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Wilford doesn’t remember dozing off, but he must have at some point, since he’s waking up now. Jolting up, actually, reflexively grasping in his hospital gown for the gun he doesn’t have. The intruder tenses at the sudden movement, whirling toward Wilford’s bed as one hand scrabbles for the light switch, hissing a stream of accented curses. The voice clicks right as the fluorescents blink on, and Wilford absolutely beams in recognition, propping himself up against the pillows.
“Jackaboy! What a delightful surprise.”
“Surprise, my ass,” Jack grumbles, swinging a bag off his shoulder. “You put me down as your emergency contact.”
“Well, not you so much, but as you both share a phone number…”
“All right, shut up.” Jack runs a hand down his face, sighing, then unzips the backpack and removes a cloth bundle. As he unwraps the item, he moves toward the bed, gingerly taking a seat at its side. “This is a compromise,” Jack warns, “and it’s not one I’ll consider again if you try anything shitty, get it?”
“Not yet,” Wilford says agreeably, “but please, continue.”
Jack huffs and sets aside the cloth, then props the mirror against the mattress, angling it toward Wilford and tapping the glass.
For a split second, Wilford’s own face stares back at him, then the image ripples beneath Jack’s fingertip. Suddenly there’s a third presence in the room, pressed against the other side of the glass, expression frantic and unexpectedly vulnerable. Jack’s reflection, a being Wilford has affectionately dubbed Antisepticeye.
(Mainly because his true name is an unpronounceable mess of backwards nonsense. When they first met, Wilford spent a solid week trying to figure out if the little bastard was fucking with him.)
As soon as his eyes lock with Wilford’s, the mirror-creature schools his expression into cool disinterest, but the obvious concern in his initial reaction warms Wilford’s heart. Still, it would be preferable to switch him out for Jack. The mirror on the bed is too small, of course, but there’s a larger pane above the bathroom sink, and Wilford is confident enough in his health to give Jack a shove in the right direction.
It’s odd that Anti hasn’t tried something yet. And Jack, for his part, seems awkward and annoyed, but less anxious than he usually gets this close to a reflective surface. Surely he sees the small bathroom near the door. Surely he understands the danger.
Impatient, Wilford shifts beneath the sheets, preparing to swing his feet to the floor.
“Down, Warfstache,” Anti snaps. His voice is tight and reluctant, more backwards-accented than usual. Still, his tone brooks no room for argument. “This is a compromise. Leave him alone.”
Wilford frowns but relaxes back into the pillows, willing to let it slide for now. He’d rather have Anti present in a mirror than have no access to him at all. Besides, they can always take a stab at it later. “As you wish, my darling. You look lovely, as always.”
“Be quiet, Warfstache. What the hell happened?”
“No idea!” Wilford says, twirling his fingers. “I was waiting on a source, having some drinks, and next thing I know, I’m giving the floor a little moustache-tickle. With a hell of a headache; apparently I clipped the bar on the way down.”
Anti’s gorgeous iodine-colored eyes narrow slightly, a twitch beginning at their outer corners. “Have you talked to a doctor?”
“Oh, yes,” says Wilford, far more cheerful than he’d been on his arrival. The doctor in question had practically wet themselves. “Apparently I had something of a heart attack.”
Anti gapes at him from behind the glass, fury and terror flitting across his face. The information seems to have rendered him speechless, and while Wilford waits for Anti’s response, Jack injects a faint snort into the silence.
“You dumbass.” He folds his arms and leans back in his chair, although he stays close enough to the mirror. “You can’t drink, ya stoop. If your body’s really a copy of Mark’s, you’ve got the same medical thing he’s got. You can’t process alcohol; it could literally kill you.” Jack waits a beat, then rolls his eyes. “Do you pay attention to anything, ever?”
Affronted, Wilford opens his mouth, but Anti beats him to the punch.
“You unbelievable fucking idiot.”
Anti doesn’t yell; it isn’t his style. But somehow his venomous hiss is worse, bitten out low and precisely. Wilford’s never seen him so furious; it’s terrifying and heartwarming all at once, and the combination is unbearably sexy. And to think, it’s Wilford who’s done this to him.
“You love me,” Wilford chortles, clasping his hands against his chest and ignoring the indignant snarl from the mirror. Sometimes it’s nice to be reminded. “You’re worried about me, because you’re in looove.”
“Shut up, Warfstache. I cannot believe even you could be this stupid. You brainless disaster; I can’t even look at you.”
“You made a deal with Jackaboy here just to come and see me. You’re furious because you totally love me, and that phone call scared the shit out of you.” Wilford’s dopey grin is beyond his control, though the eyelash-batting is just to be obnoxious. “I’m flattered, you big, green, softhearted grump.”
Anti growls and shows his teeth. “If you do not stop speaking in the next three seconds, Jack is going to punch you in the throat.”
“Hey,” Jack says, leaning back in his chair, “leave me out of it. I’m not punchin’ that lunatic; he stabs people.”
“He’s not armed.”
“Bullshit. Keep me outta your lovers’ quarrel; I’m just the transportation, here.”
Wilford chortles gleefully, making a mental note of the small favor he now owes Jack for the comment. Perhaps the loud little creature is growing on him. “You see, even your reflection agrees with me.”
Anti sets his jaw, lips pressed into a line; it’s an expression he wears when the retort on his tongue will not serve his interests as well as his silence. Wilford finds it utterly charming. The mirror-creature is exceptionally attractive when he’s not wrapped up in pretending to be Jack, and Wilford can’t quite help reaching out. His knuckles skim across the glass, smoothing over Anti’s scowl without the satisfaction of contact. Something softens in Anti’s face, almost imperceptible.
“You’re an idiot,” Antisepticeye says, but the backward drag is audible again, his enunciation less sharply defined. “The next time I get out of this mirror, I may stab you.”
“You can stab me any day,” Wilford purrs, his fingerprints smudging up the glass. “Today, even, if you’d like.” At the edge of his vision, Jack startles and angles himself toward the door, but Anti’s voice cuts the tension short.
“Down, Wilford. We made a deal.” Expression neutral, Anti lifts his hand to the barrier between them, his fingers like a true reflection. “Regardless, to my great displeasure, it wouldn’t serve my interests to kill you.”
“We both know you can stab without killing, my dear. Your aim and artistry leave me breathless, even when my lungs escape your blade."
Anti grumbles but gives a faint, crooked smile. “You talk too damn much. Shut up and get some rest, you imbecile.”
Warily, Jack eyes the mirror and the reporter, drumming his fingers against his knees. “Is that it, then? Are we done here?”
Antisepticeye nods and addresses his reflection, although his gaze remains locked with Wilford’s. “Yes. As we agreed, you return home unscathed.”
“Not so fast,” Wilford says. As Jack reaches out to take hold of the mirror, Wilford grabs his wrist and jerks, forcing Jack’s knuckles into the glass amid vehement protests from both sides. “Shh, no,” says Wilford. “Shhhh. Stop. No one’s fitting through this little thing, so let’s all just settle down, okay?”
Jack remains tense but ceases his struggling. Antisepticeye lifts one eyebrow, waiting.
“Just your hand,” Wilford half-asks, half-explains. “Just for, like, a couple of minutes. That’s all, I swear. No funny business. A deal’s a deal; whaddya say?”
Silence fills the little room, almost a presence unto itself, as Jack’s forehead wrinkles in thought. After a moment, in a show of good faith, Wilford releases the grip on his wrist. Jack pulls back from the bed, wrapping his arms around himself, but he doesn’t bolt or otherwise move, so it seems like this was the right thing to do. From the surface of the mirror, Anti watches his counterpart with an intensity Wilford has rarely witnessed.
Finally—possibly hours later—Jack sighs a short, exasperated sound and ventures back to Wilford’s side. “I can’t believe I’m fuckin’ doin’ this,” he says.
Jack reaches out toward the mirror once more, guarded but steady, his hand slipping through the glass like it’s water. There’s barely enough room in the frame, but Anti shifts to keep eye contact as his hand emerges, his fingers nudging against Wilford’s own and slipping into the spaces between them.
Jack huffs and jams his wrist into a corner, looking away with an obvious blush.
Wilford pays him no attention, absorbed in the loops and whorls of Anti’s fingertips, in the way Anti’s thumb presses into his skin. The mirror-creature is cool to the touch, his smaller hand nestled against Wilford’s palm, and Wilford simply basks in the moment, cementing its details in his mind.
Soon, he thinks. Once he’s recovered. Once Jack lets his guard down again.
They stay this way for far more than two minutes, silent and static, gazing into each other’s eyes. Jack coughs a few times but lets it slide, exchanging his own heartfelt gaze with the monitors. Eventually, it is Anti who breaks the silence, his hand and words both drifting backwards. “Enough, Warfstache. A deal’s a deal.”
Wilford ducks before Anti escapes him entirely, brushing a kiss against his knuckles. It’s slightly awkward, Jack’s hand still wedged in off to the side and Wilford’s forehead bumping the frame, but it’s worth it for the amused little grin that Anti gives him in return.
“You’re an idiot,” Anti reiterates, chuckling.
Wilford flutters his lashes. “But I’m your idiot.”
Anti rolls his eyes and slips his hand free, retreating entirely into the mirror. “Noos uoy gniees eb ll‘I taht tcepxe I.”
“Gnilrad ym, kniht uoy naht renoos.”
“Take care of yourself,” Anti snorts. “And by the way, your accent is terrible.”
Jack steps away at Anti’s dismissal, and Wilford helpfully rewraps the mirror, uninterested in his own reflection. Jack stuffs the bundle into his bag, then glances at Warfstache, inching toward the exit. “Uh,” Jack says, “feel better, I guess?”
Wilford smiles and adjusts his sheets, one hand absently tapping his chin. “Why, thank you, Jackaboy. And thanks for the visit.”
Jack shuffles in the doorway. “Yeah, sure. Thanks for not attackin’ me.”
Leaning back against the pillows, Wilford brings his fingers together, sharpness creeping into his grin. He does owe Jack a favor, after all. A little warning never hurts. “I’ll be seeing you, Jackaboy. Probably sooner than you think.” He winks and points, missing his knife, but knowing the threat will register regardless. “Say, when was the last time that you changed your locks?”
Jack pales and bolts, social graces abandoned in favor of putting some distance between them. As his footsteps fade down the hospital corridor, Wilford chuckles and settles in for a nap, pulling the blankets up to his chin.
The sooner he recovers, after all, the sooner the real fun can begin.