopped.

One time, he saw the sun. “Put it away,” he muttered, and flipped himself over, pressed his face down into the pillow. Someone turned him back over before he suffocated.

The last thing he saw, that resembled the dreams of sufficient sleep, was Patches seated on a swivel chair, awkwardly skinning an apple. He was funneling great concentration into his task, but his hands weren't working right. Unable to run the blade smoothly, he lopped off chunks at a time.

Plop. Val smelled the skin and the stale juice. A bit too bland for his fantasies. Also, if it were his dream, Patches's hands would never be bound in such a way – encased in a brick of plaster, gauze wound so thick his fingers couldn't bend. Val tried to imagine the bandage away, but it didn't work.

He had landed.

---

The maroon blinds that stretched from floor to ceiling were pulled shut and there was no light but the single lamp, a golden glow beneath a mint green shade. Not a window in sight. Someone had heeded his request to hide the sun.

Val stretched. It felt like a stake was driving into his side; he felt needles: a tube stuck out of his left arm and another went under the sheets. A sharp pain worse than any needle shot up his gut and he balled up, and slapped his hands down on the covers of his bed. He was in the luxurious clouds of the Phoenix building clinic, in a bed facing the painting on the wall.

Green mountains.

At the noise, Patches seemed to slowly surface from a trance of his own. He looked over Val cautiously, but did not speak. He looked bland, and sad. His eye did not move. He was going to watch until Val told him otherwise.

Val forced himself to unwind.

“So,” he said. “What did you think?”

"I..."

Val held his hands up. Half to beckon a reply, half to see if his elbows were functioning.

"Vengeance achieved?"

"Stop. No... It was a mistake." Patches set his mutilated apple down. “But I won't do it again. I promise.”

“Noted. But how about this?” Val swept his hands around them.

Patches blinked.

“See something different about where we stand?”

“No....”

“You were awake and I was asleep. You know, for all the pains I took to avoid that, it's not a bad way to wake up. I get the feeling it wasn't very exciting for you, though.”

He gazed up. Patches was staring at his own hands. Back to his usual habits.

Val breathed in the fresh conditioned air of the clinic and tried to normalize himself. “You are full of surprises. I can't believe you're up and about already.”

“It's been two days.”

"What, two whole days? No wonder I'm starving."

“Are you hungry?" Patches lit up, very faintly. "I bought some of your favorite. The licorice, the fish and... various other things. Just to try. And coffee.”

There were six cups of cold coffee surrounding a pot of white flowers on the bedside table. Leaning against the table below were six bulging bags marked with the supermarket logo. They were tied with clumsy bows, waiting like sad little wrapped gifts. Patches was feeding Val a plea with his watery grey eye.

Something was rotting in the bags, faint but sure. Val sighed, reached and a sore arm out. Tapped Patches's knee.

"I could use something natural."

"Oh."

"How about that?"

Patches gingerly held out the apple. "I haven't eaten any yet. You can do it, if you feel..."

He surrendered the knife with total, ignorant ease. It was nine inches long and serrated. Val chose not to comment and took it, and the fruit. He began snipping out tiny pieces, that was all he could handle. His jaw ached and clicked when he moved it. The pulp in his mouth tasted faintly metallic. Patches stared at him contentedly, with a gaze that floated.

Val held a sliver of apple up and Patches awoke again.

"No. Thank you."

"Still not hungry?"

"Not exactly." Patches prodded the fabric over his stomach. "But there are still stitches there. Haven't been able to eat anything solid. So I'm starving, for once. Could use one of the steaks you showed me, when we get out. The ones they threw on the black stovetop and poured-"

Val bit his lip. “Then let's not dwell on food. How's your hand?”

Patches wriggled the attachments under the wrap that covered his hand like a cast. “Doctors here are like magicians.” He smiled slightly. Val had been required to look close for the signs of a smile or frown in the past, but somehow this time, it was a recognizable expression. Patches was relaxed. Perhaps he was drugged. His face smoothed and softened around the row of stitches that ran up from his chin in an angry red line. He wasn't wearing a bandage over his eye - the cavity was dry, must have been properly disinfected at last - but he didn't make efforts to turn away, or hide his hands. He had removed his scarf, the red welts on his neck were tender. He'd been scratching the scabs again because they were in full bloom. Among the gristle was a new pinprick of red, that of a large needle. All in all, a decent display. Val was grateful.

He was grateful that the spectacle was so sure to repel everyone else. It was only his. That would have to be corrected soon, but as long as he was there, he could indulge.

Happily adrift, Patches stared back.

"You look perfect," Val told him. He twirled the apple core over in his hands, his fingers were feeling a bit less numb now. "How could I stay asleep with you here?"

Patches turned away. He might have been even been trying to redden or retort, but he wasn't made for it. He simply looked disinterested.

Sitting up became easier; Val was eager to brush away the shoulder walling him off; coax something out, take a closer look. He made a sore mistake. Swinging his legs around took the wind out of him. Patches rose to his feet at his sudden ducklike gagging.

“Let me help you.”

“No no no. Nope! Just – give it a second,” Val tugged at the tubes, feeling the slither of needles under skin. His legs drooped off the pillowy mattress like lifeless worms.

There was an embarrassing pause. Patches was poised to strike, Val concluded it would be a shame to turn him away.

“Okay. You know what, please do. Just to get me up. Slow-ish.” He raised an arm and Patches set a firm support under it. Rising was effortless with that. “What an odd thing. My feet are fine, knees are alright, it's standing that's the problem.”

“I didn't touch your arms and legs. It's only the rib fractures you're feeling,” Patches said.

“Just a couple of little, merciful rib fractures, huh? I can't even stand up.” Val took a tentative step and winced. “They put you in the executioner's pit for a reason. You knew what you were doing.”

Patches was subdued. He didn't speak but he didn't let Val's body go.

Val rambled on. “Which means, you knew you didn't have to stay. You knew after a couple smashed ribs I wouldn't be going anywhere on my own.”

“I just wanted to see you.”

He spoke levelly, there was not the remotest sign of emphasis on his face. With Patches, that was to be expected. But his bandaged hand steady as it was, fasted tight against Val's side. The bones seemed to slice through, burning his lungs. Val balked. Throw him off. Throw him away. He's seeing you, he'll never look away now. He's going to kill you. Val willed these words into his head, but like Patches forcing facial expressions, it wasn't particularly convincing. Still, even if he doesn't notice, it will happen. Loosen him up.

Val babbled, “So, I met your organizer. In person. What's she say about all this?”

As desired, Patches eased his grip, and Val heaved a sigh of relief.

“Her season is over.”

“Huh, so she's not there anymore?”

“She's out until next fall. I've given her a lot of trouble, but it was best that she was here for it. I don't know who the winter organizer is.” Patches flushed slightly. “I've met him, I just don't remember him very well.”

"What's he look like?"

"Like anyone else. I think."

“They're still okay with you going back after all this?”

Patches began to give his generic answer. Val took a hot, strained breath and clenched his hand on Patches's shoulder. He was not truly interested. The Ring was the last thing he needed to talk about now.

“Let's step out,” Val said quietly.

"Should I bring some of the food?"

"Not now.”

Patches shifted to open the door. “Are you leaving?”

“I can't even make it to the front door. You have nothing to worry about.”

---

The hall glowed in late sunset. The numerous windows and walls, and the clear rooftop panel of the Phoenix Building faced nothing but clouds and the gradiation of red to violet; they may as well what been sitting in the sky. At the hollow center, the height of several stories, there was the enourmous hologram of a globe with numbers running across it. The projection's range hovered around their floor that day, because the upper floors were being used to hang the building's gigantic holiday display; a series of boulder-sized red, white and gold baubles suspended at various length from hundreds of glass-paneled meters above, tied with large, glittering bows, which were actually sheets of printed plastic, each one wide as a car.

Translucent panes and warm metal shone serenely before them, reflecting the reds, golds, whites, and the reflections of the reflections, smooth as silk. The world of wood and sand arenas were miles off, and far below where they now stood. Patches and Val leaned over the railing, which like its surroundings, was little more than a glass panel in metal frame. Touch automatically became delicate.

There were some echoes from outside, distant traffic. Val looked the structure up and down, taking it all in, then doing it again and beaming. He missed being aware, seeing and being able to know where he was, planning his routes. Patches looked down exactly once to the miniscule image of the lobby eons below, then pulled back and closed his eyes. He set Val down and edged away.

Val tilted an eye towards him. "Head hurts?"

"A little."

Val turned once again outward. "Just take it slow."

Patches steadied himself against the railing. “Val, are you still going to leave? Once you can walk, when I go out or look away, are you still planning to disappear?”

“Possibly. Now that things are settled, I have time to think about it. I can't just jog off right now, so thinking's really all I can do.” Val laughed. “I don't like to think about the future. Setting plans only leaves them to be spoiled.”

"Will you come back?"

"I don't know. No future, remember?"

The globe flickered, shuffling in an update regarding the price of oranges.

“I can't wait to get out of here,” Val said.

“Is it really so enjoyable? Leaving everyone behind.”

“I'm not leaving them. It's a little like... I'm the one taking the break, so they're the ones going on ahead. Anyway, it's not about anyone else, no person in particular matters when they're all running on ahead. It's about myself. That's all.” Val scratched his face.

“I don't understand what exactly you do.”

“It's not hard but – look, if I just went around saying where I go and what I do, when how would I ever get away?”

“That's true."

“Don't worry about it.” Val said.

Patches obliged him, and returned to staring into space. Val rested his head on the cool rail and felt the throb of his bruises. He probably looked a wreck, but Patches had said nothing, showed nothing. Like he'd forgotten already. "And you?" Val asked. "Are you still planning to chase and hope for a nice get-together?"

Patches shrugged, with painful effort.

"You can quit that. I don't even mean we'll end up fighting again. You've seen all I have to offer. Get back to your work. Find someone nice, I've seen how you are now, you have your own charm. You know what to say, moreso than I remember you knowing, you don't trash people when their backs are turned. And while you have the power, and lord knows accidents happen, you're not about to lay punches for no reason. Intention or not, is more valuable than you know. You'll be fine. Let other people get close. They'll come if you ask them. They'll see they're in luck." Val smiled at the window at opposite end of the hall. "People are good, you know that now, you should let them be good to you. And we'll both have what suits us."

Patches leaned heavily on the rail. "You were always better at planning than I was. You think about everything."

"You still give me too much credit, but-"

"I know. The way you're planning keeps everyone safe. It's better than nothingness, it's balance, and fulfillment. There won't be any more misunderstandings. Nobody will ever hurt you as I did. And I know nothing else will touch me either."

"Hm." Val was sensing this compliment was running down an unfamiliar path.

"No more reason to destroy booths or arenas. I understand what you say. So perhaps this is... greedy. Or ungrateful. But..." Patches mumbled into the railing, "This... time. Being here. Just talking. Just trying something new. New food. Even being cut and watched, and beaten. It... isn't so bad."

They studied the reflection of the red and gold baubles in the rail. Patches kept his head down like a log. Val pondered, and eventually hauled his body around to face him. Head on, once again. Beckoned.

“Patch. Come over here.”

Patches blinked and, as though Val might have been referring to someone else, only took a small step closer.

“Closer. That's fine.” Val looked his friend over. “Now – bear with me. A game. Can you touch... hm. Touch your nose for me?”

Again, words from some alien commander. But Patches did so, with the gray fingers of his unbandaged hand. Val smiled, and went on. “Now the ear. And shoulder – watch your stitches. Hand on the railing. Here. Look down. Do you see anything interesting? Something bothering you?” Patches stared down. His eyes watered. Val set the weight of his hand against his shoulderblades, and Patches's felt a pang of tension run down his spine, curling within his churning, empty stomach. A violent mess of patterns and needle-sharp points. Dropping to the floor below.

"This is the kind of thing that causes trouble. And you know, that after the brand of trouble you cause-"

"I should be down there."

"You're no fun." Val stared down coldly. "Even Verd had more of a taste for life."

"I know. I should be thrown off. I--"

"But does it bother you?"

"It doesn't bother..." But it does. "It's... not much. It's the floor. I can't look at it. I'll..."

"Does it hurt?"

Patches frowned. That was not a question that should have been directed at him. He was distracted. The floor sank out of sight.

"If things hurt, you can always stop. Why do you keep looking? Why listen to me?"

But it was fine now. He was staring into nothing. As long as Val needed.

“Alright, that's enough. Here.” Val held his own hand out and Patches, for his final trial, placed his hand on it.

Val's hand was warm and seemed alive in its own right. He squeezed the battered knuckles and misshapen fingers, feeling through to the ground-down bones and muscles and veins and nerves snaking around them. He locked their fingers together and pulled tight. Patches twitched. Val apparently found some amusement because he snorted. Then he stepped forward, their chests pressed around their interlaced hands, he wrapped one arm around Patches's shoulders.

They stood, wound together, for a while. Their breathing didn't match. Patches couldn't slow his down. He needed the air, he felt his heart was collapsing in itself.

Val released him and smirked, but not so viciously. "You understood what I said. Not just now, but before the fight. In the apartment. Things aren't a perfect fit. But if you still want to drag this out, sit through the pain and ugliness, I might have an idea.”

There was a faint scent of ammonia and rotted fruit between them. Val inhaled deeply, reabsorbed them all.

"I'm listening," Patches said.

“I've asked you to do a lot, but I haven't really said much, I know, it's a problem. But there's so much to get out of the way, so much to say, so much lost time already. And no guarantee that we'll even understand each other." Val drew back. "But for all the failures, you've can be amazing. It takes a while, but I know it. It was always like that. Something just out of reach but..."

He smiled, no teeth for once. "Like an angel."

"Thank you," Patches said automatically. Val gave him time to digest. "Angels. That's not something I'd aim for. Is it the eye?"

Val shook his head. "Not that kind. Forget them. You're an angel that exceeds any of your grandfather's little projects, who the hell knows what those really were. Angels aren't those wooden porcupines with holes drilled in them, they don't need cameras, and they don't worry or hate the harm that may come to them because on the whole, they are untouchable. It makes sense that a simple cutting up means nothing. Who cares about arms or eyes or fingers. Their power is... not something taken so easily. It's horrifying, but we can't look away. And you have the power to smite me whenever you want, all the more amazing that you don't want to do it."

"I don't want..."

"Don't want much?" Val licked his lips and continued. "Hold onto that thought. It's why I don't know what to do with you. Even I don't know what I want, or how much, how much either of us can take. And if there's really anything to take. It still kills me that I decided to introduce myself to you all those years ago. That I bothered to care about some sad kid in a tree, before I had decided what to do with myself. When I finally picked a path, I didn't realize what a huge weakness I'd already taken on. Letting someone in before the doors were made. An unerasable weakness, by my incompentence. And your own power. The original joke has turned into something... too ridiculous."

He tapped Patches on the chest with his index finger. It reminded Patches of a time, one sunny day years ago, where he would have been enraged. Time and place was everything. In this time and place, he willed for Val to touch him again.

Instead Val stood back. A silhouette against the blinking lights. "But it's not like I'm short of weaknesses, anyway. And if it's more trouble to run, without the guarantee of success, maybe there are alternatives. Maybe I just have to... rethink what I want. Maybe it would actually be practical to have you around. To talk about how I'll look is one thing, but when I think about being together, if I see past the picture and to the function – it's not pretty, but more could get done. Working together. Yeah, you can do a lot I can't.”

“Yes.” When Patches spoke, his chest seemed to vibrate a painful amount more than Val's when he talked. “It makes sense. I could help you, like you helped me.”

"If you listen, I could find jobs for you. And now that your mind's clear of challenges..."

"Yes. No more fights."

“When I have to move things, or get somewhere...”

“Moving things – that's something I can do. Like when you-- ”

"I know that you know how to keep a place clean. Keep people under control."

"I've been doing that for years."

"And you're used to dealing with bodies, and I saw how you ended the guy in the bathroom."

Patches simply nodded to that one.

“It's just an idea for now. Since I'm not going anywhere yet,” Val said carefully. “But as long as you're willing to listen to me, and as long as you're willing to follow, and you have no other plans – maybe - this time I'll take you with me.”

Patches was silent.

"It's practical. I like you, but considering all else, that's the final reason."

"..."

“It's just an idea.”

Something was boiling up.

“Patch?”

“Yes. I'll do it! Please.”

Val tilted his head, caught Patches's one eye with his two. “You don't need to be making the request. I'm the one asking you. I'll be the one needing your help, more like your obedience along the way. You get that, right? This is going to be me telling you what to do.” He enunciated the final phrase strangely. "That was something you always hated."

“Things are different now.”

"They aren't so different." Val laughed nasally. "You're really jumping the gun. Remember how you used to throw yourself at anything in your way? Didn't go well. We won't be going public, but leaving it entirely. So just... think a moment."

"And you still talk so much, but you can't say what you mean."

There was a pause. Patches willed himself to stop breathing so loudly.

"Is that all the backtalk you have?" Val snickered.

"It's not an insult," Patches said. "I know what it's like. Back then, and now - I couldn't say what I meant. When I cared, or knew someone did. When I wanted them to stay. That I'd hate it if they were gone. It's hard. It's that weakness, I just can't talk. It's the hardest weakness to control." Patches scraped at the red carpet with his slipper. "You were also the one who told me, it was better to talk before it was too late."

"My past self really needed a smack or two. Is it so much better though, laying yourself out?" Val set his elbow on the rail. "You must be tired. Take some time. Think."

"I've thought for years already, of having another chance with you. To have you here again, even playing this kind of game. I almost destroyed that chance, but if it's you leading..."

"Hm." Val tapped his chin. "I might have to do the thinking for you. Again."

"I trust you."

Val turned his head, profile to the glowing globe, and laughed. "And you have to listen."

Patches stared, but Val continued his wheezy chuckle.

"So your offer is a joke? I've never had an ear for jokes. So you have to tell me." Patches knew he was whining. But his head was buzzing, bubbling, he could go on. Was this how Val felt when he was unable to stop? "The talk and reparations are a way of buying time. Magnus was right. You're a demon, sometimes."

Val was pleased, but what he said was, "You're just copying what I said." He turned. "And demons don't exist."

Naturally, Patches thought. That why the word suited him. Not a normal human, but definitely not an angel, not even by his grandfather's spiny concepts. Val was slippery as oil, thin as a shadow. He may have even been gone already. Dead at 11 years. Or the 60 year old, slumped in his armchair, surrounded by rope, his favorite knife, his news clippings speaking of his deeds on the outside, magazines printed with glossy cakes and the odor of dog corpse. Dead, throat slit, body shriveled, like the records said. What occured now, the person here, whoever he was, could have been a dream, Patches's final shreds of imagination kicking out some last words before they left him for good.

All the more reason to press on, before the dream ended. Deep breaths, and, as Castor would say, look ahead. Already drowning in mistakes, there was no point staying still. Just talk.

“I have a reason,” Patches said, "to beg you to take me.”

“Still playing? I told you to think, this isn't a good start. I won't be answering you like this." But Val couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Come on. I don't have a lot to offer in return. You'll be doing most of the work. You don't even know what the work will be. Don't you have questions?"

The globe flickered again. The value of silver was up. Val's eyes slid around the hall, the building, as if there were more interesting things to attend to, but Patches remained stock still. Collecting something in himself, milling words. Before Val snatched them all up, built up those walls and disappeared behind them.

Flatter him. Call him perfect. Savior. Payback. Fate. Big words, but untrue. Desperation would embarass them both.

Val yawned. "I'm going back to bed."

As soon as he moved, Patches snapped from his daze and reached out a hand, the coffin of bandages. His arm pressed hold of the obscenely white pajamas Val has been fitted with. No doubt he wanted out of those as well. They both nearly tipped to the floor. Val yelped as the metal splints strapped to Patches's hand locked into his side.

"Sorry," Patches muttered.

"You knew what you were doing."

"I'm... you're right. I'm sorry."

"Too fucking heavy, that’s what you are," Val groaned, not a compliment, but he did not speak angrily. He steadied, set himself against Patches's arm. For all his woes in the clinic, he rested light as air. From his new vantage point, he raised his surgical-clean hands and brushed back the hair from Patches's forehead. Like a childhood summer again. A cool palm ran over the spikes of the stitches that carved into his face, settled on his cheek, thumb just below the missing eye.

Patches dropped his gaze, squeezed his eyes shut. Some obtrusive noises were making their way up his throat.

"Even with your head as it is, you're still a sucker for drama." Val smiled, still unbearably close. "A big fight or sacrifice. Saying you'll kill the cops or kill yourself. Drop everything to be with an old friend. I know it's hard to make yourself understood, but not everything needs to be your last stand. If you really know me, you should be shutting it down. Running in the other direction. So should I, but I've always been that kind of moron. So...”

"You can't go yet. Don't move too much." Patches scratched his neck to stop his hands going anywhere else. "Not yet. Please."

"That's not the problem."

"- please. Just a moment. I'm thinking. You told me. I'm thinking."

The globe blinked, a shower of white light. Val turned to it instantly as if it were the most important thing in the world. Of course he did. He wanted to be out there. He wanted to move. But it meant the world to Patches that he did not.

Not just yet.

"I can't imagine what reasons you're cooking up," Val said, his hand still moving absently. "Why you, of all people, sees the need to beg me... of all people. "

"Because..." Patches trailed, and he continued to stare straight ahead, through three glass layers of wall opposite, out to the dimming sky.

Over the city there was an expanse of violet and blue, with clouds like tiny clipped fingernails.

"Because, I think I love you.”