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Fabron sunk back into his chair, tracing a circle into the armrest with a finger.
"It is just not…" Fabron trailed off, trying to collect his words. "Réalisable. Feasible. It is not a world that… Ah, no, it did not work the first time."
Norm huffed, turning from his place in the shoddy kitchen to stare back at him. It was one of the very spare times he had shucked the imbecilic bag from his head, revealing his fuzzy mug. Fabron understood why he kept it, but it felt silly to insist on keeping it while only she was around.
It's not like it was anything she hadn't seen.
In her brief stint with, ah, le vide intersidéral, Fabron had seen far, far more than any human should have to. It had all been so much, so immediate; even after being "exorcised", she could feel the ghost of teeth on her skin, the imprints of eyes watching her. He hated it, really, honestly.
Norm wasn't a stranger to it. He may be one of the only people Fabron could count on to understand. Although her exposure had been more gradual, had been more of an, ah, what's the metaphor? Something about a boat…
"What is the story of the ship? With, with, the eh… The replacement parts. Le remplacement de lui-même."
"What in– the Ship of Theseus?"
Fabron hummed in response. Yes, it had been a Ship of Theseus affair of sorts. According to Norm, her experience with it had been more deconstructing her bit by bit than sudden exposure and enlightenment to the worlds above. That is not even to address the elephant in the room, which she would altogether prefer would stay unaddressed. Ne vendre pas la mèche, as the saying goes.
All that to say, her face, her head, was nothing all too frightening to Fabron. A bit of light mauling, of obfuscation, did not particularly frighten her. The eyes, the teeth– nothing new. Had it been a year ago, yes, he would have likely asked him to put that away, but as it stood now he was well acquainted with the concept.
The conversation at hand, though. She was very good at derailing herself, far more than she would have been a year ago. He would hazard that it was a mix of being unmedicated and, of course, being enlightened (and the subsequent removal of such). It really fried her circuitry, and that, again, did not bring into account the stowaway.
Arretêe. Cesse.
Yes. The conversation.
"You do not truly think you will be suddenly accepted now that you wear a sticky note, do you? It is simply incroyable." Fabron picked up like he hadn't interrupted, like he hadn't trailed into his own world for a moment. Like it was normal.
"Oh, no, you completely got me wrong. I ain't reckoning I'll be accepted," Norm waved away the idea as he turned back to his stove (and thus his burnt to shit scrambled egg), orienting himself. "I jus' reckon it's enough to get me in."
Fabron choked, a half laugh, half sigh. "So what, you kill the queen? Qu'on leur coupe la tête, hm? Then what."
"We've been over this." He shimmied the scrambled eggs to the edge of the cast-iron, preparing for a flip. "I make it up. I reckon her pretty little armpiece will take over–" and that is what brought bile to Fabron's throat out of all this, not the murder, but the dehumanization– "and I don't fancy 'im as havin' the guts to prosecute me."
"You have not met him," she pointed out.
"His reputation precedes him."
"People do wretched things when they are cornered, Norman." His voice came out quiet, strangled. "We are no better than animals. Do not count on your impression of him in this. It is the same as leaving it to chance, non?"
"We are no better than animals, sure!" He completely boofed it, curdled eggs splattering all over his excuse for a face and his ragged shirt and the poor, now ruined stove. Something Fabron would not be cleaning. "I reckon, society is seen as civilized for a reason."
"And yet, this so-called civilized society chooses to liken itself to animals whenever possible. C'est une course à l'échalote, oui? Curious."
Norm scoffed and pushes the cast-iron to the side, apparently deeming it a mess for later. Inevitably, it would then become Fabron's issue. Damn cowboy.
Grabbing a nip of whiskey from the icebox, he slung himself over a seat across from Fabron. As he did, he flicked the eggy mess off his shirt and face, recoiling slightly.
"Toss it," she warned, dipping her head. "Too early."
"Right fucked the meal, though," he grunted, face twisting in a way that Fabron would have to hazard a guess betrays shame. Nevertheless, he tossed the bottle back in the direction of the icebox. (It clattered right off the edge and onto the wood panel flooring, but that wasn't relevant.)
"You've still got leftover pasta. From the Goulds, oui?" Usually, Fabron wouldn't bother talking him down, but she was not feeling it tonight. The fingertip tracing circles in the armrest had been replaced by the flat of her palm, grinding itself on the surface.
"Yeah, but–"
"But nothing. You are not skipping again."
That shut Norm up. In the back of her mind, Fabron knew that Norm wouldn't stand for anyone else to speak to him like that.
Well. A little bit of fear surely could not hurt him, not when he allowed it to happen as such. Made Fabron feel great, too; he understood the power trips people went on regarding their underlings.
He's sure that if he were a weaker man he would be frontrunning a crypto scam, and he hates that about himself– hates how apathetic she is to the notion. It is not blood, it is not wound; the theoretical harm she could cause would probably be due to whoever it befell, and besides. It is what it is, what's done is done, and he hardly has any semblance of any job anymore, let alone some sort of unethical pyramid scheme.
Mm, no, pop that thought out– she could not bear to think about them right now. It was her own alone time. Her time to unwind.
(Unwinding, to her, apparently meant coaching a fully grown space cowboy on how to take care of herself. Figures. Always had a knack for finding the pathetic ones, Fabron did.)
"I am not," he sighed, angling his head up to lock eyes with Norm, "listening to you bitch and whine about how you are simply so exhausted tonight. Wallowing is no good look on you, Allen."
At least Norm had the grace to look sheepish. "Then you can leave," she huffed, crossing her arms. "I'm not keeping you here, Fabron."
Her name was vile on his tongue, as usual.
She kicked her chair out from under the table and stood, cracking her back.
"Aw, come on," Norm started, trailing off at the withering glare he received.
Fabron knew that Norm knew why she couldn't just leave. She also knew he was stubborn as a mule. He wouldn't be getting up to cook for himself, especially not so soon after he completely fucked it. And, yeah, he didn't want him to be exhausted and hungry, because he always became so irritable.
Striding over to the stovetop (and, of course, giving the eggy pan a very petty push) she pulled out the singular pot he had. Again, a gift from the Goulds. Fabron had half a mind to just serve the noodles cold, but she was also hungry, and could not be bothered to have cold flavorless noodles.
No, no. While she could not make a meal out of it (given the lack of a spice cabinet in the cabin, or any other proper food for protein, or, in fact, anything other than noodles) she could at the very least make it seem appealing. Toss some butter in with the noodles, a bit of salt, a bit of pepper. It was verging on heinously offensive with just how barebones it was, but, ah. It was really all she had to work with here.
He could tell Norm was watching her. He always got quiet and fidgety when he stared, always so nervous as if he were scared he'd be caught doing something he wasn't meant to. If it were anyone else, Fabron would find it flattering, but she knows the real reason behind it.
Wretched thing ruining his life. Couldn't even trust that the affection (or depravity) being put on full display was meant for her. Not that she wanted such shallow attention, but still; it was just more proof that this body was not his. He was not the one being wanted. Et où qu'il aille, elle est toujours seule.
She sighed, glanced over her shoulder, fixed Norm with a gaze, and he flustered. He looked away, sheepishly, and twiddled his thumbs. Right.
It was taking a while for the pasta to heat up. It was approaching November, and midwestern winter was always a mix of the worst aspects of the two weather extremes; too chilly to be comfortable, yet not cold enough to bundle up. No meaningful amount of snow on the ground to aid with collection, but just enough to hinder hunting. That was, at least, what he'd picked up from Norm making excuses for why he had so little food in the cabin as of late.
Anyways. Yes, it was taking une petite seconde for the pasta to heat. Enough time spent in silence for Fabron to get antsy, considering that the only other company Fabron had managed to keep, he spent his time trying to think about as little as possible. He started to tap his foot, and then that wasn't enough, so he began to trace shapes into the counter with his fingertips, then his palm, then his whole hand, then–
"Calm down, pardner. You're fixin' to stress me out, there," Norm cut in, tossing a loose wood chip at her back. Right, his nervous habits. They were… off-putting.
"You don't have to watch," Fabron retorted, forcing himself to still.
"Mm-hm. How much longer?"
"Mon dieu téléphone, be patient." In all fairness, she was also hungry, but now they were going at her pace. If she, for some sick reason, wanted to cook them low and slow in some sort of sadistic haze, then Norm would just have to deal with it. So no, no estimate for him.
"Mm. Tetchy today. Is it–?"
Nope. She shot him another withering glare. He threw his hands up defensively, assumedly trying to convey no, no, she didn't mean anything by it, she was just checking in, but Fabron wasn't having it.
"No, Norman. It's not related, I can assure you." She had agency. His life didn't revolve around it like Norm's did. Yet…
Her optics snagged on his eyes as he watched her, watched his mouth open dumbly (like a fish) and snap shut, apparently deciding against his comeback. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot, and her goal became increasingly clearer to her.
Make sure he was in one piece. He seemed to be, but might as well confirm. Make sure he's taken care of. If the egg display was anything to go by, that was less of a given. Get a closer look. He could do that.
He wanted to do that.
Really, really badly. Something was tugging at her, something was calling to her, to take care of him. Plus, it was a win-win– she got to look, to watch, and he got food.
As soon as the noodles were warm enough, she prepared two bowls, pushed one off to the opposite edge of the table, and set one in front of Norm.
"Move," he ordered, but Norm just kind of stared at him, baffled.
"Fabron, what–"
"Make room, pardner," he says, the word an almost snarl in his voice. And, well.
Usually she wouldn't be willing to coddle him. Kind of the opposite. Something was pulling her to him, though; something about his face, his nose, his eyes and his teeth– and she's realized now. It wasn't just her urges driving her forward. She was being drawn forth, to ensure that everything was in order, to confirm that he was still all in place.
She was going to make sure he was taken care of. As much as she wasn't a fan of being piloted, this was something she could get behind.
Norm, seeming befuddled, scooted back in his chair. Lucky for her, he'd chosen one of the chairs with the armrests snapped off. Shitty vessel, but it made it easy for Fabron to slide in and straddle his lap; and truly, the look on Norm's face was priceless. His doe eyes, the brief flash of– what, shock? The way his mouth opened to say something, a squeak coming from within, but no words formed.
"Here." As soon as she's settled, Fabron reaches back to the table behind him and grabs the bowl. "Open."
"What, hey, no– I can eat just fine!" Too late, Norm attempted to push her off, incredulous. She was already firmly planted there, though. It was one of those spells where nothing would get in her way, not even the thing she was pursuing.
"I'm aware," he murmured, not even attempting a front. "I want to see."
"Oh," he blinked, "oh. I, ah. Okay."
Cupping Norm's jaw in his hand, Fabron ran a thumb over his stubble. He hadn't shaved in a second, he knew, and the texture under his finger was, ah. Not great.
"Shave more," he intoned, and it came out more as a command than he intended.
"Fuck that," he huffed, eyes wide.
Again, a hum in response. She gripped his jaw in two fingers, tilting his head side-to-side. It hits her how much of a wonder it is that he's allowing this. Allowing her fingers to explore his face, letting him… ah. It's a feeling he could get used to. Not wholly new, she'd been hanging around him for a while now, but novel enough to be enjoyable.
Releasing his face, Fabron took a forkful of the noodles and fed them to him. Just sort of watched him chew, watched those damn teeth work their magic. It was taking everything in him not to reach out and press his fingers against his teeth, massage his gums; no matter how gross it might be, he needed to feel bone prick against his skin.
So why was he holding back, a hushed, husky voice from the back of his mind asked. And Fabron knew that if it was egging him on, it was probably not a great idea, but it was tempting.
… Well, at least in this they agreed. At worst, he could use it as a scapegoat.
With a hand anchored on Norm's shoulder, bowl precariously balanced between them, Fabron stuck his index finger into the other's mouth.
Norm's breath hitching at the intrusion was not lost on him, and neither was the way his eyes briefly fluttered shut, leaning into the palm resting on his chin. Cute.
Not what he was here for, though.
When Norm was done chewing, Fabron poked his finger against a canine. Pressed it in, hard, enough to feel it, really feel it. Made sure it almost pierced skin (request of his parasite) and then lifted the pad of his index, about to–
Fuck!
The bastard bit him, all doe-eyed and staring smugly up at him. Stubborn ass. Something inside him was pleased, while something else drove him to dig his nails into the other's cheek, to rake them down towards his chin slowly.
"Don't," Fabron started, shimmying further up his lap, "you dare."
"M'hungry," Norm mumbled, seemingly finding it hard to speak with a finger in his mouth. "Yer killing me."
"I can show you killing you if you'd like," she scoffed, grabbing another forkful of noodles despite his disdain. (Really, Norm should be pleased that it's a forkful and not a fistful– at least Fabron has manners.)
"Mm-mm." He blinked, mouth opening wider. This time, as he chewed, Fabron busied herself with his eyes– peeling them open, watching the way his pupils blew wide and darted across his screen, laughing almost cruelly as he struggled to blink.
Gorgeous.
The rest of the bowl went like that: Fabron prodding at either his teeth or eyes, Norm becoming increasingly more frustrated. After polishing it off, Fabron slid off of Norm, eyes darting down to the, ah, mess he'd created in his wake.
That's more than he could usually muster when they were trying, stubborn fool, Fabron thought bitterly. He, himself, was exhausted, and quantifiably not in the mood. Possession like that usually took it out of him. He'd done his part, Norm would just have to take care of it on his own.
"Wuh– hey, wait," she called out, voice cracking, as Fabron turned to the stove. "Wait, wait," and pleading wasn't like him, now was it, "don't you just– hey!"
"You have had your fun." Fabron scoffed as he grabbed a sponge from the cabinet. "If you want more, you can do it yourself."
"You motherf–"
Fabron wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. He wasn't really even hungry anymore, just left feeling gross. She needed to get the hell out of this place, needed to leave, but first…
Well. She couldn't just leave the stovetop a mess, could he?