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## another dreamless night (scratch on the moon like a familiar smile)

|| TNS/Larry. It's not Larry that Mr. Nobody targets, in Penultimate Patrol.

Larry wakes up in a bed that is not his own, in a home that is not his own, in a skin that is not his own. It hurts in its own way; this is what he is incapable of having, this is his inability to be safe, his inability to be loved.

He almost forgets that he’s supposed to be targeting Mr. Nobody. It’s horrifically easy to rid all reason from your mind, to discard logic into the ground like a dead beloved animal rotting now, when you are living out everything you’ve ever wanted: domesticity. Normalcy—

No.

He stares at his own body — he’s shirtless, and his skin is whole. He runs a selfish hand down his stomach, feels the lack of sensation; when he does this in reality, he feels scar tissue. This is scar tissue, in a different way; the scars elicited by wounds grown from desire. Desire. Larry has only ever known how to desire, and how to ache because of it.

“Hey, wait for me before you do that.”

“I wasn’t—” Larry says this on instinct, denial, always denial, until he realizes that there is a stranger in front of him. He is beautiful. He has golden-white hair curling down his forehead, freckles like galaxies over his face. This man is also shirtless, with scars over his chest, and—

He’s holding a tray of food. Larry has heard the stories, before; eat the food and you’re trapped here forever, eternity. He’s already trapped for eternity, it wouldn’t matter, but—

The man places the tray on their — their, their, they are together — nightstand. When he turns back to Larry, he looks blank, catatonic, for a moment, boundless, until his face twists. He looks like he’s about to be murdered; the mere sight of Larry grotesque. Oh.

“L---Larry?”

Like he’s realizing the truth of the situation. Like they know each other. Like something is very, very wrong.

“Who the hell are you? Why am I—”

“I don’t know,” he responds. He moves to sit next to Larry on the bed, and Larry jolts away in fear, always fear, which rips a pained look onto both of their faces.

“You’re Mr. Nobody. This is sick.”

“I’m not Mr. Nobody.”

He looks at the tray. Takes a strip of bacon, chews on it in a peculiar way. He looks like he’s never eaten before. He looks alien. He looks---

When he inevitably begins to choke, Larry places a hand on his back and helps him get it down. It’s his turn to jolt in fear, and they both shiver at the contact; Larry has not touched anyone like this in sixty years, and this man looks as if he has never been touched so intimately in his life. His eyes are a striking, inhuman blue, and Larry realizes who he’s touching as the man — the haunting, loving being that inhabits him — pulls him closer and kisses him slow, like he’s practiced this before in his mind, like he’s hungry and angry and dying all at once.

Larry does not fear it. He kisses back, their bodies pressed together like they are merging, becoming one again even in this falsified world. He should be horrified. He shouldn’t want this. He should be sickened.

The shock burrows in when the Negative Spirit — it feels wrong to call him that, now that he looks human — tries to change their positions, placing his body on top of Larry’s.

Larry pulls away. “I can’t. I can’t do this right now. Not here.”

“I understand. We have a mission. We can’t let this distract us.”

“Let’s never talk about this again. It’s — it’s not something I want to think about.”

The Spirit looks dejected, but nods. He knows that Larry is right. This was never a good idea.

“What are we doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t we be in my world?”

“YOU THINK THIS SHOULD BE YOUR FANTASY?”

Laughter. It’s Mr. Nobody.

Instead of boiling in his anger, he turns to the Negative Spirit. He knows guilt, experiences shame and regret in every string of muscle, but it has never been this torturous.

“This is your fantasy?”

“I’m sorry, Larry.”

“No. I’m sorry. All those years you wanted me, and I treated you—”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“THIS IS A VERY TOUCHING MOMENT, AND HEY, I’M DELIGHTED TO TELL YOU THAT YOU CAN HAVE THIS AND MORE, YOU CAN HAVE HIM, IF YOU JUST LEAVE NILES CAULDER ALONE. YOU ARE POWERFUL ENOUGH TO STOP ALL OF THEM.”

The Spirit nods. He looks up towards the sky, the dim lights of the room. “No,” he says. “It’s not my choice. Larry doesn’t want this. We need Niles Caulder back, at any cost.”

Larry’s chest begins to ache.

“WELL, OKAY, THEN. I GAVE YOU A CHANCE. REMEMBER THAT.”

Larry reaches out for the Spirit's hand as the scenery fades, separating them, their wholeness dissipating into air, back into Larry’s body.

He should be relieved to see Niles. Everyone is safe. Everyone he cares about is safe.

But he can feel the Spirit's agony travel throughout his entire body, and knows that this moment is transformation —- he will never recover.