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Chapter Text

As Gemma starts shedding her turquoise long-sleeve in favor of one of Devon’s sleep shirts, Devon tries her best not to stare. She tells herself it’s just because she can’t believe Gemma is here. Alive. In her—and Ricken’s—bedroom.

Devon casually wanders around the room, tidying up in an attempt to keep herself distracted. She still finds herself involuntarily sneaking glances at Gemma’s physique, her mind wandering to the first time she witnessed Gemma’s body this bare.

It was a little over a decade ago. Devon had been out at her regular bar, Violet’s, with some friends the night after spring finals. Devon was a bit of a late bloomer, finishing her first year at 23 years old. This was something she normally would have felt insecure about had the demographic at Ganz College not skewed older. She told herself this was a perk of starting her higher education journey at a community college.

She and her friends were all past tipsy, celebrating their temporary freedom from academia as they welcomed summer break with open arms. She must have been on her third strawberry mojito when she spotted perhaps the hottest woman that has ever graced her vision from across the room. She was also with a couple women, both on the older side. But her attention remained fixed on the brunette with eyes that glinted with pure joy and wavy black hair that resembled the grooves of a jagged-cut onyx.

“Hello,” Marie drawled, waving her hand inches away Devon’s face. Devon snapped her attention back to the table to find all of her friends snickering. 

She rolled her eyes, momentarily struggling to find her straw with her mouth. “You guys are so annoying,” she retorted lightheartedly.

“Sorry, we didn’t know we were crashing your imaginary date with Professor Chance. Do you want us to leave? Give you two some privacy?” Rooney teased. The rest of the table all murmured in sarcastic agreement. Rachel jokingly pulled her bag onto her shoulder in commitment to the bit.

Devon’s eyes widened. “Wait, that’s Professor Chance? The one you’ve been talking about all semester?”

“Oh yeah. Everyone’s obsessed with her. She’s easily the hottest professor in the lit department.” Rooney absentmindedly stirred her drink as she glanced over at Professor Chance. She took a deep breath in and let it out in a dreamy sigh. “Honestly, I never would’ve guessed that she was gay.”

“I mean,” Rachel interjects. “She might not be. Looks like she’s here with Professor Jennings and her wife. They could’ve picked this place.”

Violet’s was not a gay bar. Ganz wasn’t quite big enough, or progressive enough, to have such an explicitly scandalous establishment. But all of the queer people in town knew that it was the closest thing that they had to one. It was the town’s best kept secret, and Devon and her friends made themselves at home here at least once a week. Sometimes three or even four times a week during particularly difficult exam seasons.

As Devon’s friends argued over the various indications that Professor Chance did or did not bat for their team, Devon took a back seat to continue ogling at the professor that had been the talk of the town. Or the town’s young, thirsty lesbians at least.

“Just because she has long hair and long nails, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t munch on some carpet sometimes!” Rooney defended, already somewhat slurring her words and definitely speaking too loudly. “Devon. Why don’t you go over there and put some moves on her? You never took one of her classes. And you’re, like, easily the biggest slut out of the four of us.” Marie and Rachel both nodded their heads enthusiastically. “If she turns you down, she’s definitely straight. And if she doesn’t…Well. I’d hate you, but you would also be my hero.”

Devon giggled, a light flush creeping up her neck. She had certainly been making the rounds since starting classes in the fall. Her roster varied wildly, mostly landing on women, but sometimes letting some extremely lucky men into her bedroom when she could manage to get them both undressed before any meaningful conversation was able to take place.

“Alright alright, you know I love a challenge.” Devon jokingly cracked her knuckles and stretched her neck before scrunching up her loose, shoulder-length curls.

She made her way across the room, mentally hyping herself up as she got closer to Professor Chance’s table. You’re the hottest bitch in Ganz, she repeats to herself, preparing her lines as she gets to be a pace away.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Devon opened, meeting Professor Chance’s curious gaze first, then briefly making eye contact with the other two women at the table before returning to her objective. “I just had to walk over here to ask—are you okay?”

Professor Chance instantly paired her confused expression with furrowed brows. “Yeah, I’m—sorry, do I know you?”

“No, no, sorry. I just ask because you looked like you might have a fever.”

“What?” Professor Chance’s eyes widened. “Oh god, do I look ill?”

“No! Very much the opposite actually.” Devon stepped in closer. “But if I could, I’d still love to give you a little check-up. May I?” Devon asked, holding her hand out and gesturing for Professor Chance to do the same. The professor hesitantly offered her hand, which Devon took into her own. She made a show of inspecting it, turning it over, studying every line and freckle. She even worked her way up to the professor’s wrist to check her pulse. Professor Chance and her colleagues watched with rapt albeit amused attention, waiting to hear about Devon’s findings.

Finally, Devon completed her examination, looking up to meet Professor Chance’s eyes with her own. She raised Professor Chance’s hand to her mouth, kissing the back of it while maintaining eye contact. Then she channeled every ounce of charm that she could muster to land the plane. “Well, I’m shocked. I was sure you must’ve been burning up on account of how absurdly hot you are.”

Professor Chance and her colleagues all burst into fits of laughter. Devon mentally patted herself on the back as she released Professor Chance’s hand, admiring the sounds of delight pouring out of her mouth. She looked even more beautiful than Devon would have imagined was possible. Devon suddenly got the urge to paint her joyous visage, despite having never picked up a paintbrush in her adult life. In an instant, she understood what all of those dusty old men were talking about in her Art History class when they talked of their muse.

Devon found her manners and introduced herself to the table. The older women that her friends pointed out as Professor Jennings and her wife introduced themselves as Kara and Laurel, respectively, and Professor Chance offered the name Gemma. “Gemma,” Devon repeated, letting her name marinate on her tongue. Upon her first taste, she knew she wanted seconds.

Devon allowed her usual charm to carry her way through some generic small talk until Kara and Laurel announced their departure shortly after, creating an opening for Devon to invite Gemma back to her place. When Gemma offered her own place instead, Devon bashfully agreed, remembering that her tiny apartment with two roommates likely wouldn’t have produced the best first impression for an older woman.

They didn’t get any further than second base that night. Their bodies tangled on Gemma’s green velvet couch while greedy hands grasped every inch of bare skin that they could reach. Eventually, when Devon reached for the button of Gemma’s jeans with a silent question in her eyes, Gemma smiled and gently shook her head. She gave Devon one last kiss before claiming an early morning. Devon noticed that Gemma intentionally avoided any mention of meeting up again, so she disappointedly but respectfully followed her lead.

Devon never told her brother about this. Not when he mentioned her by name two years later after pestering him relentlessly about why he was so giddy as of late. Not when he “introduced” the two of them a few weeks after that. Not when he announced their engagement. Not when they got married. And certainly not when he claimed that Devon’s grief could in no way compare to the grief he felt when he lost her.

She would never tell him how she grew to love Gemma. Really love her. Because at the end of the day, she was Mark’s. And above all else, Devon loved how wonderful Gemma made him. So she kept her head down, and eventually settled for a decent man.

In the years that followed, she pushed down her feelings for Gemma, continuously tightening the lid on the pressure cooker of her heart. Even when they stole knowing glances, or when Gemma’s touch lingered, or when Gemma’s head always found Devon’s shoulder after a few too many glasses of wine…Devon never considered the possibility that Gemma felt even a fraction of the feelings that she did. She couldn’t let herself.

But when Gemma flew out of Lumon’s front doors and into Devon’s arms earlier that day, every ounce of love that was biding its time under the weight of Devon’s denial came pouring out. Were she not deep in action mode, she probably would’ve done something impulsive like kiss Gemma right in front of Mark. 

Except…she wasn’t with him. When she asked Gemma where he was, the look in Gemma’s eyes told her everything she needed to know. Her idiot brother—or idiot not-brother—was risking his life for a woman he loves. Of course . She couldn’t linger on this newfound knowledge before Harmony was yelling at her to floor it. She was simultaneously annoyed and grateful to be reminded of their number one priority: getting Gemma to a safe location.

After a long day of high emotions, Devon and Ricken offered to set Gemma up in Eleanor’s room. Upon seeing Gemma’s reaction to the prospect of nearly sleeping alone, Ricken swiftly insisted that she take his place in the master bedroom with Devon while he slept with Eleanor. Devon’s stomach dropped at the suggestion, both due to the unintentional insinuation, and the guilt she felt about how doting he could be sometimes, to his own detriment in this case.

Now, when she peeks at the bare expanse of Gemma’s back, right before she pulls on the tattered Ganz Women’s Rugby T-shirt, she thinks about how Gemma looks thinner than she did that night on her velvet couch. Paler. Her energy sufficiently dulled.

Devon shudders to think about the treatment she endured to lead her to become this shadow of the woman she knew. Before her swirling thoughts are able to evolve into a full spiral, they’re interrupted by a dark chuckle across the room. 

“I just can’t seem to get away from wearing other people’s clothes,” Gemma whispers to herself as she looks at her outfit in the bedroom mirror.

Devon winces. “Sorry. I–uh, shit. Sorry.”

Gemma turns around, her face softening. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. You all have already done so much for me.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re family, Gem.” Devon flashes Gemma a reassuring smile in between fluffing pillows.

Gemma releases a breath. “Honestly, if I can’t have my own clothes, yours are a great second choice.” Gemma looks down at her shirt, a small smile forming on her lips. “This one especially…reminds me of the good old days.”

Devon feels a fluttering in her abdomen and a flush creeping up her neck. She’s certain that Gemma means her time at Ganz in general, but a small part of her wants to believe she’s referring to the first time they met.

Now that she’s really letting herself look, her thoughts are immediately taken over by the sight of Gemma in her shirt and shorts. It reminds her of the days when she and her ex-girlfriends would steal each other’s clothing in a good-natured show of mutual ownership. I’m yours and you’re mine. Devon has to force herself to look away to finish getting the room ready.

Devon crawls into her side of the bed, and Gemma takes the cue to crawl into the other side. After they turn off their bedside lamps, they both lie there in the darkness, staring up at where the ceiling would be. Devon flexes almost every muscle in her body in an attempt to remain perfectly still, as if a single gesture would send Gemma scurrying away.

After several minutes of this, Gemma breaks the silence. “Hey, Dev?”

“Yeah?”

A long pause.

“Would you…could you…hold me?”

Devon’s brain short circuits. She didn’t expect anything like this to come from Gemma less than 12 hours after her husband-not-husband rejected her. Devon’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she tries to find her words.

Gemma clearly starts to feel self-conscious in the moments between responses as she rushes to qualify her request. “It’s just…been a long time since anyone has held me. I missed it. And I missed…you.”

Devon’s heart is pounding in her throat. Say something, idiot. She turns her head to face Gemma, her eyes now accustomed to the darkness. She finds that Gemma is already looking at her. Devon can barely make out her facial expression, but she looks unbearably small. “I missed you too, Gem. So fucking much.” The corner of Gemma’s mouth turns upward. “Come here.”

Devon raises her arm from under the sheets and rests her elbow on the edge of Gemma’s pillow, then uses her opposite hand to pat her chest twice, inviting Gemma to claim her new resting place. Gemma quickly scoots over to Devon’s side of the bed, dipping her head to rest it on Devon’s chest as she wraps her limbs around Devon’s. Devon’s pulse quickens as Gemma’s bare legs rub against her own.

Devon works her arm under the sheets again to wrap it around Gemma’s back, her hand now resting on Gemma’s waist. Devon’s whole torso tenses when she feels Gemma’s hand, previously resting on Devon’s abdomen, now snaking its way under Devon’s shirt.

Gemma must be able to feel that Devon has stopped breathing as her hand freezes. “Is this okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” Devon releases with a breath. She tries to relax as much as possible in an attempt to sell her calm facade. She knows it must be futile considering that her heart is probably thumping against Gemma’s eardrum.

Gemma’s hand continues on its journey, sliding up Devon’s stomach and down her side until her fingers curl under her body, pinning themselves under Devon’s weight. All of the skin-to-skin contact is setting Devon’s body on fire, and she tries her best to ignore the tingling that persists under her pajama shorts.

She’s your brother’s wife. She’s your brother’s wife. She’s your brother’s wife, Devon repeats as a feeble replacement for a cold shower. As if she summoned as much, she feels her shirt start to get damp. Her thoughts are quickly flipped when she realizes that it’s Gemma’s tears that are drizzling against her.

Gemma’s body softly shakes as she silently cries into Devon’s chest, which twists with anguish as she witnesses Gemma fall apart for the third time today. The first time was when she asked where Mark was. The second time was immediately after Mark, Helly, and Harmony left their house that evening. And she’s sure that this time had something to do with Mark too. As much as she hurts for Gemma, anger bubbles up inside of her at the people who would cause Gemma to feel this low. Even if that includes her brother.

She rubs gentle circles into Gemma’s back, silently communicating, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

She’s not sure what comes over her when she finds herself angling her head slightly, placing a kiss on the top of Gemma’s head. She lets her mouth linger there when she feels Gemma take a deep breath, and then relax. The shakes that once wracked her body are slowing to a stop. Her hair smells clean but sterile, with no discernible scent immediately registering in Devon’s nose. Devon assumes that the subtle remnants are just Gemma’s natural smell. To Devon, it smells like home.

Soon Gemma’s body goes slack against Devon’s, her breath slowing into a steady pace. After the excitement of the day, Devon should feel absolutely exhausted, but her body is wired as she tries to acclimate to Gemma’s touch. She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of Gemma’s exhales against her sternum as they dry her shirt.

After what must have been at least half an hour, her chest starts to ache under the weight of Gemma’s head. She tries to gently wriggle out from under her grasp, but the attempts are futile under Gemma’s tightening hold. She resigns herself to one more restless night, which hasn’t been anything new since Eleanor was born.

Devon closes her eyes, focusing her attention on the sound of Gemma’s breathing. She intentionally matches the tempo of her own breathing to Gemma’s, allowing herself to become one with the woman she loves. This quickly lulls her to sleep without a single care about what this will look like when Ricken comes to wake her up to pump in a few hours.

Chapter Text

When Gemma gets off the phone with Helly the week after her escape, she isn’t sure how to feel about her proposition. They’re planning to switch Mark to his outie once a week so he can spend time with his loved ones. When she asks for more time, Helly responds with the disappointing but reasonable explanation that reintegration will require a close watch, and switching him back and forth once a week is a risk as it is. She can recognize how off-putting it feels to engage in a custody agreement over her husband’s body—shuttling Mark back and forth between Gemma and Helly—but Gemma will take what she can get.

The first week, he comes to Devon and Ricken’s house. Devon and Ricken were well aware of what this reunion would consist of, so they decided to take a day trip with Eleanor to Ricken’s parents’ house, much to Devon’s dismay. Gemma made sure to give Devon an abundance of exaggerated appreciation for her sacrifice.

When Mark arrives, they embrace each other for as long as their bodies can hold them upright, eventually finding a place to lie down when their reunion escalates. Gemma feels like a teenager again, rolling around with some boy on the suede couch. Kissing turns into groping which quickly turns into fucking. Their bodies are still so in sync after all these years that it takes little effort for both of them to turn into a shaking, sputtering mess. As they recover together, only partially undressed on a couch that barely fits the both of them, Gemma can hardly believe that this is real.

They hold each other in silence for a while, fingers tracing each other’s bodies, reminding themselves of what they missed all these years. Gemma smiles to herself when she finds the little scar on Mark’s back from when Devon pushed him when they were kids and he fell on a nail. This is her Mark.

“It’s ironic,” Mark breaks the silence. Gemma lifts her head from its place on his chest to look at his face. “I got this procedure to cope with you being gone. But now that you’re here, and I actually want to be present, I can’t be.” He laughs that bitter laugh that Gemma got to know all too well in their years of being married. “This feels like karma.”

Gemma struggles to figure out how to respond. The day after her escape, Devon explained to her why Mark got severed. It hurt to think about how much anguish Mark must have endured to make such a life-altering decision. A decision that means she has to live with 26 other women in her brain, but a decision that saved her life nonetheless.

“Hey,” Gemma says after a beat. “What matters is that we’re here together now. And we’ll have more time. Especially once you finish reintegrating.” Mark remains stoic as he thinks. Then his face tenses. Gemma gives him a few seconds, then presses. “Are you…worried? About reintegration?”

“I guess. I mean the last guy that did this…didn’t survive. But it’ll probably be fine, right?”

Gemma lifts her hand to caress his face. He leans into her touch. “I think so. From what Helly told me, it sounds like Asal and Harmony are feeling confident that the procedure is fine-tuned.”

“I hope she’s telling the truth.” Mark purses his lips in contemplation. “Is it weird? You know…talking to the woman that the other part of me…”

Is fucking? Gemma thinks. “Loves?” she verbalizes instead. Mark nods. “Kind of? I don’t know. Your innie...he moved on, and I guess I can understand that. She seems nice. Headstrong. Bold. Beautiful. Very much your type,” she jests. The corner of Mark’s mouth turns upward. “I can see why he chose her.”

The first time Gemma saw Helly, all she could see was red. Literally. The alarms were blaring and the lights in the hallway were illuminating her distant figure in a bloody sheen. To Gemma, she was simply the person that another version of her husband was choosing over her. She was the threat to Mark’s freedom.

Even during their second meeting, Gemma remained cautious and curious around her. Harmony picked Helly and Mark up from Lumon hours after Gemma’s escape. They had successfully coerced Milchick into permanently activating their OTCs after Helly threatened Helena’s life. As they were retelling this, Gemma couldn’t help but feel impressed at the lengths that Helly went to to guarantee their livelihood. She could relate, after all.

Despite their complicated situation, Gemma and Helly remain civil when coordinating her meetings with Mark. Gemma usually catches glimpses of Helly in Mark’s car when she drops him off. She always offers a smile and a wave before Helly departs, the heavy pit of jealousy in her stomach lightening every week.

Gemma and Mark decide to vary the locale of their meetings thereafter. They visit their favorite book store, then the restaurant where they had their first date, then their favorite park by their old house. Neither of them say it, but it feels like the early stages of their relationship. A fresh start for both of them.

Despite the romantic fulfillment that Gemma gets from dating her husband, the lack of opportunities to be intimate are not lost on her. However, their options are limited. They can’t use Mark’s house while he and Helly are shacking up. Ricken can’t be bothered to write anywhere but his home office, and the pages for his next novel—a point of contention between him and Devon—are on a tight deadline. And neither Gemma nor Mark have an income to pay for a hotel room.

This leaves Gemma coming home from their dates feeling…dissatisfied. Of course she’s happy to spend time with Mark, but after two years without any real intimacy, she wants more. Which creates the vacuum of affection that pulls her toward Devon the other six days a week.

It starts out innocently enough. They hug a little longer than what would be considered normal. Gemma holds Devon around the waist when she’s washing dishes or when they’re putting Eleanor to bed. She finds herself leaning into Devon’s body during family movie nights, sometimes going as far as to rest a hand on Devon’s thigh, but only after Ricken falls asleep halfway through the film.

Gemma wrestles with her guilt, struggling with the implications that she’s using Devon. But even though it kind of started that way—Gemma seeking a substitute for Mark’s touch—it was becoming deeper than that.

Gemma likes Devon. Everything is made all the more complicated by the fact that all the traits that she likes about Mark, she likes about Devon too. And all of Mark’s quirks that challenge their relationship simply aren’t present in Devon. Devon’s emotional responsiveness is an especially glaring contrast, one that allows Gemma to shed her armor more easily around Devon. She’s the only person that Gemma can really breathe around these days.

So when Devon suggests that they take a trip to Violet’s one Saturday evening, for old time’s sake, Gemma ignores the alarms that go off in her head. What’s the worst that could happen?  

“Come on, Chance! Aren’t you a doctor?” Devon yells from the sideline of their billiards game, downing the rest of her fourth beer. “Shouldn’t you be good at this shit?”

“As it turns out, Slavic literature classes actually don’t touch on geometry very much at all,” Gemma responds, slurring her words slightly. She crouches down to get eye level with the table, not completely sure what she should be looking for anyway. She winds up her cue stick to strike and—she scratches. Again. “Fuck!”

“Alright, let me put you out of your misery.” Devon shoots Gemma that cocky smirk that she’s grown to love. Devon bends over the table, offering a clear view for Gemma, who blushes lightly before looking away. Devon effortlessly pockets the eight ball, swinging around to gloat in Gemma’s face. “And that! Is how! It’s done!” Devon punctuates her exclamations with a tilt of her head to either side, bringing her face progressively closer to Gemma’s with each word. 

Gemma laughs until Devon gets only a few inches away, at which point her breath catches in her throat, and her eyes subconsciously wander to Devon’s lips. She swallows and circles around Devon to re-rack the table. “You’re insufferable. Best three out of five?”

“Sure, but I gotta pump and dump first. My tits are killing me.” Gemma chuckles about her vulgarity. She continues gathering the colored and numbered balls to place them in the wooden triangle, when she feels Devon’s hand on her lower back. Devon leans in to whisper in her ear, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine, “Could you come with me?”

Gemma turns to face Devon, not backing down from their proximity this time. “Since when do you need a chaperone to pump?”

Devon laughs, blowing small malt-scented gusts against Gemma’s face. “Since bar bathrooms are disgusting and I don’t want my favorite bag to touch any of it.”

Gemma concedes, picking up Devon’s bag from the sticky bar floor, and following her to the single-occupancy restroom. Devon uses a couple squares of toilet paper to lower the toilet lid and wobbles a bit before sitting down on top of it. After Gemma hands her the travel-sized pump from her bag, she unbuttons her shirt and removes one breast from her bralette, attaching the pump to it.

Gemma looks anywhere but Devon, suddenly finding the wall graffiti fascinating. The familiar sound of the pump reverberates off the bathroom walls for a couple minutes as the muted melody of one of the Indigo Girls’ hits seeps in through the cracks around the door. “Hey,” Devon’s voice cuts through the cacophony. Gemma turns around to face her. She has her signature half smile that she dons when she’s drunk. Or when she’s looking at Gemma. “C’mere.”

Gemma takes a few steps towards Devon until she’s within arm’s length. Devon gestures for her to get closer, so she takes another step forward. Devon immediately grabs her by the shirt and awkwardly wraps her free arm around Gemma’s hips from the side, resting her head against Gemma’s abdomen. “Oh, Dev, you’re so drunk,” Gemma says with a chuckle. She places Devon’s bag on top of the toilet’s tank behind her, then carefully rakes her fingers through Devon’s loose curls.

“Mmmm-maybe.” Devon giggles. “I just…love you.” Her voice grows more quiet with every word.

“I love you too,” Gemma responds, the same as she’s done dozens of times before this. But there’s a feeling deep in her gut that this time is different.

Devon looks up at Gemma, sporting a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, seemingly searching for something on Gemma’s face. She looks back down, nervously thumbing the waistband of Gemma’s jeans.

“Do you ever think about…” Devon starts. She takes a long second to consider, and then finishes her thought, “The first time we met?”

Gemma sputters out a nervous laugh. “Yeah. I mean, especially today. Considering where we are.”

Half of Devon’s hand has worked its way under Gemma’s shirt, allowing Devon’s thumb to rub small circles on Gemma’s bare hip. Gemma tells herself the warmth that keeps traveling lower is just due to the vodka cranberries that she’s been sipping on throughout the night.

“Why’d you rush me out that night?” Devon asks. Her tone is lighthearted, almost joking, but Gemma can tell that there’s sincerity in the question.

“I don’t know. I…had only gone home with a woman once before. And I knew you had to be a student. I couldn’t risk my job. But…” Gemma hesitates, then lets the alcohol in her blood lower her inhibitions. “I wanted to. You know. With you. Sometimes I would see you on campus and wonder.” Gemma clears her throat. “But then I met Mark.”

Devon’s hand stills. “But then you met Mark,” Devon repeats, nodding. Devon retracts her hand from around Gemma’s waist, and the cold that replaces it feels harsh against Gemma’s skin.

Devon removes the pump from her breast, replaces her bralette, and maneuvers around Gemma to get to the sink to dump out the liquid. As Gemma watches, she lets her curiosity get the best of her. “Do you?” Devon tilts her head. “Think about that night?”

Devon looks back at Gemma, maintaining steady eye contact. “Of course I do,” Devon responds, voice low and serious.

Gemma’s heart rate picks up, which is worsened by her view of Devon’s barely contained chest and her naked abdomen, dappled with beautiful mauve lines. Gemma feels herself walking closer to Devon before she can process it, until she’s suddenly toe to toe with her, inches away from her face. Gemma runs her fingers up the open seam of Devon’s shirt until she reaches her collar, pulling it slightly. Devon gasps quietly, looking down at Gemma’s hand and then up at Gemma’s face.

“Gemma,” Devon warns, utilizing her full name to add weight to her unspoken question.

“Devon,” Gemma responds, sultry and sure.

Devon searches Gemma’s eyes for a couple seconds, and then leans in. Time moves at a glacial speed as Gemma closes her eyes in preparation for contact. It gives her all the time in the world to second guess herself, for her brain to scream at her to stop this, you have a husband, what would he do if he found out?

But when Devon’s lips meet hers, time shifts into overdrive. Gemma is brought right back to that night on her couch, as though their current lapse in judgement is a continuation of their first drunken evening together. And Gemma is done wondering what would have happened if she had made a different choice that night.

Gemma revels in the familiarity of Devon’s mouth, never having enjoyed the taste of beer as much as she is right now. She tangles her fingers in Devon’s curls, cradling her nape to keep her tethered to Gemma’s lips. Devon wraps her arms around Gemma’s waist, bringing her torso flush with Devon’s.

As Gemma deepens the kiss, her tongue swiping the front of Devon’s, she lets her hands wander. One hand passes over the soft skin of Devon’s upper chest, then teases Devon’s cleavage, as the other wraps around Devon’s back. Devon moans into her mouth, and Gemma smirks against her lips.

Gemma, emboldened by Devon’s sounds of pleasure, palms Devon’s breast with one hand, gently squeezing once before Devon lets out a pained gasp. The fabric under Gemma’s hand immediately dampens.

Gemma removes her hand in an instant, sobering up slightly. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay. I just haven’t pumped that one yet,” Devon offers with a chuckle, checking out the wet spot on her bralette. She looks up at Gemma, her icy blue irises much smaller now that they’re surrounding her blown pupils. The look she’s giving Gemma makes her want to devour Devon whole. Which gives Gemma a wicked idea.

“What if I…helped you out with that?” Gemma offers, raising her finger to make soft circles around the wet spot on Devon’s bra.

Devon’s breath hitches, her eyes widening. She nods her head. “Yes. Fuck. Please.”

Gemma pulls Devon back towards the covered toilet. Gemma sits down, situating Devon so one of her legs is between Gemma’s, and her chest is at eye level. “Look who has manners all of a sudden,” Gemma jests, carefully removing Devon’s engorged breast from its confines.

Devon scoffs. “Shut the fuck—oh.” Devon is interrupted when Gemma licks the hard peak of Devon’s nipple. Gemma sports a shit-eating grin as she continues to make circles with her tongue, eliciting various expletives from Devon.

When she finally wraps her lips around Devon’s areola and starts sucking, Devon tilts her head back and moans. Small amounts of warm, sweet liquid coat Gemma’s mouth, which Gemma blissfully swallows. Devon leans further into Gemma’s body, her knee pressing into the heat between Gemma’s thighs. Gemma groans, instinctively bucking against the fresh source of friction.

Devon grasps a handful of Gemma’s hair, holding her firmly against her chest as Gemma grips Devon on either side of her hips. After one particularly intense draw, Devon’s nails scrape against Gemma’s scalp as she tightens her grip. Gemma grunts in response, flexing her thighs against Devon’s. Devon looks down in surprise, and as they make eye contact, Gemma can see Devon mentally filing this away for future use.

Before much longer, Gemma starts craving a taste of something else. She removes her mouth from Devon’s noticeably less taut breast and uses the collar of Devon’s shirt to yank her face down to meet their lips once more. They sloppily share the sweet taste of Gemma’s mouth, this kiss more ravenous than their last.

When they break apart, Gemma commands, “Take off your pants and hop up on the sink.”

Devon’s eyes widen from where she towers over Gemma, hesitating. “Gem, you know it’s only been a few months since…El.”

Gemma offers a small smile. She starts to stand up, and Devon backs up in response. When Gemma is fully upright, she cradles Devon’s face in one hand and places one soft kiss on her lips. “I know. If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” Gemma places another kiss on Devon’s cheek, then her jaw, then her neck, before whispering in her ear. “But if you do, I’ll be super gentle.”

When Gemma pulls back to look her in the eye, Devon is already unbuttoning her pants. She forces the clothing to pool around her ankles as she hops up on the shallow counter, and Gemma finds her place as she kneels in front of Devon’s wet heat.

Gemma places her lips on Devon’s inner thigh, leaving a trail of kisses as she works her way closer to her goal. The scent of Devon’s arousal intoxicates her, drawing her in like a moth to a flame. Devon wriggles under her touch, wordlessly begging Gemma to get on with it.

Gemma parts Devon’s bush with one swipe of the tongue, which makes Devon’s hips seize immediately. Gemma laughs against Devon’s clit, which only makes her shudder more. “Gemma!” Devon whines, reminding Gemma that she’s definitely the younger sibling. Gemma immediately wipes the thought from her mind.

Gemma goes in for a second swipe, and then makes slow circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. Devon’s thighs slowly start tightening around Gemma’s head, a clear indication that Gemma is on the right track despite her minimal practice.

Gemma cannot ignore the aching of her own clit as every moan that seeps out of Devon’s mouth sends a pulse between her thighs. She unbuttons her pants and shoves a hand inside, surprised to find how wet she already is. She rubs tight circles around her clit as she laps at Devon’s, mewling against her.

When Gemma starts sucking on Devon’s engorged tissue, Devon releases a noise loud enough for the whole bar to hear. Neither of them care. Gemma continues sucking as Devon’s vocalizations get progressively more high pitched until she clamps her thighs against Gemma’s ears, her clit pulsing against Gemma’s lips, expletives flying freely from her mouth. Gemma gives Devon a few more gentle licks as she huffs out the remains of her climax.

Gemma removes her hand from her pants and stands up, her legs almost buckling underneath her as she tries to wake them from their sleep. She’s barely upright when Devon pulls her in for a passionate kiss, communicating her gratitude as they once again share a taste of Devon’s fluids.

Devon is the first to part this time. “Okay, your turn.”

“Dev, you really don’t have—”

“Don’t you fucking dare take this from me,” Devon interrupts, holding her steely gaze against Gemma. Devon’s determination to please Gemma multiplies her arousal exponentially. She happily concedes as Devon hops down from the sink, also needing a second to find her bearings before pulling her pants up. 

Gemma drops her own along with her soaked underwear, gearing up to take Devon’s place on the sink, when Devon stops her with an, “Uh-uh,” and a shake of her head. Devon holds her hips and spins her so they’re both facing the sink. Gemma feels confused and vulnerable, looking at herself half-naked in the bathroom mirror. Devon gathers the hair from one side of Gemma’s neck and moves it to the other side, placing a kiss on the newly exposed sensitive skin. Gemma’s eyes close involuntarily. “I want both of us to see how beautiful you are when I make you cum.”

Gemma whimpers as she feels Devon’s hand on her upper back gently pushing her downwards, forcing her to brace her forearms against the sink’s counter. She’s confronted with how out of sorts she looks, her hair a mess and her lips red from their vigorous usage. But when she feels Devon’s slender fingers tease her mound, she forgets about it all and just focuses on Devon’s reflection.

Devon’s face is the image of focus as she prods at Gemma’s folds, not quite entering but offering enough stimulation to make Gemma slowly unravel. When Devon finally parts her bush to make direct contact with her clit, she hangs her head and pushes back against Devon’s hand. Devon starts slow, making deliberate circles that grow smaller and faster as she works Gemma up. When Gemma looks up at the mirror, Devon looks more concentrated than Gemma has ever seen her, which only makes Gemma feel more out of control.

Then Devon’s finger enters her and Gemma’s eyes nearly roll into the back of her head. Devon curls her finger against Gemma’s sweet spot, creating a familiar pressure that builds inside of her. When Devon adds a second finger, Gemma’s knees go weak.

Gemma is rocking against Devon’s hand in rhythm with her, somehow perfectly in sync despite the novelty of it all. She can feel Devon using her hips as leverage, so when Gemma looks up at the two of them, all she can imagine is Devon fucking her with an imaginary appendage. Gemma tightens around Devon at the thought. When she feels herself getting closer, she rests her forehead against her forearms, bracing for the wave that’s about to crash.

But Devon grabs a bundle of Gemma’s hair and yanks her head up. “You gotta let both of us watch, baby,” Devon coos sweetly, continuing her punishing pace against Gemma’s G spot.

This finally sends Gemma over the edge. “Fu-u-uck,” Gemma cries out in a staccato as Devon continues to impale her, her face contorting and scrunching in pleasure as she watches herself come apart in front of her own eyes. She wills herself to look upwards, rewarded with the image of Devon fixated on the result of her hard work, face painted with pure satisfaction and adoration.

As Gemma rides out the last of her orgasm, Devon releases her hair and removes her fingers. Gemma already feels so empty without them. Gemma rests her head on her arms for a moment before she stands up straight, feeling her fluids squelch against her thighs as she joins her legs. She replaces her clothing and looks over just in time to catch Devon lapping at her fingers one by one, savoring the remnants of her meal. Gemma giggles, causing Devon to smile back sheepishly, embarrassed to be caught.

“You taste so fucking good,” Devon justifies as cradles Gemma’s face with her other hand. She pulls Gemma down, kissing her slowly and sensuously. As reality comes crashing down for her in post-orgasmic clarity, she realizes this very well may be their last kiss. Gemma makes a point to savor every last millisecond of it.

It’s only when they hear a loud banging on the door that they pull apart. “Are y’all done fucking in there? Some of us have to pee!” a voice yells from the other side. Gemma and Devon burst out laughing, blushing furiously as they rush to button their pants. Gemma remembers to grab Devon’s bag as Devon stuffs the breast pump inside.

When they take a cab home shortly after, Devon’s hand silently finds Gemma’s as it rests on the bench seat. Gemma looks over at Devon, and they exchange a small, guilty smile before Gemma removes her hand to place it on her lap. She tries not to let Devon’s look of rejection lodge itself in her mind’s eye.

In the weeks after, Gemma tries her best not to give in to temptation. She tries to enjoy her time with Mark, telling herself that their dates are enough. But when Devon walks around the house in a skimpy towel after a shower, or when Ricken is away on a writing retreat, or when Gemma gets home from the gym in her tight workout clothes, they both throw caution to the wind.

“This is the last time,” they always say at the start, believing themselves less and less each time. And at the end, they kiss each other like one kisses their militaristic spouse on the verge of deployment—hungry, scared, and final.

Until one day, as Gemma holds Devon against her bare chest in the backseat of Devon’s sedan, caressing her arm with the tips of her fingers, Devon says the words that she’s been dreading to hear. 

“I have to tell Ricken.”

Gemma’s hand stills and her blood pressure rises. “Are you sure?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Once Devon sets her mind to something, there’s no going back.

Devon sits up to look at Gemma properly. “I think so. I just…I can’t do this anymore. With him, I mean.” Devon sighs, exasperatedly sliding a hand down her face. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d rather do it now, while Ellie is young, so we can get the messy divorce out the way before she’s old enough to remember it.”

Gemma nods, also sitting up. She grabs her shirt and starts to put it back on. “I guess that makes sense.” As Gemma processes it more, her stomach churns about the implications of Devon’s decision. She goes for a Hail Mary. “What if we just stopped?”

Devon barks out a laugh. “Gem. We said that the last ten times, and we’re still here. Plus, it’s not really about us…I just don’t love him anymore. It sounds terrible, but—” Devon takes in a deep breath, “I don’t know if I ever did.” Devon weaves her fingers into Gemma’s. “I know what it’s like to grow up in a house with parents that don’t love each other. I don’t want that for my kid.”

Gemma’s chest constricts at the mention of the Scout parents. She never got to meet them, but the stories she’s heard from Mark and Devon makes her feel like she has. Aside from the fact that her parents are alive and that she’s an only child, their childhoods were remarkably similar. It’s what she and Mark bonded over on their first date.

Mark. Oh god. “Do you think Ricken will tell Mark?” Gemma blurts out.

Devon’s face hardens, and she removes her hand from Gemma’s as she slips her arms into her blouse. “I don’t know. I can ask him not to.” She starts buttoning her shirt, freezing halfway up. “Would it be so bad if he knew?” Devon says, her voice small and diffident.

Gemma scoffs. “Yeah, Dev, it would be bad. I know you don’t love Ricken, but…” I still love Mark, Gemma thinks. She shakes her head. “Mark is already going through enough right now. He doesn’t need this too.”

“He’s literally living with another woman,” Devon responds defensively. She takes a deep breath. “I know our situation—the three of us—it’s different. I mean, he’s my brother for fuck’s sake. But I don’t know. This whole situation is so fucking messy already. I feel like there’s some room for understanding here that you’re not accounting for.”

Gemma looks out of the car window to the expanse of the empty parking lot. Devon has a point. Technically, Mark is cheating on her too. A part of him is at least. And she’s making her peace with it week by week. Maybe he could grow to be okay with this too.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” Gemma finally responds. She knows telling him would be the right thing to do. And she knows she would have, eventually, if they had more time.

She holds eye contact with Devon, and then leans in. Devon hesitates, but closes the space between them, allowing them to share yet another “last” kiss.

Chapter Text

When Helly finally got Mark to concede to discussing reintegration with their outies, he yielded under one condition: only one outie could be awake at a time. Although she had the easier of the two jobs, it still wasn’t an easy feat to get his outie to agree to finish the process; he made quite the fuss about seeing Gemma, as they expected. Despite her frustration, this was especially unsurprising to Helly.

For one, if his outie is anything like her Mark, then of course he’s going to do everything he can to reunite with the woman he loves. Secondly, Gemma seems like the kind of woman that would be devastating to lose. Helly has picked up bits and pieces of information about Gemma among her interactions with Ms. Casey, her one real interaction with the woman in question, and her belongings in Mark’s basement that Helly has been unabashedly rifling through. The puzzle pieces come together to create an image of a warm, protective, intelligent woman with fierce instincts. And she can’t deny that Gemma is the most gorgeous woman that Helly has ever seen.

So when Mark acquires the memory of his outie reuniting with Gemma outside of Cold Harbor during his first reintegration session, tears involuntarily forming at the corners of his eyes, Helly tells herself she expected this too. This is all part of the process, she thinks, unable to place the empty feeling that settles deep in her abdomen.

In contrast, the first memory she got was of a blank, white expanse on the outside of Helena’s home. Nothing particularly important or evocative. Asal—a strange but seemingly knowledgeable woman—has said that they have to limit their sessions to once a week to be safe. Helly is not trying to push it anyway. If she’s honest with herself, she knows there will come a day where the memories won’t be as easy to digest.

That day comes immediately after her fourth session. Helly is settled in bed while Mark is showering. She sets her phone on the bedside table, and her vision flashes until suddenly she’s transported to a room very different from her own. Helena’s bedroom, she intuits.

She’s small. She couldn’t be any older than eight years old. She’s hiding under her covers with the lights turned off. When she hears the sound of her bedroom door open, her—Helena’s—heart rate picks up. The unknown figure sits on the bed, causing her body to dip toward them. Her mouth is dry and her hands are clenched tightly around the bed sheets.

She feels a hand start at her ankle and work its way farther up her leg. “Oh, my Helly,” says a familiar voice. “Did you forget about our ritual?” The hand reaches up to tear the covers off her body, her childlike strength unable to keep her obscured, forcing her to look upon the darkened, unnerving visage of a younger Jame. “Vituperable children owe one repetition of Kier’s nine core principles and one refaction for every misdeed of the day. And you had three today.”

Jame stands up from the bed to remove his belt, and when he starts unbuttoning his pants, Helly is ice cold, frozen in place. Her body is overcome with a level of fear and helplessness that she has never experienced in her short life. She wants to hide, run, scream, anything. But she can’t.

It’s only when she feels Mark’s hand on her arm that she snaps out of it. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?” Mark questions, his face painted with concern. When Helly takes stock of her surroundings, her whole body is shaking and her hands ache as she loosens her vice grip on the bed sheets.

“Mark, he…Jame…” Helly releases her grip to raise a trembling hand to cover her mouth. She shakes her head.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Mark offers. Helly nods. When he goes to hold her free hand, she flinches. He looks worried, and maybe a little rejected, but he plays it off as best as he can. “Can I do anything to help?”

Helly thinks. “I don’t know. I just…don’t think I can handle being touched tonight.”

“Okay. Do you want me to sleep downstairs?”

“No!” Helly rushes to answer. The thought of sleeping without her safe person after that flashback terrifies her. “No, I want you here.”

Mark gives her a small smile, the worry still prominent in his eyes. “Okay. No problem.”

He gets into bed, giving her plenty of room, and falls asleep quickly. Helly, on the other hand, lies awake for a long while afterwards, the memory replaying in her head, along with all of her other memories associated with the Helena she thought she knew. She used to think of her as an entitled, power-hungry tyrant, but now she’s not so sure. Or in the very least, if she is those things, her motivations for being as such has shifted from a clear-cut box to an enigmatic mosaic of complexity in Helly’s mind.

Helly opts to skip her next reintegration session, still shaken up from her last one. Asal gives her a look, and warns her that skipping a session increases the chances of reintegration sickness. Helly sarcastically salutes Asal, who reluctantly accepts this as non-verbal consent for the side effects that she’ll endure.

The headaches, nosebleeds, and brief flashes are a breeze compared to the alternative. Asal made it clear that if a nosebleed lasts longer than 15 minutes, or if the headaches turn into migraines, they are to call her immediately. Mark keeps an annoyingly close eye on Helly that week, but she knows it’s just because he cares. She would do the same thing in his place.

The week after, Helly’s irritation with reintegration sickness outweighs her hesitation to delve deeper into Helena’s psyche, so she allows Asal to do her thing. As always, she sits Helly down in Mark’s basement, muttering various complaints about having to work with Cobel, and then she goes through her standard list of questions. She asks about her time at Lumon, then about Helena’s life experiences. She gets a flash of a new memory—this time she’s drying off outside of a swimming pool—and they debrief afterwards.

But as they finish out their review of the session, Helly feels a shift. She still feels like herself, undeniably Helly, but her mind feels…fuller. In addition to her own thoughts, there is an accompaniment of inscrutable whispers in her mind. Ones that feel involuntary, foreign, dark.

“Wait,” Helly interjects, holding both of her hands up, as Asal starts packing up to leave. “Something’s different.”

“Different how?” Asal says, pausing halfway through zipping up her bag.

“I think…she’s here. Helena.”

“You’re Helena?”

“No, I’m still Helly. But I think Helena might be awake somewhere in here too,” Helly responds, pointing to her head.

Asal has straightened up, looking at Helly with an unreadable expression. “Fascinating.” Asal unzips her bag and pulls out a notebook, flipping through the pages, seemingly looking for something specific. “This is happening much faster than we theorized.”

“Should we be worried?” Mark interjects from his place on the couch, his usual spot to relax after his sessions.

“I believe this might be due to the increased elasticity of Helly’s brain in comparison to yours. Both versions of her are much younger than you. And her brain hasn’t been damaged by years of alcoholism,” Asal states plainly as she furiously scribbles in her notebook. Mark makes eye contact with Helly, clearly offended. Helly just raises her eyebrows and shrugs, unable to deny Asal’s claims.

Over the next week, Helly feels Helena flow in and out of her subconscious. Her thoughts scatter throughout Helly’s brain like a drop of ink in water, definitively separate but becoming more and more incorporated by the day. 

After her next session, she feels Helena’s presence become stronger, her whispers sometimes coherent, but never kind. At times, she finds herself talking in a sharp, measured tone that sounds foreign on her lips, or steeling her spine as though she were gearing up for a gut punch. It’s disconcerting to say the least, but it leaves Helly with a large sense of wonder.

The first time that Helly is able to hold a conversation with Helena, it goes about as poorly as any of them could have expected. Mark brought back fast food on his way home from the pharmacy. Asal gave them a list of supplements they need to be taking to keep them in good shape for their continued reintegration sessions. The bag of food, stained with grease, will undoubtedly cancel out some of the positive effects from the supplements.

As Helly unsheathes the most beautiful, mouth-watering creation that she’s ever seen—a double-decker cheeseburger, according to Mark—she hears a voice clearly cut through her own thoughts.

You could not begin to understand what that monstrosity will do to our body.

Helly freezes, burger halfway to her mouth. Helena?

Pray tell, who else would it be?

Okay, no need to be such a dick about it.

Helena scoffs.

“Everything okay?” Mark asks through his mouthful of food from across the dining room table.

Helly giggles, endeared by the sight of him shamelessly delighting in his meal. “Yeah, it’s just Helena. She apparently doesn’t want me to eat this.”

“No shit, you can actually hear her now?”

“I guess so.”

Helly raises the burger to her mouth once more, biting into it before Helena can interrupt her again. Her mouth is immediately accosted with an amalgamation of complex flavors and textures. The patties and cheese are warm, chewy, and sticky while the pickles, lettuce, and tomato are cold and crunchy. Drops of a deliciously tangy sauce drip down the corner of her mouth, which she dutifully licks up as far as her tongue can reach.

How could something that tastes this good be bad for me?

It’s full of empty calories and saturated fats. Not to mention all of the heavily processed ingredients.

So, you’re not denying that it tastes good?

Silence.

Exactly. So shut the fuck up while I enjoy this delicious, processed burger.

She finishes her meal, making sure to dip some fries into Mark’s shake at his insistence. She doesn’t find it to be as tasty as Mark does, but the satisfaction she gets from knowing that Helena would never choose to eat something like this is absolutely scrumptious. Nevertheless, when she gets a terrible stomachache a few hours later, she pouts through Helena’s gloating.

As Helly and Mark continue reintegrating, they find that Mark is lagging one progression behind Helly. Mark gets to the point where he feels his outie—Scout, they decided as a clear delineation—in his subconscious a few days after Helly’s first conversation with Helena. Sometimes it’ll be something as simple as Mark washing a mug in the kitchen that sets him off. He becomes hardened and bitter, a version of Mark that Helly can recognize but never to this extent.

He and Helly both feel guilty about it—Helly more so. They know it’s because he misses Gemma. Helly hoped that his meet-ups with her would quell his ire, at least for now, but that doesn’t appear to be doing the trick.

Helly has surprised herself with how unbothered she is about sharing Mark. It gives her opportunities to understand why Scout jumped at the chance to sever and why Lumon took an interest in him and Gemma. In the moments between her goodbye kiss with him and his hello kiss with her, she sees so much love and history between the two of them. Their bond is special. Gemma is special.

Helly almost enjoys her weekly planning sessions with Gemma. They call each other every Sunday to plan for her dates with Scout the following day. Gemma always comes prepared with an itinerary, rattling off details about when and where to meet her, what attire would be most appropriate for him, and any supplies that would be relevant for their outing. Helly always knows what to expect, and that level of stability brings her comfort.

At home, that stability isn’t quite as accessible the further into reintegration they get. Less than a month after her first conversation with Helena, Helly and Mark are lazily making love on a Sunday morning. They just woke up a few minutes prior, and Helly’s body immediately responded to the feeling of his morning wood pressed against her. They’re both laying on their sides as Mark gently enters her from behind, dappling kisses across her neck and shoulder as he does so.

“Fuck, Mark, that feels—”

So good, Helena finishes her thought from the dark recesses of Helly’s mind. Then suddenly, as if she’s being throttled from the trunk of a car to the driver’s seat, she’s back in her body. For the first time since her conversation with Mark two months ago.

Mark’s hand wanders from her hip to her breast, cupping it before rubbing a finger across her nipple. Helena moans before she’s able to fully process what’s happening.

“You like that, baby?” Mark whispers in her ear, placing another kiss on her neck, his hips continuing their slow, steady pace.

What the fuck?

The sound of Helly’s voice snaps Helena back to reality, one where the observer in her head has the staunch ability to hold her accountable this time. “Uh, Mark?”

“Yeah, Helly?”

“It’s, uh, not Helly.” Mark’s hips stutter and then freeze. “It’s Helena.”

Mark quickly detaches himself from Helena’s body, scrambling to the edge of the bed in horror. “What the fuck?”

Exactly! What the fuck?!

“I don’t know. I didn’t do this on purpose, I swear,” Helena responds to both Mark and Helly.

“Jesus christ, Helena, how many more fucking times are you going to do this to me?” Mark angrily opens his dresser to pull out a pair of boxers. He puts them on then runs a hand through his messy hair.

Helena can feel the disappointment and betrayal seeping out of Mark with every word. She can’t blame him. When they had their conversation about reintegration, Mark brought up the incident at the ORTBO. Despite her explanations, he still held so much fury towards her. It didn’t help that she just couldn’t bring herself to say the two words that she knew he needed to hear. I’m sorry. One of the phrases that remains to be the hardest for her to say, especially when she means it.

Helena is sitting up, clutching the sheets to her body. She’s unable to make eye contact with Mark, unable to move at all.

“Can’t you just switch back?” Mark asks impatiently.

“It’s not that simple. It’s not like there’s a switch I can flip.” Not anymore, at least.

We have to try.

It’s odd. Hearing you from this side.

Right? Okay, no, we have to stay focused. Just…try to let me in. I know, that’s a huge ask for someone with walls that are as tall as yours.

Helena doesn’t dignify the petty but accurate jab with a response, and instead takes a deep breath and focuses on letting go of control. Her senses that were once fully present become dulled as she gets pulled from the driver’s seat to the back seat, a mere onlooker rather than the pilot.

Helly reorients to her surroundings. “Holy shit,” Helly says, more to herself than anything. She turns to Mark, his face still painted with anger and confusion. She musters up her best reassuring smile. “Hi. It’s me again.”

Mark examines her face, looking for clues that she’s telling the truth. He seems to find what he’s looking for because his face softens, and he crawls back into bed, enveloping her in a hug.

He cradles her face with both hands, kissing her lips and then peppering more all across her cheeks and forehead. Helly breaks out into a fit of giggles. “I was only gone for a couple minutes!”

He settles back on his haunches, still cradling her face. “Yeah, but I missed you. That was crazy.”

Helly and Mark go on with their day, and Helly doesn’t hear a single word from Helena. Despite their incredibly rocky start, the semi-constant chatter has become Helly’s new normal. So the current silence is eerie. Uncomfortable, almost.

Helena? Helly calls out into the void.

An incredibly long pause. Yes?

You know, I could feel your guilt—your shame—earlier today, when you were thinking about your last conversation with Mark. You don’t have to hide from it, or from me.

Helena scoffs. There’s no use in dwelling on it. It’s improper and a waste of time.

Says who? Listen, I was angry with you about it. I still am. But your memories…after everything that I’ve seen…everything that I’ve felt…it makes sense. It doesn’t make it okay, but it makes sense. Helena doesn’t dignify her with a response, but Helly can feel something unnamable appear in her chest due to Helena’s influence. Helly continues to press. You know, what happened in your childhood wasn’t okay either.

An unbearable flurry of emotions overtakes Helena’s psyche, compounded with humiliation at the knowledge that Helly can feel it too. That’s just how Eagans are raised.

Bullshit. You were a child. You should have been protected. Your family should have protected you. As much as I hate you, you didn’t deserve that. No one does.

Helly feels a lump in her throat and the resulting shame from Helena’s emotional overwhelm. Helena goes silent again, and Helly lets her, satisfied with their progress for the day. Helly successfully took apart the top layer of Helena’s armor, and she’s determined to uncover more.

Helly and Helena work together to nail down their switches over the following days. Helly begrudgingly calls on Helena for tasks that she’s better equipped for, like communications with Lumon or bullying their cable company into giving them a better deal on a more robust set of channels.

Mark continues to be astounded that Helena switches right back when her task is done, complaining about Scout’s incessant begging to spend more time with Gemma. Helly, on the other hand, isn’t surprised that Helena is taking advantage of her break from being a person. Helly doesn’t tell him about the memories of Helena’s stays in the hospital, preceded by memories of Natalie’s fingers down Helena’s throat, asking her how many pills she took and what kind. She doesn’t ask Helena about them either.

As Helly’s relationship with Helena slowly progresses, she notices that Mark’s relationship with Scout slowly deteriorates. Mark becomes more bitter, more worn down. She knows the battles inside his mind are weighing on him. When she tries to talk to him about it, he just shuts down and makes light of it or changes the subject. Even as their reintegration enters its final stage, his needs and desires just become more fragmented, and it’s taking its toll.

Helly is awoken one night by elevated voices downstairs. As she attempts to wake up fully, she’s able to parse out that it’s actually just one voice, two different tones. She rolls out of bed and groggily makes her way down the stairs as the voices grow louder.

“How could you—”

“I didn’t—”

“He was my—”

“He wasn’t—”

“Mark?” Helly interjects. Scout whips around, tears in his eyes and a look that could kill. “Everything okay?”

Scout morphs into something more recognizable. The way he holds himself. The way he softens upon first laying his eyes on her. Mark.

“He let Petey die. He just stood there and watched,” Mark chokes out. He sits down on the couch that he was pacing in front of and holds his head in his hands.

Helly’s heart breaks at the sight. She never got to meet Petey, and Mark doesn’t talk about him often, but she knows he was important to Mark. He was Mark’s best friend. She couldn’t replace him even if she wanted to.

“Oh, Mark.” Helly joins him on the couch, placing a hand on his back. His body shakes as he sobs. She rubs reassuring circles between his shoulder blades, and then gently grabs his shoulder to bring his head to her chest. He quickly gloms onto her, almost crushing her ribs with how tightly he’s holding on. She welcomes the excessive pressure, satisfied to know that she can offer him some relief, at least for tonight.

A couple days later, Scout comes home from his visit with Gemma and Devon with an unusual pep in his step. Since the Marks figured out how to control their switches the week prior, Scout opted to drive himself to his date. They got into a heated discussion before taking this step, considering Mark’s fear that Scout just wouldn’t come back to Helly one day. Helly didn’t hear it, but she did catch Mark making some rapidly changing facial movements over breakfast the day before. Mark filled her in later.

“You won’t believe this. Devon is finally leaving Ricken’s insufferable ass! Thank god I won’t have to deal with him anymore,” Scout exclaims. He takes off his shoes and runs a hand through his hair, which is damp with mid-summer sweat. He walks over to where Helly is lounging on the couch, flipping through the channels on the TV. He plops down a respectable distance away, draping his arm on the back of the couch behind Helly’s head.

“I still don’t understand why you hate him so much.”

He’s an ostentatious dolt.

He’s kind of the reason why we can even have this conversation.

All the more reason to cheer on his suffering.

Ha ha.

“Helena understands, right?” Scout asks, observing Helly’s facial expressions. In the short times that Scout has visited, he’s proven to be a quick learner when it comes to Helly and Helena’s non-verbal language.

Helly rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Whatever. How did the rest of your visit go?”

“Good, I think. A little weird. All three of us haven’t spent a lot of time together since Gemma got out, and Gemma and Devon seemed…uncomfortable. I know them both really well and I can tell when they’re hiding something. After Devon dropped the D bomb, I thought that might’ve been it, but I don’t know. Something still felt off.” Scout sighs.

“Maybe they’re sharing vessels,” Helly jests, attempting to lighten the mood.

Scout just stares for a second, but when realization hits—whether from putting two and two together or Mark filling him in—he doubles over in laughter. “In what fucking world?” Scout ekes out between wheezes. When he finally collects himself, he looks over at Helly, and his face immediately shifts to that very familiar look of concern.

“Oh shit, Helly,” Mark says, orienting to his surroundings. “You’re bleeding.”

Helly looks down to see her shirt splattered with crimson droplets and continuing to get stained with more. She runs to the kitchen to grab some paper towels, tilting her head down into the cloth just like Asal showed her. The towels quickly fill with blood, forcing her to replace them continuously.

“We should call Asal,” Mark says, watching the crumpled, blood-soaked cloths pile up on the kitchen counter.

“It’s only been bleeding for a couple minutes,” Helly argues, her voice nasally from her blocked nasal passages.

“Right, but look at how much is coming out. I’ve never seen either of us bleed that much.”

Helly takes stock of her situation. When she begrudgingly realizes that Mark is right, she groans. “Okay, call her.”

Asal arrives ten minutes later, medical kit in hand. The nosebleed is only a trickle by then, but Asal gives Helly a full work-up just in case. She sticks to her sterilized questions, asking Helly about her symptoms as she takes her blood pressure, checks her temperature, and tests her pupil responsiveness.

Mark is right next to the two of them with his hand to his mouth, anxiously bouncing back on the balls of his feet. Asal finishes her work-up, and instead of letting them know the prognosis, she turns to silently jot something down in her notebook. Mark and Helly share a look. 

“Hello? Asal?” Helly interjects.

Asal looks up, shooting her a look like she forgot that she actually has to tell them what she’s writing down. “Oh, right. You’re fine.” Mark lets out a sigh of relief. Helly can feel her shoulders relax. “The heat can cause an increased chance of nosebleeds. Keep an eye on it, and call me if it happens again.”

Asal packs her things up and heads for the door while Mark and Helly embrace, letting themselves settle into their relief. Helly realizes she hasn’t heard from Helena in a bit, despite the fact that she can still feel her awake and active.

You’ve been pretty quiet.

I just…don’t do well with blood.

Good to know. No slasher movies for you then.

Helena forms what could arguably resemble a smile.

Mark breaks away from their embrace, kisses Helly’s temple, and heads towards the kitchen. “What do you want for din—ow fuck!” Mark grasps at his head, keeling over in agony.

“Mark?” Helly rushes over to him. “What’s going on?”

“Fuck, my head is killing me. Get Asal,” Mark groans, curled up in the fetal position on the linoleum floor, his arms covering his head as if the ceiling is going to come crashing down on him.

Helly runs to the door to see if Asal is still in the driveway. Her car is gone. Shit. Helly rushes to the couch to find her phone and calls Asal as she returns to Mark’s side, unsure about what else to do. She feels helpless, terrified.

Asal picks up on the second ring. “Get back here now! There’s something wrong with Mark!” she exclaims before Asal is able to get a word in, hanging up immediately after.

Helly kneels next to Mark, hands hanging in the air, unsure if touching him will make things worse. “Talk to me Mark. What’s happening?”

“I don’t…” Mark grits out between his teeth, trailing off at the end. His arms go slack.

Helly’s heart stops. “Mark?” Helly lifts his arm, checking his responsiveness. It falls back down lifelessly. Helly steels herself as she places her hand in front of his mouth, checking for breathing. She’s immediately relieved to feel his weak breath against her hand. She places her hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, repeating his name over and over again, hoping to wake him.

When he awakens shortly after, Helly’s breath returns to her lungs. He cries out in agony again, tightening his hold on his head. “Whatthefuckjusthappened?” he slurs, pained.

“You passed out,” she supplies, gently rubbing his arm. He groans in response.

Helly stands up and starts pacing. Where is Asal?

She couldn’t have gotten far.

She needs to get here now. I’ve never seen…anything like this.

Helly’s conversation is interrupted by the front door bursting open, Asal in tow with her medical kit. Her eyes are wild, assessing her surroundings. She rushes over to Mark when she spots him on the kitchen floor. “Mark, I need you to tell me what’s happening,” she says, crouching next to him.

His voice is muffled under his arms. “My head…hurts so fucking bad. I can’t…move my neck.”

Asal stills. She whispers just loud enough for Helly to hear, “Possibly a subarachnoid hemorrhage.”

“What the fuck is that?” Helly interrupts, losing her mind over how little information she has.

“Helly, I need you to call an ambulance right now,” Asal directs, firm and measured, not bothering to look in her direction.

Helly’s heart is beating out of her chest. She feels like she’s going to be sick. It takes her body a second to catch up with her mind, but she raises the phone in her hand, her fingers shaking as she dials 911. She barely registers the conversation she has with the operator, telling them that her boyfriend is writhing in pain on their kitchen floor and giving them the address before her wrist becomes too weak and shaky to hold the phone any longer. She lets it clatter on the floor. She circles Mark and crouches next to him, opposite Asal.

“Mark, I need you to remove one of your arms from your head. Is your vision affected?” Asal asks.

Mark slowly removes his top arm, peering out with one eye. He squints and then immediately closes his eye again. “It hurts.”

“Very likely a subarachnoid hemorrhage,” Asal notes out loud.

“Is it serious? Will he be okay?” Helly asks, increasingly irritated that Asal isn’t answering her questions.

Asal has a calm exterior, but the subtleties of her facial expressions are telling. “He needs a CT scan or an MRI to be sure, but…I don’t know,” Asal answers.

Helly’s heart drops. The walls come closing in as she realizes the gravity of the situation. She and Mark were just celebrating their clean bills of health. She can’t understand how everything changed so quickly.

Helly feels one of Mark’s hands grabbing her own. She’s pulled back to the present as he looks up at her through a squinted eye, an eerily calm look on his face. Mark pulls Helly’s hand to his cheek, cupping his hand over hers. “You know I love you, Helly. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

Helly’s eyes sting with tears. “Don’t say that. Don’t you fucking say that.”

Mark’s mouth twists up into a wry smile. He brings Helly’s hand down to his mouth, placing one gentle kiss on the tops of her fingers, then weakly lowering both of their hands to the ground. Two of Helly’s tears join them. Mark’s eyes flutter subtly, and his voice is replaced with the deeper, gruffer voice that she’s grown to recognize. “Hey,” Scout starts, tightening his hold on Helly’s hand. “If I don’t make it out of this, can you do me a favor?”

“No. No no no no. Please don’t do this,” Helly begs.

Scout flashes a weak smile. “Take care of Gemma. For me. Please.” 

Before Helly is able to respond, Scout’s face relaxes into something more neutral, his mouth going slack. His hand goes limp in Helly’s. She almost convinces herself that he must have passed out again, even though she can feel a gaping hole forming in the place where her heart used to be.

She’s startled to see a hand out of the corner of her eye as Asal reaches over to check Mark’s pulse. Helly raises her head, some sliver of hope in her body. Her question is answered when Asal rushes to her bag, pulling out a red container with a heart icon on it.

A defibrillator, Helena supplies.

Asal rolls Mark’s limp body onto his back and lifts up his shirt to place ovular pads on his bare chest. Helly’s gut wrenches as Asal tears her hand from Mark’s. She almost responds in defiance, but she gets a flash of a memory of a medical show she watched with Mark a couple weeks back, recalling that hands need to be off the body to administer the shocks. More tears dribble out of her eyes as she berates her past self for not savoring the mundanity as it was happening. She would have, had she known what she knows now.

As she gets lost in her own thoughts, Asal is working the machine as it spouts robotic commands to her through each step of the process. Asal delivers shock after shock, becoming increasingly more desperate with each attempt. After the fifth attempt, Helly watches in horror as Asal’s shaky hands remove the pads from Mark’s chest and lower his shirt. She makes eye contact with Helly, her face betraying something akin to guilt. She shakes her head, then reaches down to shut Mark’s eyes most of the way with her fingers.

Helly hangs her head, letting her body be overcome with anguish as tears freely flow down her face. She grabs his hand again, fruitlessly willing some of her life force to transfer from her fingertips to his. She tightens her hold, waiting for him to wake up. Begging for a miracle.

Through the fog, Helly can hear the distant sounds of an ambulance approaching. Asal stands up, gathering her belongings. Helly watches her as tears obstruct her view. She’s stuck in place, appalled that Asal could behave so calmly at a time like this.

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t be here when the ambulance gets here.”

“You’re just going to leave us? What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Helly responds, incredulous and desperate.

Asal nods to herself as she checks that she got everything that she needs. “When the ambulance gets here, tell them he collapsed. Do not mention reintegration. Do not mention me. Do not mention Harmony.”

Helly is barely able to form a sentence before Asal is out of the door. After the door shuts behind her, the apartment is filled with agonizing silence. Helly looks out across the living room from her place on the ground, her mind obstructed with the memories that she’s formed and the experiences that she’ll never get to have.

She looks down at the still body of the only man she’s ever loved. He looks different, indescribably empty, devoid of the energy that made him him. Yet Helly can’t help but feel some shameful form of relief that this is the most peaceful that he’s looked in weeks. She uses her free hand to tuck some of his stray hairs back, letting her hand cascade down to his day-old stubble.

“Oh Mark, there’s still so much more that we need to do.” Helly chokes out a grim half-sob, half-laugh. “We never even got to visit the Equator.”