Chapter 0

"I've heard so much about you, Mrs. Hollows. It's… an honor."

When he extends his hand to her, Jessica takes it as if impressed - or surprised - by Graham’s apparent kindness. She smiles at him, beams. His flesh is soft, yet still frozen; corpselike, they both think. Corpselike. Her touch, in contrast, is warm.

His frame towers over her, his white hair gelled perfectly into place. He feels wholly artificial, actually, and again they’re both thinking it: he doesn’t belong here.

‘

She can't judge a book by its cover, though; that would be wrong. So she smiles at him as their hands pull away.

"Please," she says. "Call me Jess. Can I call you Graham?"

Graham tugs at the sleeve of his dress shirt. "Yes, of course. I wouldn't want you to call me anything else." He clears his throat. “Is Soren here?”

Jessica’s eyes study him, flickering up and down. “He’s just inside,” she replies. “Finishing dinner up, you know. He’s always been so good at cooking.” She gestures for him to enter their house. Their home. It feels intrusive. “He said you like… caviar?”

Graham chuckles. “Yes.”

They had eaten it together, once. Graham had Soren accompany him to his favorite restaurant — a fine dining establishment in the heart of the city — to discuss “work”. Soren tried the dish but, for some reason, could never get past the idea of eating it; it disturbed him.

“Did he…?”

Jessica laughs. “He picked it up for you. He’s making stir fry for… for anyone who wants some.”

“Ah.”

Their house is pitifully small. Graham feels uncomfortable, as if he’s being suffocated within the soft blue walls of their home, each lined with framed photographs of their past or with shelves holding ridiculous mementos and knick-knacks. It’s horrific how normal his life is.

He doesn’t belong here. He shouldn’t have agreed to this.

The kitchen, at least, is more open, less “cozy”. When he walks in, he sees Soren standing near the stove, his long, black hair tied into a ponytail behind his head. He’s stirring something in a pan — something that smells, admittedly, very good. Underneath a pink apron that says “I’LL FEED ALL YOU FUCKERS”, he’s wearing an almost-hideous short sleeve button-up, patterned with both sharks and daisies.

He looks happy, which is also very uncomfortable. He beams when he sees Graham, gesturing him over with the usual amount of light in his eyes. The intensity of Soren’s emotion makes Graham feel exposed, somehow; Soren smiles and his lips scalpel across Graham’s flesh, pressing incisions into each composed aspect of his appearance, stripping him open and bare and gutted for all to see.

He doesn’t understand it.

“Hi, Soren,” he says, his voice trembling with audible, humiliating weakness. He watches Soren’s hands work various spices into the mixture of vegetables, moving fluid around the kitchen as his gaze and focus remains fixed on Graham. And Jessica, of course. It’s incredible. Graham has never cared enough to learn how to cook meals on his own, but it seems to come naturally to Soren, like he’s channeling some otherworldly, divine entity when he’s at the stove.

“I like your house,” he lies.

And when Soren laughs, Graham thinks it radiates and echoes like an angelic choir. It’s absolutely disgusting. He’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick.

“Why, thank you,” Soren responds. “I’m shocked, honestly. Your place is a lot bigger than this.”

“Yes, it is.”

There’s a pang of silence for a moment, until Soren does that horrid laugh of his again. Jessica joins in, but he can tell her laughter is accompanied by hesitation.

He’s not quite sure what to make of Jessica Hollows.

She seems to harbor at least some resentment towards the Reposing Force, for whatever reason. She’s been keeping a vigilant watch on Graham this entire time, and she’s good; he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t so horribly paranoid. She maintains some distance from Graham, standing in the corner, away from both of them, like an observer.

Soren finishes his meal, turns off the stove. “Do you want any?”

“I’m fi--“ Graham stops himself. Something inside of him twists, mangles. “Sure,” he finishes. “I’ll try some.”

Soren pours some of the mixture into three separate bowls. “We were planning on eating outside, if that’s alright with you.”

“Outside?”

“In the backyard. It’s going to get cold soon, we like to spend as much time out there as we can before it does.”

“Oh. Of course, that’s fine.”

With their trays in hand, Soren leads him into their backyard. It’s, admittedly, rather beautiful; the sun is setting in peaches and pinks and the bright yellow picnic table is illuminated by its golden rays. Their backyard is a bit more impressive; they have a sizable garden, a grill, a pond, a fire pit, all contained within a surprising amount of space.

Soren has already set the table, and Graham sees his food laid out expertly on one side of it. There’s a pitcher of lemonade in the center, and another of what seems to be iced black tea. He gestures for Graham and Jessica to sit, and bows dramatically before sitting next to his wife on the other side, his hands brushing against Graham’s with intent as he passes. That’s infuriating. He’s here, as requested, to meet Soren’s wife. Does she know? Has he told her? He told Soren not to tell her anything specific. He — he can’t be — doing this.

Soren knows. Soren knows the effect he has. Jessica’s gaze burrows into them. He said she was okay with it, that they’re open, but Soren has always been a fickle little thing. Graham never imagined Soren would be capable of lying in the same way he does, but you never truly know anyone. He understands that no one -not even Soren - can truly be trusted, or loved, in his mind. He has to focus on the big picture.

“Go on,” Soren says, studying him. “I’m offended you haven’t tried it yet.”

Graham feels his throat close, his apprehension strangling him in the moment; if he tries it, he’ll like it, and he’ll like something that Soren crafted into this world, and he’ll like Soren, which just cannot be coped with, he can’t let that happen.

He still gathers a large bite, because fuck, saying no would be socially unacceptable. This is the only reason.

He cannot help or bear his reaction; it tastes really, really good. His cooking is wonderful, and as he stares at Graham, basking in the praise, he too feels wonderful. It’s a horrid, eviscerating feeling.

“That’s,” he begins, pausing again at another pang of flavor, “very good, Soren. Now I don’t even want the—“ he catches himself, regains his posture. “Well, anyway, I applaud you.”

Soren laughs. “Thanks.”

The rest of the dinner is equally as uncomfortable, always a static level of skin-crawling terror. He honestly can’t parse it; why does being here, in Soren’s home, eating Soren’s food, make him tremble so furiously? Jessica asks him what it’s like directing the Reposing Force, and he lies like he always does. He tells her that it’s rewarding to serve the community and help citizens, he tells her the Force does fine work. Soren offers his perspective: after working so long in the technology department of the Force, a lower level job that is just as vital, he can note with confidence that Graham is very good at his job.

He notes this as he takes Graham’s hand from across the table, and Jessica’s expression radiates it: now she definitely knows. So he changes the subject and starts talking about Merry and how his wife has been his main inspiration in life for the past twenty years, how she’s the reason he wakes up in the morning. Soren doesn’t seem bothered by it at all - why the fuck is he not bothered by it at all? Maybe it’s because Graham is lying again, through his teeth, without remorse, and this is a secret Soren understands in his subconscious - Graham is no good at all.

When their conversations end, Graham stands in the hallway, waiting to say his goodbye. Soren approaches him, beaming, but quickly turns back, as if he’s missing something.

“I forgot, I have something for you. I’ll be right back.”

Graham stands frozen in place. It’s incredibly awkward, and it feels like the walls of Soren’s home are closing in with each moment that passes, eventually flattening them all into sadness.

Until he hears it: Jessica’s voice, a failed attempt at whispering over to Soren. Her tone is harsh, but it’s mostly garbled. God — they’re talking about him.

Graham tries to avoid using his powers outside of combat, but…

Graham never uses his powers outside of combat; he may be dishonest, but he has some sort of twisted honor, at least. Graham never does this outside of combat.

He turns himself invisible with a flutter of his eyelashes - the movement that activates the cloak in his genetics - and moves closer, closer, to listen in on their conversation.

It’s not that, believe me, she whispers. It’s just. I don’t trust him, and he has so much power over you in that position. I…

I trust him, Soren whispers back, and Graham curses the universe for allowing Soren to spit out those three words, for making them each other’s downfall. I don’t get it.

I’m just worried. I don’t know. I need some space, I need to - to work through it.

Jess—

I’m going to call Kelsey. Um, tell him it was nice to meet him.

Soren sighs, and Graham resumes his position in the hallway. When Soren faces him again, he holds a takeout box up to Graham.

“Since you liked it so much, here’s the rest.”

Graham takes it, and their hands touch again, and Graham shivers again, and it’s all so intolerable that this ache may never truly end.

“Tonight was nice,” Soren says, and escorts Graham outside, into the warmth. The sky is darker now. “I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks for this,” Graham replies sheepishly. “Yes, see you later.”

Who the hell is Kelsey? If Jessica reveals this — if Soren hadn’t acted that way, damn him, he knows what he does — if — if they — if she —

He has to fix this.