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In his spare time, Robert multi-tasked. He had his hand on Lucky's foot, pushing it up and bending the leg to keep his blood circulation going and the muscles from atrophying. But as he did so, his studying manual was in his other hand, and he was reading aloud from it quite determinedly.

"Please note that alternatively a je.. jesuno..sto-my commonly refers to a surgical fist.. haha fist.. no wait fist..ula, what the ******** is a fistula, s**t.."

He flipped back into the glossary as he did at least twice per sentence, to look up what the word meant.

"-an abnormal connection or passageway between two epi.. theeee..lium-lined organs or vessels. Epithee.. what does that mean.."

He flipped to the E's.

"Oh. Duh. Why can't they just say tissue. Jesus Christ."

There were several moments when Robert reconsidered how safe this was - or how sane. He knew Mimsy talked to the man, as he slept. This was supposed to be good for a coma patient, for some reason. It was supposed to help him find his way back to consciousness. Robert did it, too, but with a distinct and obvious difference - he disconnected himself from the man lying in the bed, and might as well have been talking to himself.

He worried about Mimsy. He worried about what this was doing to her. He worried that they weren't making the right decision for anyone, anymore.

Robert rocked in his chair, staring vacantly at the still body on the bed, and waited for something to change, to make the choice for him.

He wasn't good at making choices.

"Upsie-daisy, buddy." Robert slowly put Lucky over his shoulder, and hefted the thin form up. He'd already stripped off his shirt, and holding him over his shoulder gave him the capacity to deal with the rest. How the hell did anyone do this kind of s**t on a daily basis with coma patients when they weren't as big as he was? He was having trouble as it was, keeping all the tubes from being yanked out. But eventually Lucky was undressed, and Robert settled him back down on the towels he'd laid out, carefully. So far, Lucky looked as though he hadn't suffered. Perhaps it was this fact that kept Robert from giving in and handing him over. He was actually doing a good job of keeping Lucky alive. Everytime he thought about it, it filled him with a welling of pride he'd never quite felt before.

He was getting good at this nurse stuff.

And part of a nurse's job with a comatose or debilitated patient was a sponge bath. He'd done this before, because it was a s**t job and Edith loved to make sure he had the shittiest. So bathing Lucky wasn't an issue, especially since he already considered the man his brother.

He had a tub of soapy water, and a big, yellow sponge. It was just a matter of getting the skin clean. Squish, squeeze, and wipe. Squish, squeeze, and wipe. He cleaned all of Lucky, except for his hair - Mimsy had taken care of that part.

"Squeaky clean." Robert told him, dumping the sponge into the bowl and grabbing another towel to harass Lucky's body with. "Good thing too, you were starting to smell a little funky. We gotta live here too, buddy. Okay?"

He didn't expect an answer. He never did. But it felt good to laugh.

When Robert did or said something especially worthy of praise, Mimsy always rewarded him with a treat of some sort. She made a habit of carrying yellow Starburst candies and red lollipops in her pocket, made small cakes in laboratory glassware during the short periods of time when she waited for results of experiments, and was now comfortable enough to provide rewards of affection. No matter what it was, her positive reinforcement always came in the form of a treat.

Her treats came in the form of handwritten letters that smelled like the Doctor and his office.

They would appear just inside the room, slipped through the small crack between the door and the tile. Each was addressed to Lucky, but she knew that they were surely meant for her. They served to guide her through Lucky's absence as she picked up his projects and submitted reports on his behalf, all reminders of work that he had not necessarily mentioned.

She woke to find one waiting for her, and hastily flung the blanket aside as she hopped out of bed and moved to pick it up. It was opened with one quick snip of the scissors she borrowed from her coat, hanging next to the door. In the same way that she might enjoy the scent of a new (or appropriately aged) book, she held the letter up to her face and drew in a deep breath. It brought comfort as the scent encircled her with memories, and daydreams, and a sense of approval that she had always required.

"Ohh, oh. Lucky," she chided, shaking her head. "Dr. H wonders where your required weekly project update is. Why have you not submitted that to him yet?"

Silence was the only audible answer that she received, of course. Still, she waited like he was actually speaking, and smiled at his 'words'.

"I see. Well! No need for concern." She tucked the scissors and the letter back into her coat pocket and knelt next to his bed, with one hand rhythmically petting his hair in rigid, albeit sincere motions.

"I will assist you," she quietly assured him. "It would be most unfortunate for him to be disappointed in me--er, us, I mean. I cannot allow that to happen. I am sure that you understand, in this desperate time, that I will need to write your report for you. We can return to our typical balanced ratio of input when you come home."

In the meantime, she would continue to take advantage of opportunity to challenge herself by taking on the work of two Hunters. It finally felt fulfilling, and she still had so much to do.

There would be no failure or disappointment here, as long as she could help it.

"Dzień dobry, big brother."

With his hand in hers, she stared at him - stared sideways, as she lay her head down on edge of the mattress.

"I was promoted."

His breathing was steady and rhythmic, in and out like clockwork.

"I opted against specializing in Insanity, despite all of the plans that I discussed with you. I simply could not remain on that course after speaking with Dr. H. He truly is brilliant, you know."

A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, and she nudged him with her hand as she spoke of his brilliance, knowing that it would earn a response.

"I am specializing in the modification of FEAR-based forms."

This was something that he would want to know. This was something that he would have so many ideas for.

"I have been working to restore the lab for our use."

They talked about this. They could talk about it again, couldn't they?

"I witnessed a meteor shower that had never occurred before. It was not particularly impressive, but I enjoyed being the first."

Maybe cosmic events were not the best selection, as Lucky was not quite as interested in them as she was, but it was still worth mentioning. It was the sort of thing that a one-word reply might have followed, at least.

"I met a real Cheshire Cat, and an actual Dormouse. They thought that I was a Jabberwock, but I think that they will still be my friend anyway."

He had probably met a lot of new friends in Wonderland (without her) that he could tell her about.

"Svensyl and I are friends now too. I am learning his language. I think that we should have our own language too. It would be safer than Polish. I do not mean to offend you, of course."

Maybe she did. Maybe, if it meant he would protest.

"I came into contact with a headless corpse, just before a mission. I took what appears to be a runic grenade from Mark. I also took two cell phones - and I turned them into this!"

On her own cue, she tapped the 'card', which showered him in confetti and congratulated him. He didn't look very happy.

"I think that I am beginning to understand emotion. Considering it to be more similar to an energy that can strengthen and weaken depending on the application of a stimulus...it makes more sense."

'You were right' she told him, in many more words.

"I have a home now. It is almost complete. We went to buy furniture. It is a very good home."

He would want to see it. He liked the idea of family too. Families and homes were two closely related concepts, she thought.

"I am getting married to Robert, with a wedding outside of Wonderland. A wedding in reality. In Las Vegas. Like a normal human couple."

She held his hand for a long time, silently watching. Not even a twitch. Just steady breathing, in and out like clockwork.

She let go of his hand, and slumped backward onto the floor.

"I can't hear you anymore," she told the ceiling. It was just as receptive.

She bitterly acknowledged that.

She wished she hadn't.

With a gasp so abrupt that she choked on her own saliva, Mimsy woke to find herself falling out of bed. The anguished attempts at motion had finally connected to her muscles, it seemed - she'd lurched forward with such force that she tumbled head first over the side, ending in an awkward sprawl that only allowed one foot to enjoy the comfort of the mattress.

When her ears stopped ringing from the impact of her head against the floor, she discovered that the ringing had been replaced by rapid beeping, which was an awfully odd noise for the inner ear to create.

Thirty seconds later, when she was awake and conscious enough to know that her ear had not developed the ability to sound an alarm, she scrambled towards her brother's bed. He was breathing, albeit shallow and far between, and his pulse was little more than a faint flutter, but he was alive. He was alive and needed help, and she'd heard him, heard and seen him this time.

"Shh," she whispered, leaning to press her cheek against his, one palm resting with a well-mimicked sense of adoration on his hair. "I am here. I heard you. I will help. I need you. I need you to come home."

He drew in one deep breath and the beeping stopped, subdued by the stubborn persistence of survival. He'd heard her, just as she heard him. She was sure of it.

When she slept again, it was with her head beside his, arms curled into a possessively encompassing hold of his body as she knelt by the bedside. If he uttered even one short word, she would hear it. She was listening now.

She was listening, and he was talking again.

"Lucky?"

Her voice wavered, raw and hoarse, failing to even make it through two syllables without fracturing and breaking. Her fingers shook so violently that she could not grasp his hand, so she wedged them in the spaces between his, which gave her no comfort at all.

"Lucky," she tried again, and managed very little improvement. "They...Death is gone, Lucky. Death has been eliminated by Destruction. I didn't think...but he was Death, and he was supposed to be--"

With a sharp inhale and fiercely clenched teeth and eyes closed so tightly that they offered glimmers of stars to soothe her, Mimsy tried to prevent herself from falling apart. Her free hand moved to clutch a tiny gold fortune cookie that hung on a dainty chain around her neck, and it provided no comfort for her either.

"It isn't fair. He understood. He understood me. He understood humanity more than most humans. He was important, and now he is gone. I thought that he was strong enough. I saw him. I saw it. I saw...I saw it." And the words devolved into muttering and clumsy whispers that got terribly lost before they reached their point, while she rocked back and forth with one hand twined with his and one clinging to a cookie that did not actually grant wishes or favors, only half-learned lessons that she could never fully comprehend now.

For the first time she didn't feel infinite or immortal, and was sick from the knowledge that there would be no one waiting for her. When someone else's legacy consumed her, she would simply be extinguished and discarded, and no one would remember.

It had to be true, because she saw that too, and it was wholly undeniable that the end was anything but a dense, world-crushing flood of darkness.