Patches was exhausted, yet he could not sleep. Similarly he felt there was work to do to accommodate his guest, but was not sure how to accomplish it. So, perhaps unsurprisingly, he sat down on the foot of his bed and proceeded to stare at Val. Coming to terms. Making sure he didn’t vanish.

Val slung himself across the hard rectangular bench set just beneath the window. He took a short look outside - not much to see. The glass was covered with a criss crossing metal grate (a little like the one that had been in the confessional) and looked out onto another empty cloister garden. 

For the beating he had taken during their confrontation, he was not especially tired or hurt, in the lamplight he'd swept over the surroundings with the easy litheness of a fox. He was nowhere as jumpy as Patches remembered him; he looked much neater than he'd ever been in the old days, but he still radiated a distinctive stifling aura. Something huge as the earth, singed at the edges. Every tip bladelike, you didn't grab it, didn't run, didn't wander in its way. Spines shining venomous but appealing.

Val picked the clock up off the low, square table that took up most of the sitting area and regarded it fondly. “This looks familiar. So you kept a few things.” He held it up. “Patch?”

Hearing his name startled him. “Sorry, what-”

Val was not offended but didn’t repeat himself. "So, how have you been since we uh, since I last saw you?"

"Since the accident, you mean. I've been well. You're looking... good too."

“I've been better. And you, as nice as it is to see you, it’s late. Didn’t know you started pulling late nights since we last met.”

“I was sleeping in the afternoon.”

“In those clothes? They must work you hard.”

He was still wearing his coat and scarf, as if he were headed to the Ring. He unwound the scarf and started on the top buttons of the coat when it occurred to him that he was still wearing the old bloodstained shirt underneath.

Val had produced a plastic shopping bag from somewhere and was inspecting its contents. He looked engrossed in whatever he had in there, but as soon as Patches froze he piped up without looking, “Something wrong?”

“It’s been a strange day.”

“What’s that got to do with it? Oh, gotta change to pajamas? Never fear, I’ll just step out for a while-”

“No, don’t go yet.” If Val left, he’d fly away miles in an instant. That was the way he always was; turn a corner and he'd be gone. But now that he’d said the words, it was awfully embarrassing to have him watching. After weighing his options, Patches pulled his coat off and the smell of dried blood wafted free.

Val whistled. “Nice pattern. Very bold.”

“It’s not a pattern.”

“I know, I know what happened down at the Tower. How you even got so much blood out of those guys without killing them is pretty spectacular. And none of your own got out.”

“Some of it is mine.”

Val raised a brow. “Can’t avoid it sometimes.”

Patches gingerly unstuck the cotton from the wound on his chest. It had started to seal, but the shirt was mixed in with the clot so it had to be peeled open again, chilled by the cold air that had made its way into his room. He made sure his back was turned, but it was a poor effort at concealment. A hot wheezing breath brushed his neck and when he tilted his head back there was Val inspecting the back of his shirt.

“So you didn’t get these stitched up?” Val asked, and tapped him. Patches didn’t feel the precise contact, just a small twitch, but when Val’s hand came away there was red on his fingertips. So the gashes on his back had opened again as well.

“It didn’t seem necessary at the time. I was excused from the Ring so they could rest, but a lot happened.”

“It looks like you need them now.” Val sat on the table, eyes still on the wet red spots that Patches couldn’t see. “I could do them for you. Not right now, obviously. Unless you have needles and thread lying around. I’m not a doctor, yet, but I’ve been practicing my stitches.”

At the mention of this, Patches let his eyes fall on Val’s shirt.

Under a fairly battered coat was a pure migraine of a garment. Violet thread - or was that yarn? - on burgundy with no particular pattern or consistency. The stitches were very long and erratic, and clustered together in random bunches. There were a few strips of green. Was that supposed to hint at a floral image? The fabric was also unusually dense, it hung in heavy slabs like it had been made to cover a couch.

“This isn’t my best work,” Val said quickly.

Patches turned his back again.

Val bubbled on, “If I knew I’d be coming in, uh, here tonight, I would have gotten dressed up. So you get the cold weather ensemble. It is a little stiff but it’s the warmest shirt I have at the moment.” He examined his own torso disapprovingly. “I should bug Uriel about that. Maybe I should call him now.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I’m not dressed for guests either.”

“Oh, but take a look at yourself. You think that’s not special?”

Patches looked at himself. The wet patch over his chest smelled like rust and the whole thing was beginning to stick to his skin again in three places. “I’m going to change.”

“If you want. I’m glad I could meet you at your best.”

Patches went to dig up a new shirt from the drawers. There had been no need to open them in months; he normally just cycled through the same three sets clothing that never had time to go back in the dresser before he pulled them on again. The cycle had been offset slightly, and not just by today's adventure. The third set had been cut up by the attack in the tunnel. The knives, the ones that caused the wounds, that Val had pointed out. As if he hadn’t know they were there until he saw the stains.

Patches pulled on one of his few t-shirts. A blood stain started soak in almost immediately. Giving up on fashion, he went to slump on the bed.

“Dressing down,” Val commented.

“It’s late.”

Val was pawing around his plastic bag again, holding it on his lap like a pet.  Patches continued to stare at him, though he was beginning to get tired. Nothing especially interesting had happened so far, but he was just content, so content to stay as he was because he knew well by now what happened when a dream ended. There was no need to worry or question that, but he should take what he could, while it lasted.

“So. Val, what were you really doing here tonight?”

“I came to see you.”

It’s what he wanted to hear, but knew better than to accept. “Dressed down. You couldn’t have known I would be at the chapel past midnight. And you brought that with you. What is it?”

Val gave an exasperated sigh. “Alright, you got me. I was picking up something. A favor for a friend.”

Echoes of Ritz and Uriel. But Ritz and Uriel had been doing favors for Val, so there was someone even higher in the chain. It pained him just slightly to believe Val might have been subject to someone else’s will all along.

“Not a good answer?”

Patches stared into the wall behind him.

“I can tell, even if you don’t say it. But it’s nothing serious,” Val laughed, after a moment. “Want to take a look?” He stood up before Patches had a chance to move from his seat. Standing over him and smiling mercifully, he lowered the bag so they could both look.

The bag contained three opened metal tins of Tiamat’s favorite tea. There was also a fourth metal container with was completely unlabelled and more of a canister shape.

“Apparently, Magnus called this afternoon and asked her to give him some of this stuff. Just an excuse, I guess, to talk. Later that day he decided he was just too lazy to get it, so he asked Uriel to do it, and Uriel told me, since I would be here anyway. Those were his words! I wasn’t planning on coming today. I didn’t have time until real late, so I decided, why not wait for you a little. Maybe a change of scenery would bring us some luck.”

Patches nodded dumbly, but his head had suddenly grown heavy.

“So maybe we have Uriel to thank, I mean, it was perfect to meet you under those circumstances now that I look back at it. All the candles, the atmosphere was better than your average empty day. A sign.”

He could barely keep his eyes open. Any other occasion, and even any other person standing over him, he would have just given them a last ditch crack to the head and dropped. But a crack to the head seemed so out of place on Val, in his room, at this time. Would such a thing even work in this dream?

“The only thing not so hot about the deal is that I wasn’t dressed for it. You didn’t see it but I was a little more prepared those other days. Not in a tux or anything. I don’t have one.”

There was a hissing from the plastic bag, softer than a snake but as sinister. Val set it on the floor and settled at the foot of the bed.

Patches struggled to move his mouth. His flimsy, weak mouth that could hardly come up with a comeback on the best of days. Val was humming, contentedly, waiting for something. Waiting for his way out. As soon as you closed your eyes, he would disappear.

“I must have surprised you too. Though I gotta say now, I’m not opposed to your version of dressing down. All the refs looked so stiff in that black getup. Is it secretly comfy or something? I can’t believe it.” He glanced down with a pleasant, generous smile and cupped a hand over his right eye. “You look better when you’re not covering your face, too.”

Patches set his teeth together and hauled himself upright, muscles heavy as lead, as if he were emerging from a pool of tar. In spite of himself, Val jerked back, his first real sign of shock that night. Patches fell, full weight, forward onto the sheets like a breaching whale and locked his hand around Val’s raised forearm. Like anyone, Val had taken the usual defensive stance, hands up as if they would shield him, but they just served as convenient grips. Even Val left some easy openings, Patches thought, feeling the pulsing wrist under his fingers. Then his core gave out and he collapsed in a heap.

Val moved to pry himself free.

“Wait.”

Val put his free hand over his chest in mock horror. “Damn, you just never change, do you?”

“You’ll do-” his body had fallen asleep, his mind was aching to follow. “You’ll do stitches? Tomorrow?”

Pulling together those questions was like hauling iron weight up a mountain. His tongue ached.

“Right. Right, right.”

“Tomorrow.”

”You feeling okay?”

“Good. And I need to tell you-” That was all he mustered before the lights went out. But he was, in fact, feeling pretty good.

---

No need for a dream that night, and even if he had one, there was no need to keep hold of it as he drifted back into wakefulness. He stared hard at the ceiling for a few moments. Today its twists and turns and curves and coils didn’t so much as brush his consciousness, he was preoccupied with catching up on all that had happened.

Every image came back to him perfectly, even if he didn’t have the words to describe them just yet. But it had all ended with him falling forward on the bed, and closing his eyes as Val dislodged himself from his dying grip and faded off. Hours for the slippery shadow to fly far away.

Patches gave a sigh and committed himself to starting his search again.

He tried to raise his arm but found it wrapped to his side, tangled in the quilt that had been partially unfolded and pulled around him in a distinctly unnatural manner. His feet were weighing down the still-folded portion, while his upper body was bundled with the other half. He struggled out of the bind and slipped to the floor.

Val jumped at the sound. “Huh? What? Oh, uh, have a good rest?”

“Sorry. Were you sleeping?” It became evident when he turned, that Val had not bed sleeping. He was seated back at the windowside bench, feet up, with the plastic bag on his lap.

“Got up a while ago.”

“You’re still here.”

“You thought I’d leave? I said I would hang around. Well specifically I said I’d be there ‘tomorrow,’ and it was past midnight when I said that, so I could have really gone twenty-four hours and come back, but that would confuse even me.”

Patches opted to accept this silently. He sat at the foot of the bed and watched Val do what he was doing, which was eat raw tea leaves from a metal tin.

“You must be hungry," Patches said.

“Oh man. I’m always hungry.”

Patches went for his coat and noted the three red stains that had taken hold of his t-shirt. “I need to shower.”

Val nodded nonchalantly.

“Do you want me to get you anything first?”

“Nah. I have this.” Val held up the tin of tea leaves. “Magnus was right, your boss has good taste. Maybe I should pick up a few more boxes.”

It was a funny thought, the image of Tiamat and Val picking over tea choices.

Patches dug up a towel. Val glanced at him.

“There was a guy in the showers this morning.  I was looking for a bathroom and this guy with crutches just strolls in. Spiky hair, with this incredibly loud”

“That must have been Lazlo. He was staying at his sister’s place after getting his leg cut in the Ring.” Patches faced Val, there was no obvious reaction. “Did he look familiar?”

“Nope. Uh, well to be truthful I didn’t stare into his eyes, what do you think I am? I wasn’t going to step up off the toilet bowl and shake his hand. He was going to the shower so I didn’t look, just came and went and came back here. Speaking of which, don’t you think it a little odd that they don’t separate anything in there?”

It was something close to relief that Lazlo hadn't spotted him. The situation was another absurd image. A rematch, in the tile and cement block that housed the communal bath. It did remind Patches, however, that no matter how welcome Val was to his life, all the others knew of him was an attack in the tunnels. He’d have to cover that eventually.

There was a more pleasant, immediate distraction.

“So you came back after that.”

Val held his hands out and chewed happily. “Well, I’m here, aren't I?”

“I’m glad. I was worried that you might...”

“Oh. You didn’t have to worry. I wouldn’t leave without saying anything.”

The lie was so brazen you could grab it from the air. But it wasn’t a quality Val was attributing tohimself. His eyes told was an accusation on Patches.

Patches turned. “-- worried that I made a mistake. Falling asleep with a guest in the room.”

A return attack, because there was no way he had fallen asleep of his own accord, and Val knew it. The gears in his head churned.

“I don’t care about that.” Val gazed out at the empty garden beyond the gated window and smiled faintly. “I should expect it. I’m pretty boring. And it was late.”

Patches nodded.

“You’re right.”

And with that, those particular mistakes were forgiven.

Towels and laundry in hand, Patches went for the door. The metal handle was cold. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t stay out longer than you need to. It’s freezing.”

---

Val refused to eat at the cloister dining hall, he insisted on Patches’s behalf that they visit the Phoenix Building, cousin to yesterday's Dragon Tower, in the Southern quarter. It had rained briefly in the night and the building facades and streets were darkened with the damp. The sun was shining, though, so bright it turned the world into cut-out silhouettes.

Long’s Phoenix Tower was made up of several dozen floors walled almost entirely with glass. From a distance, at the right (or rather, wrong) time, the sun shot straight off the entire face of it, forming an brilliant burning pillar that loomed over the city. At any other hour it was impressive in a different way. Looking up at it, you could see all its inner workings, buyers and sellers and secretaries heading up and down the stairs and elevators, heads bobbing over collections of chairs and tables, carts pushed along the circular loop that made up each floor. It was like looking through the transparent skin of some giant organism, straight through to the skeleton and blood and moving wires underneath.

Patches couldn’t look at it for long. His eyes watered and he turned towards the ground.

Val was waiting for him in the wide, bright lobby, from which you could see all the way up to the top of the tower through its hollow center above the circular reception desk. The flow of suited employees streamed around Val as if he were a boulder. Patches, having opted for his black coat to face the chilly forecast, was having a similar effect, with an even wider range of repellant.

Val went to the front desk and dropped off Magnus’s half eaten gift in its crumpled plastic bag. The secretary looked slightly offended. She took the bag in the very ends of her fingertips and placed it below the desk. Freed from his duties, Val bounded over.

“Okay, I’m just going to pick up something from the coffee place and we can head up.”

“Okay. Up where?”

Val tilted his head as he headed for one of the many glass panelled halls. “Somewhere quiet. We’ve got things to do today, remember? Something to talk about?”

Patches followed mutely.

For all its walls being transparent, it was not an especially visible shop. You smelled it long before you saw that it was not another conference room. Caffeine, wheat, cinnamon, sugar. Not of a home oven but of an organ in the glass beast, powering its hundreds of tiny cells. Patches ordered a single cup of black tea and sat at one of the varnished wood tables as Val chatted wildly over the head of the barista who largely ignored everything that wasn’t an order, as if he had experienced such a customer regularly.

Patches eventually locked his gaze at the television. It had been year since he’d seen one. As a child, it had seemed crucial, but now It seemed like something he would not longer be able to stand or enjoy. What the Tower Cafe was airing, though, seemed pleasant enough. The sound was off, and the screen just faded in and out of various stock numbers on an ocean-blue backdrop.

“Something interesting on?” Val asked up beside him.

“No.” That was the truth.

Val carried a paper sack of what Patches assumed was bread, and some coffees. Patches eyed the paper rack as they waited for the elevator. Val grew anxious.

“You like coffee?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, good. I forgot to order one for you.”

“Are we meeting someone?”

“No. Just gonna have a little private time. I know, hard to believe in this kind of place, but wait for it.”

That wasn't particularly worrying. Patches had just been wondering why Val had ordered three cups of coffee. He soon saw why. As elevator arrived with a soft ping, Val was inhaling the contents of one of the cups as if he would not survive without it. By the time they exited on the 27th floor, he had started on another.

Val was devouring the second half of some destroyed pastry when he pushed open the door to the mint colored room. The midmorning sun was tearing in full blast through the window that encompassed the entire wall. Patches had to squint to make any shapes out. Drapes hung on poles that jutted out of the walls, There was a blocky white desk and chair, and were those coffins?

Val ducked behind the desk and tossed down his belongings. “I forgot what this place is like in the morning. Magnus loves his windows a little too much. Pretty impressive though, isn’t it?”

It was impossible to see anything clearly.

Val sprinted to the sheer lime curtain with a shower of crumbs, and yanked it closed. As a soft shade fell over them, Patches saw that they were in reality standing in the middle of a pale green hospital room. Far from the image of a normal hospital, this room was high-ceilinged and bright, with an elaborate table of chocolate colored wood under a painting, and a matching wood cabinet in the corner. The coffins were in fact beds, fluffed so light they seemed ready to bud off and take flight like massive balloons.

The swivel chair and desk were the only things that had the steely practicality of a hospital Patches would have expected. He sat on the chair.

“Why not a bed?” Val asked.

“Not planning to sleep. And they look hard to fix up...”

“Fair enough. Maybe this will make it easier.” So onto the bed went a large black bag.

Patches wasn’t planning to sleep, but he could have done so easily. The powder soft coloring of the room, the texture of a cloud, drained him; if only this sort of room had existed back in the days where he frequented hospitals. The curtains drawn over a dazzling view of the world's firey ends, not a sound to be heard.

A black fog of coffee and alcohol fell over him. He glanced up from his daze to see Val's chest, arms outstretched and brandishing a white rag with both hands.

“Alright, let me at them.”

“I’m sorry?”

Val held a hand out over to the array on the bedspread. Indenting small lines in the marshmallow comforter were a few scissor shaped implements, some bandages and a ring of very thin, very sharp metal thread lying on a paper towel.

Patches regarded them with some fondness, like old friends. It was warm in the room. He removed his coat and then unbuttoned and slid off half the sleeve of his shirt, peeling the jellied cover from three angry, gaping wounds. Congeled blood seethed from their corners, at the center of each was a large black hole. Val slapped the rag down on his shoulder zealously. “Just gotta clean things up first.”

Patches shrugged. Disinfectant streamed down his chest.  A faint red stain blossomed in the center of the fabric.

“Might sting a little.”

“It doesn’t.”

Val frowned. It was one of the few looks of genuine vexation Patches had seen on him since they had met. But it soon cleared. “Lucky you.” And he slapped down another soggy rag.

The stitching itself required was much more ceremonious. Bent close, his wiry hair scratched Patches’s chin and the scent of coffee beans was overwhelming. But from what he could see, Patches knew Val’s hands were steady. They always were when it mattered. His breathing was even, that was something he felt too. A little (well, a moderate amount) of caffeine wouldn’t change that. There was not a drop of pain. Only a slight prickling that may not even have been from the needle.

Val was doing his shoulder first, a precaution perhaps - he could be seen and stopped if anything went wrong, corrected before completely botching two unsupervised jobs on his friend’s back. There was nothing to object. Before long, Patches resumed staring at the curtains, content to leave his body to the hands more willing to care for it than he was.

“It’s strange,” Val said, standing up and admiring his handiwork. “You have all these scars that look like you never went to hospital. But you don’t care about getting stitches.”

Patches admired it too. “Maybe I should get more.”

“That’s not something most would say.”

The short dashes of silver thread looped through mottled skin formed an almost solid shape. It slightly resembled a flower.

“It’s a good thing you want them, though,” Val said, “Because you’re due to get more anyway. If you still want them.”

“Go ahead. You did a fine job.”

Val flashed an expression of amusement and wiped his hands with one of the alcohol-soaked rags.

The work on his back tickled slightly. He told Val this. Val stopped briefly to observe him.

“Really? You can smile, you know.”

“I am.”

“Huh. Really. So you are." He resumed work. “I was going to have you talk about whatever you planned to say last night, but you know, I just feel bad.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s sort of, maybe, my fault you ended up this way.”

Patches gazed into the curtain’s soft folds. “Injuries happen in the Ring all the time.”

“This isn’t about the Ring. It’s… you remember, right?”

“Yes. I guess it technically wasn’t in the Ring. But you’re fixing it now. I don't need anything else.”

“I’m glad you think that way.”

“I’ll introduce you to the others too, sometime. They may be more forgiving than you expect. And they’ve seen worse than a few knives. The man next door to me - you may not have seen him - he suffered a blow to the face, worst I’ve ever seen - entirely by accident.”

“And he’s okay.”

“He’s fine.” Cain certainly did not seem to express regret.

“What about the prisoner? Your, ah, what do they call it... main event.”

“Our contestant. That’s for the organizer to judge. And she was not unusually upset. That was a surprise.”

“Mmh. Magnus probably talked her down. He’s good at that.”

“What would you have done if the contestant hadn’t gotten out?”

“I would have had to do my usual duties.”

“Do you enjoy your work?”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it? You don’t find it troubling at all? I’m not talking about the big one, the Ring of Light, I mean the one you were supposed to be watching. If I’m not mistaken, your job there is primarily-”

Patches closed his eyes. “I don’t have to enjoy it. Maybe when I was a child, I would have hated it. I hated a lot of things. You know that. But you ask me now, I don’t dislike it. I have you to thank for that.”

Val went silent for a few minutes. Patches couldn’t feel what he was doing, but he could imagine. Imagine? As if the dream weren’t already generous enough.

“Done here.” Val stood up. “Looks good, if I do say so myself. Give me a moment and I’ll do the last one.”

He headed for the door.

Patches pulled himself straight. The fresh stitches tugged in at the fresh holes poked in his skin. “Where are you going?”

Val looked him over with a warming pride then swiveled to the door in embarrassment. “Bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

The door closed. There were three empty cups of coffee sitting on the desk. No wonder he had rushed off. How much time had passed?

Patched turned his chair and looked over the tools on the bed. Several rags, bloody now, were trailing off a tray. They would soon stain those perfect mint green sheets. He folded them and placed them gently back on the tray. The embroidery on his shoulder squeezed out a tiny trail of cherry red blood for his efforts. But the stitches were thorough, that was all that bled. He touched it experimentally, and the thread spiked playfully into his fingers.

Back to gazing beyond the curtains, he could have waited hours. But in less than that, someone burst into the room.

“Yes, of course, I’ll call you back,” Magnus gibbered into the phone on his shoulder and then tapped the screen wildly. He kicked the door in frustration, took one step in and stopped dead. “Jesus.”

His eyes travelled from the bed to the cups on the desk and then to the patient sitting on the swivel chair. And finally, the patient’s shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” he said again. Patches stood up. “No no no, just sit for a second.”

“We met before. Mr. Long-”

“I said sit down, I gotta get someone. Hey! You!” He yapped orders to someone outside.

“I know, I have the coat today, but I’m not going to harm anyone, I just-” he wasn’t even wearing the coat. It had fallen to the floor. His shirt still hung halfway off, sliding on his uninjured shoulder. He raised an arm.

“Put that down!” Magnus nearly shrieked. “Arm! Down!”

Like Tiamat on a bad day. Patches did so and sat down. Magnus approached him slowly, as if he were a bomb. Several faces peeked around the corner of the entrance.

“Yes, I remember you. You’re that priest who went after the guards.” Before Patches could answer, the barrage was unleashed. “How did you get in here? What the fuck happened to you? What is this? Did you get shot?”

He was gesturing at the cluster of stitches. Patches looked down at his own shoulder, unsure what he should be seeing. “No, I was just getting stitches.”

“I can see that, but what is this? Are those fucking staples? No, it’s the wire - what the hell? How much is there, it’s like… a plate of it, there’s so much it’s like a metal plate. They’re all over each other and -fuck! I’m not touching this. You need to see the doctor.”

With that conclusion Magnus headed for the door.

“I’m waiting for-”

“Get the doctor up here, now,” Magnus commanded the nearest onlooker. “Whoever’s available.”

Magnus was not in the mood to listen. Patches shut his mouth. When the doctors came from wherever they had been hiding in the glass tower, they were visibly upset. It seemed out of place and pointless to try to change their minds. They brought him a wheelchair and sent him one floor down in a luxurious mirrored elevator. There he sat in blue room modeled much like the one above, cut all of Val’s crosshatched wires and replaced them with several straight lines of tiny blue knots. Then they packed him up in a few bandages (replacing the one over his eye while they were at it) and sent him home.

---

Patches rested on the window bench of his cloistered dormitory. He was lying heavily on his back, but the new stitches were holding, and the pillowy square bandages were making sure nothing disturbed them.

He could see ashen clouds rolling in above the church. Though, through the metal netting, everything looked a little dark so maybe they were just ordinary clouds.

A spidery shadow fell over the glass. From outside Val looked in with his wild cat’s eyes. Patches watched him scan the room before noticing anyone on the bench directly in front of the window. He tapped on the glass.

Patches rose to let him in.

“It’s freezing out here.”

“Management just turned the heating on.”

“Can I come in?”

Val was shuddering and looking as pathetic as possible. There was nobody around to see him, so Patches was not entirely sure what this performance was for. It was not particularly convincing. He stepped aside, leaving the doorway clear. Val stopped his fake quaking and looked at him, puzzled.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” Patches returned to the bench.

Val took a cautious step in and waited for more news. He had changed his shirt, evidently another one of his stitching experiments, only this time in blue and yellow. Patches folded his hands, closed his eyes. He could heard Val’s breathing in the corner. An even, level rhythm. Not that of a person who was desperate or cold.

“Where did you go?” Val asked.

“Magnus came into the room before you returned, he sent me down to the floor below. He was surprised to see me, I guess, but he knew exactly what he wanted to do.”

“Sounds like him. He didn’t scare you or anything?”

“No. Why would he?”

“I don’t know, the stitches weren’t finished, and there was some blood, so on, so forth...”

“Oh. He did get the doctors to remove them. I’m sorry. They put some new stitches in, really small ones. I liked yours too, though.”

Val paused and took a moment to absorb this, then laughed. “Magnus is the designer, not me or you. So if he said to replace it, I have to assume that was the better choice. What really got to me was how completely you seemed to have vanished. By the time I got back, everything had been put away. Perfectly. You have to wonder how he finds people who can do things like that.”

“Don’t you work for him?”

“And it amazes even me.” Val sat on the table, checked the clock. “What would you say, if you were asked to work in there?”

In was an unusual question, Patches had no opinion on the matter. As different as the glass walled tower was from his usual wood walls and sandy floor, he could not say he prefered one over another. So he didn’t answer.

Val waited. He didn’t get an answer. “Alright, I get it. Nothing to say, nothing to feel."

"Yes, that's all."

"Are you always like this?”

Another unusual question. Patches shrugged against the quilt. “Probably.”

“Quick answer, so you're sure? How do you now what I’m talking about? Or maybe, you don’t just don’t care. In that case, how could you possibly know what I’m talking about?”

His voice danced in playful circles around Patches’s head.

“I care about enough in life. I don’t particularly dislike anyone. And I know what you’re talking about, because I know you.”

“What a speech. You used to care about everything, feel real strong about anything you saw.”

“Yeah. I did.”

They were silent now. You could almost hear the clouds scraping their watery edges overhead. Val put his arm up on the windowsill with a tap.

Was this a good time to tell him? Patches opened his eyes and squinted at his friend’s shadow against the backdrop of the garden outside. Explain yourself. He’s looking for answers too. It’s been so long. And he’s the only one who can give you what you’re looking for. You knew that since you were young.

But since it had been so long, couldn’t that mean they were no longer the same?

Val’s stomach gurgled hungrily. This was finally lifted Patches from his swampy dilemma. He sat up. Val looked around the room as if he did not realize he had made the noise.

“You’re hungry.”

“Aren’t you?” Val replied, “I don’t even think you ate anything this morning.”

Even Patches did not recall. He had seen a lot of bread that morning but didn’t remember tasting any of it.

“This is serious,” Val said, evidently food stood higher in his mind than repair of bodily injury. “Even if you don’t feel anything, anymore, I know you did at one point. And this isn’t a thing you can just hide or lie about, eventually it comes out in noise or sickness or… Maybe you can remember. Feeling your own bones or teeth coming out of your skin, it always feels like that, that’s the anticipation. Or the taste of something specific, starting small, just the salt or sugar, growing into something bigger that you feel you could hold. Even after it’s gone. Dripping or sliding or - well, you seemed like a meat eater then, so maybe bleeding like-”

“I’m not sure.”

Val deflated. “You really don’t feel anything?”

Patches just shrugged. He felt something, but it wasn’t worth mentioning yet. He felt mildly ashamed for cutting Val off when he seemed to be leading up to something. Val waited, again, for explanation. But soon decided it would take forever, and bounded to the door. “You were a guy who always needed a practical example. I’ll take you something nice tonight.”

---

Patches was feeling rather strongly the next morning; feeling that he needed a shower to wash the grease and charcoal from his system. They had gone to a grill, that was what it said on the sign, but there was more than the expected burgers and blackened vegetables.The chef threw everything he could get his hands on into the embers, and Val ate it all. Patches had been somewhat reluctant to begin, so Val hovered over the chef as he prepared a more traditional slab of steak. It was a nice gesture. The first two had been burnt. 

The store appeared to have an infinite stock of steak, so the propriertor was willing to hand over the two burnt slabs for free. Val ate them. 

"You still don't waste anything," Patches said.

"Waste all you want," the chef said. It was something Tiamat would have shot him for. "It's all gonna go bad anyway."

And with that he drew away the sliding door of the back wall to reveal a fridge that was packed top to bottom with red meat. A loose slab rolled out even as the door gave way. The cuts ranged in size from a full animal's midsection to a cube the size of a fist. The shelves were so utterly packed that they had no risk of falling because every shelf and floorspace underneath them were packed just as much. It was as though an entire herd of livestock had been pressed into a rectangular block.

Patches chose not to look at it too long.

"Totally unfazed," Val commented, and nudged the chef. "So what is all this, really? Beef?"

"You tell me," the chef said. "It was your bike gang that brought it in."

And they laughed.

Then came the drinks, and became slightly more willing to sample the odd grease laden strands and tubes that lay on the plates he had previously ignored. Not all of them were good, but not all of them were bad. Val drank too. It seemed to only make him go ever more wild on the menu.

---

Before they left, Val had an unsurprising fit of ashy coughing and excused himself for a few moments.

Patches waited outside. The night was cool, but a warm pillow of contentment sat firmly in him, weight down by multiple large steaks. He crossed his arms and looked around. He was in an unfamiliar part of town, but it was not an unfriendly location. All up and down the street, the lights were off, the windows seemed faintly fogged over with a grey yellow tint. There were only two working streetlamps. One of them was in front of the grillhouse. 

The other sat a few meters away. Underneath it were two men in dark blue suits and glasses. When they spotted Patches, they headed his way.

He stepped to the side so they could enter the restaurant, but they stopped in front of him.

"You work at the church?" one of them asked. His glasses were square and clear. 

"How did you know?" Patched said. "Nobody else has noticed all day, not since I..." he gestured at himself. 

The strangers glanced at each other.

"I took off my coat."

The second man, in ridiculously dark sunglasses, ignored this piece of information. "We've been looking for you. Would you mind having a word in private?"

"I'm waiting for a friend."

"A co-worker?"

"No. Just a friend."

The two of them exchanged another glassy look then turned back to him. It was Sunglasses who spoke again. "We'll explain matters to your friend then, if you'd just come to the car, now-"

Patches bit his lip. It tasted charred. "I'd rather not leave my friend. We can go when he comes out."

"Everything will be explained to him, don't worry."

"He might not be here when we come back."

"Then there won't be a problem."

Patches twisted his sleeves. "It will be a problem, if I don't see him again. He's hard to find."

"Then my associate will wait here," Sunglasses said quickly.

"I have to stay. I'm sorry."

"And I've told you-"

There was an arm nearing Patches's back, and a hand in a suit pocket. He removed his arms from his chest and tensed his fingers, the knucklebones cracked. It felt a bit foolish to do out of uniform, but it had roughy the same effect. All hands stopped where they were. He said, "We will wait."

The strangers frowned. They didn't leap into action, but most definitely tensed up. They were reaching for pockets, which wasn't acceptable. It wasn't in the Ring, but the danger still stood.

A brief of noise issued from the opened door. Val emerged from the restaurant, fresh from the bathroom, reeking of handsoap, patting his palms on his sides. "No tissues left. Not a box or a roll or a bag of - I don't know. None at all. Even in the - what's going on here?"

Patches was about an arm's length from the man in sunglasses, but hadn't taken a shot yet. He dropped his arms sheepishly and turned to the strangers. "He's here. We can go now."

But the men in glasses had changed their minds.

Val frowned. "You were going somewhere?"

Patches did not offer an answer, so the man in clear glasses piped up diplomatically, "We were told to bring him in. There will be an evaluation. You might have been told by-"

"I know, I know. And I advised against it, so why are you here?"

"Your advice and help were appreciated, but you know what we have to-"

"How about this: I'll handle it. Pass that on."

There were a few dubious looked exchanged, and they ended at Patches who simply stared until Val thumped his back. "We'll be going, then."

"How can we contact you?"

"Don't worry about that, I'll be in touch." Val considered this, then asked the men, "So the boss really hasn't left town yet. Is he still at Magnus's place?"

Clear Glasses twitched slightly. A smirk, or nerves? "No, he's found some personal accomodation for the time being. Mr. Long hasn't been able to provide the correct services, so you understand..."

Val watched them for a few moments, then shrugged it all off. "That makes things a little harder. But don't worry. Your problem won't last so long that you'll have to call anyone. In fact, you should just leave when you can."

He smiled wolfishly at them and two set of brows creased over square glasses.

Val clapped his hands togther, shuffling backward. "Right. Stay safe."

His hands were still damp and faintly icy as he pulled Patches away. The bespecled strangers watched them until they turned the corner. They jogged a while, and Val stopped breathlessly at the end of the street. 

"You too," he wheezed to Patches, as if it were an explanation.

"I'm sorry?"

"I know you have a lot less to be scared of than those guys," Val continued. "But still. Stay safe. Don't jump into weird cars. Don't make promises to strange people."

The result of either the encounter or the food made Val collapse instantly on the bench once they returned to the room. Patches had watched him silently, blood warming after their chilly walk and ride back. The heating pipes of his room were pleasantly rattling, and they gathered around the vents and discussed the meat closet until their fingers thawed. Then Patches braced himself and went out for a nighttime shower. He'd rushed it, and hurried back to huddle under the covers. When he fell asleep, Val was back on his feet, inspecting the clock.

---

So, come the morning, it would be his second shower in less than 12 hours. His skin felt mealy and slick. He went ahead to the bathroom.

Steam was still billowing from under his loose shirt when he returned to find Val sitting outside his door.

“I could use a shower too,” Val said.

“You may have eaten too much.”

“I may have.” Val scoffed at that. “You had a good time?”

“Yes. I think so. It reminded me a bit of home.” The word just jumped out. It felt slightly off. Val didn’t seem to think so.

“The summer barbecues. The houses all up and down the street used to have them all the time. On the really hot days too. Just enough wind to get the smoke all over the place, not enough to get it out. The oil stuck to everything for days.”

“Now that you say it…”

“But,” Val conceded, gazing into the overcast sky, “I wasn’t sure what to order at first. I never saw you at one of those. You were always too busy, something like that. Hated the neighbors, and they didn't want you - me - people like us around.”

Patches frowned and thought. Sure enough, there was nothing he could recall of the taste or sight. “Now that you say it, it was always just the smell.”

“And damn, that smell killed me every time. It was just so good.” Val rocked against the stone wall. “I never got to go to any of their parties either. Had to settle for licking the ashes off the walls and grass the day after, or scraping the grease off plates if someone left them out.”

Patches went to the door.

Val abandoned his childhood fantasies to warn him, “Someone came to see you.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

He left Val picking at the grass in the courtyard, and found Castor waiting for him, faintly bewildered. He noticed that she also had a line of neat stitches, poking out from under her sleeve. He was happy to watch their small, jagged movements but she was staring back with a strange look of her own.

“Morning, Patches,” she said slowly. “Was somebody else in here a moment ago?”

“Yes. A friend stayed over last night. Just stepped out.”

“Oh. Well then, you should introduce us when you get the chance.”

It would be a reintroduction, but he could see why Val might have fled in the first place.

Castor motioned towards the back door, where she had apparently come in. “Tiamat was looking for you. She wants you to help clean up the Ring after last night. A couple of fences fell, and we’ll be back at it tonight, so it’s imperative to get it fixed as fast as possible.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be on the search for new material, so just set them back up, move the benches back, the typical checks. Remove any remains. I hear there may be some that stayed the night since it was chilly. Don’t strain yourself. I’ll find someone to help you out.”

“It’s no problem-”

They both turned to look at the shirt hanging on the front of the closet. He had tried and failed to wash the stains out but they had simply spread and stuck. It was a fairly grim sight.

Castor held her palms up. “Don't mess around. Those would be Tiamat’s orders too.” She left through the back door. Seconds later, Val slipped through the front.

“She seemed nice.”

“She is. They all are.”

“You mean the priests. You all care about each other. I imagine that’s nice.”

“You have your people, too.”

“Who? Oh, you mean Magnus? And Uriel and Ritz, don’t you? They’re not like that. I’m not saying they aren’t good people, but we aren’t close. That would miss the point of why I work with them. I can’t let it happen.”

“So they’re not your friends.”

Val considered this, he seemed to mouth the word friend to himself. “I’d say no.”

“A direct answer, coming from you. If you say so.”

Val laughed. “Alright, you’ve got work to do today. Should I come back later?”

Patches rested his eyes for a few moments, but at this point the answer came naturally. “No. You can come with me.”