Hatchetfield.

Whenever You Ask

By the time the last customer in the store collapsed in a pool of their own blood, one limb still twitching, Paul's attention was already on something else. Mainly, on the shitty pop song coming from the ceiling that dragged on and on and repeated the same unoriginal chorus with messy rhymes at him. He tapped his fingers on the counter rapidly, aggressively, as if to counter the song with one of his own, as his eyes searched for a way to turn it off. Before he managed to, however, he heard the distinct sound of something being smashed from the back of the store, and the air was suddenly blessed with silence. Of course Emma was faster.

Already, Paul could feel a tune that actually deserved to be called music brewing behind his lips. A fresh and welcome breeze, ready to cleanse this space of any lingering stench. He was in no rush, though. Not when he had just been fed.

"Could've just unplugged the damn thing," Emma's voice came from behind rows of shelves, both irritated and amused, "but the amount of times I heard 'baby' in the past two minutes called for violence." Paul turned to see her step over the twitching man between them while wiping a smear of blood off her chin, which she clearly chose to ignore while the song was still playing. He smiled. "Honestly, Emma," he said, "that was the exact kind of music I would expect to hear in Clivesdale."

Emma snorted, before cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss. Her bun had come undone in the preceding excitement, and though Paul could feel strands of her hair tickling his face, he made no move to brush them away.

He liked that Emma usually took the lead, liked the intimate messiness of these moments. That was all her. His instincts always leaned toward something much more cleanly choreographed now, which felt nice and soothing and right to him. If he had to describe how it felt to be the conductor of a collective consciousness, he'd say it was like dancing on a tightrope with the easy certainty that he would never fall off. Power. Balance. Rhythm. Control. But with Emma it was different. She was the unscripted spontaneity that brought new colors into the symphony, and every time they sang together, when she unexpectedly changed the lyrics or switched up the melody entirely, he couldn't help but remember the joking comment he once made to her: what is yin without yang?

It had something to do with who they naturally were, Paul knew. When he felt lost in life he found comfort in stability and routine, whereas Emma always sought out new adventures. He could trace the exact process through which the Hive recognized these innate qualities and translated them into his and Emma's respective roles, a knowledge intricate as capillaries and precise as diamonds newly cut, which existed only in the depths of his mind no words could reach. It had a certain shape, a certain texture. Unnameable and eternal. The beauty of it was almost startling.

"How much longer do you think we'll be staying here?" Emma asked as they finally pulled apart. Paul blinked. "Not long," he drew the answer from the Hive without missing a beat. "We're almost done here. The rest of Michigan next. Some great view along the way... Definitely an improvement from--whatever this is." He made a quick gesture encompassing the store, the street outside, and everything beyond.

Emma laughed, shaking her head in a way that told him she was about to tease him. "Gosh, if you hate this place so much, why did you stay hidden for two entire weeks here? Just to, what, make the surprise extra surprising for me? Should I be touched?"

Paul knew this was coming. He was never gonna live this down, even if he wasn't technically... living, anymore. Emma was never one to be stopped by technicalities anyway.

Those two weeks were actually still very vivid in his mind. He was so hungry. They all were. Having to be discreet and infect the hospital's staff one by one without drawing PEIP's attention too soon or blowing his cover was not pleasant, or rather, it was counter-intuitive. He would stare at a hallway for minutes on end and imagine how the song which wanted to burst out of him at any second would sound reverberating off its pristine walls. It was killing him, staying quiet unless it was to speak, reminding himself to blink and breathe constantly. A necessary sacrifice for a grand finale. The Hive agreed. Just the thought of seeing Emma again kept him going.