Eleven months into her stay on the barge, Tess still wakes up and checks her surroundings: apartment. Not in a scouted secured building, no one keeping watch. No gulls, no harbour sounds, no loudspeaker warnings. Not Boston. Still the Barge.
And if it’s the Barge, and not Boston, or some false life, or some world-ending calamity, then she’ relatively safe.
She rolls over, stretching as she goes, and grabs her communicator off the bedside table. No new messages. No new network posts, either. No more murder sprees, to her knowledge. She sends a message to Misty about greenhouse schedules, a message to William about dinner. No quick replies — they’re probably both sleeping. Fuck it, then, no excuse to lay in bed. She’ll get up, go for a run in the Enclosure, and hopefully be able to get in and out of the dining hall before it gets busy.
Tess flips open her tablet, opens the music app, and starts her playlist where it left off. Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines pours out of the speaker, needlessly loud. She turns it down just enough that it won’t disturb Ellie, but still loud enough to make her brain thump. Wake the fuck up.
Jesus Christ. What's that noise? He knows he didn't leave the communicator on last night, because sometimes he can imagine it buzzing at him and waking him up, and he's sure to turn it off.
He tries to open his eyes, but the moment he consciously thinks of it he finds they're - already open?
Tess' cabin. Not just that, it's Tess' cabin, and he's standing up, and where the hell is Tess? Jesus, how much did he have to drink last night? He tries to open his mouth and curse out loud, or go to get a glass of water, but nothing happens. Tess might feel a little itch at the back of her brain, though.
Tess contemplates her own drinking habits as she feels the itch, an itch she’s sure is a headache. But she didn’t drink that much last night, either, did she? One glass isn’t usually enough to bother her. Oh well, she decides. She’ll be able to ignore it when she’s gotten her day going.
Humming along to the music, she picks up her brush to drag it through her hair. She’d left her hairtie somewhere the night before, so she wanders the apartment, checking tabletops and her dresser, and there it is, in front of the bathroom mirror. She glances at herself only briefly — she sleeps in a tank top, and the ugly scarred expanse of her shoulder is on full display —- but it’s just long enough to grimace at.
“Couldn’t bring on a plastic surgeon, huh Admiral?”
What the fuck. The moment she looks into the mirror he startles so badly her hand will actually twitch, and he tries to say it out loud:
"What the fuck!"
A flood. He's sure of it, he also didn't have that much to drink yesterday and this isn't some delusion. Body swap? No, he's not just in her body. He's in her.
Tess says it out loud, and then startles herself when her hand twitches, and in a moment that must be delusional, she thinks she heard someone else's voice. She freezes and looks over her shoulder, even though she's already sure that no one's there.
"Arthur?" she says aloud. Internally, she thinks: I swear to fucking god, if this is another one of those stupid floods––
That's him. She decides she immediately hates this. If anyone's going to be crawling around in her thoughts, it might as well be him, but the whole idea makes her want to shudder.
Fuck, alright, she thinks back, and she shrugs herself into a hoodie. And then, largely unintentional: Hopefully he left the door unlocked.
She has to catch herself; managing her thoughts isn't impossible, but it is tricky.
It's weird, she replies, but it's a little pleased. It's always unlocked for her, huh? She wanders out into the hall, and two doors down, opens his. She half expects to see his body sprawled out in bed or on the floor, but nothing. It's just empty. A pause: Can you see?
Well, this is going to be an interesting week! she shoots back, veering playful in that Tess way, voice lined with unnecessary hostility. If he's going to be ticked off, then she'll match it. She's not exactly happy about being exposed, either. How the fuck will showering work? God.
She turns and finds his journal on the table, and she picks it up, holding it up like her own eyes are a periscope for him.
That'll be handy, at least! Won't have to use mine.
Please, you'll take any excuse you can get to not talk about him.
Which isn't exactly an issue to Tess, given how their conversations have typically gone down, but she turns the music down anyway. And then, considering she should spare him now in case she needs to drive him nuts with it later, she turns it off entirely.
And I can hear both of us think just fine, for the record.
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double occupancyyyyy
And if it’s the Barge, and not Boston, or some false life, or some world-ending calamity, then she’ relatively safe.
She rolls over, stretching as she goes, and grabs her communicator off the bedside table. No new messages. No new network posts, either. No more murder sprees, to her knowledge. She sends a message to Misty about greenhouse schedules, a message to William about dinner. No quick replies — they’re probably both sleeping. Fuck it, then, no excuse to lay in bed. She’ll get up, go for a run in the Enclosure, and hopefully be able to get in and out of the dining hall before it gets busy.
Tess flips open her tablet, opens the music app, and starts her playlist where it left off. Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines pours out of the speaker, needlessly loud. She turns it down just enough that it won’t disturb Ellie, but still loud enough to make her brain thump. Wake the fuck up.
Normal day, right?
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Jesus Christ. What's that noise? He knows he didn't leave the communicator on last night, because sometimes he can imagine it buzzing at him and waking him up, and he's sure to turn it off.
He tries to open his eyes, but the moment he consciously thinks of it he finds they're - already open?
Tess' cabin. Not just that, it's Tess' cabin, and he's standing up, and where the hell is Tess? Jesus, how much did he have to drink last night? He tries to open his mouth and curse out loud, or go to get a glass of water, but nothing happens. Tess might feel a little itch at the back of her brain, though.
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Humming along to the music, she picks up her brush to drag it through her hair. She’d left her hairtie somewhere the night before, so she wanders the apartment, checking tabletops and her dresser, and there it is, in front of the bathroom mirror. She glances at herself only briefly — she sleeps in a tank top, and the ugly scarred expanse of her shoulder is on full display —- but it’s just long enough to grimace at.
“Couldn’t bring on a plastic surgeon, huh Admiral?”
Goodsir was better than nothing, though. Oh well!
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What the fuck. The moment she looks into the mirror he startles so badly her hand will actually twitch, and he tries to say it out loud:
"What the fuck!"
A flood. He's sure of it, he also didn't have that much to drink yesterday and this isn't some delusion. Body swap? No, he's not just in her body. He's in her.
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"Arthur?" she says aloud. Internally, she thinks: I swear to fucking god, if this is another one of those stupid floods––
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"It's one of those stupid floods," he says, or thinks, very loudly, right at her. "Check my cabin."
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Fuck, alright, she thinks back, and she shrugs herself into a hoodie. And then, largely unintentional: Hopefully he left the door unlocked.
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He did, he thinks back at her. Somehow, without having teeth, he manages to sound like he's saying this through gritted teeth.
It's always unlocked for you even if I didn't. Christ, this is the worst.
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It's weird, she replies, but it's a little pleased. It's always unlocked for her, huh? She wanders out into the hall, and two doors down, opens his. She half expects to see his body sprawled out in bed or on the floor, but nothing. It's just empty. A pause: Can you see?
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Unfortunately for both of us, yes, I can.
His voice becomes a lot more clipped and less drawn-out when ticked-off, even if he's just a voice in her head.
I didn't go anywhere last night. My journal still there?
He can't even make her turn her head to check, has to wait on her.
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She turns and finds his journal on the table, and she picks it up, holding it up like her own eyes are a periscope for him.
That'll be handy, at least! Won't have to use mine.
(Joking. Sort of.)
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He just thinks fuck you, quietly enough that it might not register - and if it does, she'll know what he means.
Take it with you, would you - what d'you mean, yours?
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It's a joke, she retorts, as she tucks the journal under her arm. Relax. This is going to be a long week and I'm the one with the body.
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Think the Admiral gave mine up because my body's already half-pickled?
Arthur isn't a terribly physical person, but he suddenly misses it badly, moving around himself.
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She can just imagine what boredom might drive her to. God, that might be an even longer week.
Anything else I should grab from here?
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No, but lock it up behind you. Can we go check on someone else? See if it's the whole ship?
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Like hell she’s going to wander around in her pajamas. Tess heads out, locking up behind her.
Who do you want to check with? Misty? She’s probably with William, if this is everyone.
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Or he's with her. Who's to say it's not any which way?
The idea that she's going to be changing and he won't be able to at least turn around and give her some privacy is giving him the heebie-jeebies.
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Why don’t I just text them? I don’t think William’s going to be in a great mood either way.
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He's going to be insufferable with you because of the mere suggestion I might be around. Just warning you..
He can't, obviously, disguise the weird disdain he feels for William.
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She pulls out her communicator yo text Misty anyway as she lets herself back into her room, where Nicki Minaj’s Starships is cheerily blaring.
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How can you even hear yourself think in this noise? I'm not talking about William while you do this.
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Which isn't exactly an issue to Tess, given how their conversations have typically gone down, but she turns the music down anyway. And then, considering she should spare him now in case she needs to drive him nuts with it later, she turns it off entirely.
And I can hear both of us think just fine, for the record.
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Well, I'm an old man, have some pity.
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She shucks off her pajama pants and pulls on jeans. And, considering just how long this week is going to be:
How open are you to us doing a don't-ask-don't-tell thing this week?
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