Previously on Other Peoples' Heartache

We Will Never Be The Same Again

Note: No prompt given. Arthur just needed to express some of his nighttime anxieties. Also, Demeter is totally gone, this chapter is not some plot hint from me, but Arthur's not convinced. Set between Flaws and Laughter Lines. Chapter title excerpted from the song Things We Lost by Bastille.

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Bolt upright. Sweat streaming. Mouth open. No sound. No sound.

Hold breath.

Arthur held the position a few seconds past the point of full wakefulness, listening hard to the breathing next to him

A quiet grunt. Shifting of sheets. Breathing, slightly irregular, but no questions. No jerky shifting. Kay is not awake, but she is alive.

Small breath in through the nose. Smell of sweat. Engine oil. Ocean. Laundered sheets. Wrinkled cardboard. Beyond this room, grass. A few straggling flowers. Mistress is not here, no trace of her scent.

He released his breath slowly. Moving by centimeters, he worked himself free of the covers and lifted himself from the bed. He could just make out Kay, curled up on her right side and facing the other way. She was fine. Just sleeping. Definitely alive.

Boxes everywhere, still. Only a week since they'd moved in and he was still shuttling between Dib's underground facility and Kingsmen Mechanics. It left little time for unpacking. He sharpened his vision just enough to keep from tripping over anything as he made his way to the dresser. Sweatpants and a light shirt would be enough. He'd warm up as soon as he started running.

Do we need the prosthetic?

No. No need for two arms, Arthur just needed to make the rounds to reassure himself. Everything would be fine and he'd feel silly and come back to crawl under the covers next to Kay again.

But what if it isn't fine this time?

His fingers trembled.

What if the dream is a warning?

A muscle grouping in his torso twitched violently. Silent, he scooped up his prosthetic and crept from the room, opening and closing the door as carefully as he could. Once outside, he could allow himself the quiet grunt of pain as he connected the prosthetic.

He could take the van. It would be completely reasonable to take the van, that way he could get his check-in done quickly.

But chasing pressure from your body through an evening run is a comfort, a hold-over from a previous life you never truly experienced. So you start off on foot at a gentle loping gait.

Uncle Lance lived close, no need to push his body yet. Arthur jogged up the street and took a left, following the road for a couple miles. Every dog-owning household was alerted to his passing by varying pitches of howls and growls. A guy with earbuds plugged in jogged in the opposite direction, nodding at Arthur as he passed.

By the time Arthur arrived at Lance's house, the cold no longer bit through his skin. Hopping the fence, he circled to the back. A tiny window just above his head was his target. He pulled over a couple of cinderblocks and stacked them, stepping up and pressing his ear against the glass.

Past the vibration of the AC through the walls. Past the possum steps kneading their way across the roof. Past buzzing of the tired old lamp.

Snores. Steady heartbeat.

Gingerly, Arthur stepped down. Lance was a heavy sleeper, but Arthur wasn't sure if these strange twins Lance had taken in were, and they might jump the gun with a well placed phone call. He strongly preferred not having to explain to a police officer that he was just making the rounds to make sure an ancient Greek goddess was really... that she hadn't...