I know the host doesn't want to be disturbed but I hope he is okay..
The Host wanders through the cabin, his cane in hand to be sure the Author hadn’t moved anything, but it’s all the same. Just as he left it. There’s a knock at the door, and the Host whirls around just as Dr. Iplier pokes his head inside the door. “Hello?”
The Host’s shoulders relax with a sigh. “Oh, hello, Doctor.”
Doc smiles and slips inside. “Oliver told me I might find you here.”
“But I thought I told him…” Host grips his cane before shaking his head. “Oh, never mind.”
Dr. Iplier laughs and steps into the kitchen. “You know, you promised me once that I was going to get a meal in this cabin, and I don’t believe that I’ve had one yet. Every time I come in here there’s some new crisis to steal away our appetites. So we better work quickly, don’t you think?”
The Host is stunned into silence for a moment before he smiles and sets his cane to the side. “If you insist.” He rolls up his sleeves, and the two of them go to work preparing a delicious meal.
When they’ve eaten and rinsed the dishes, Dr. Iplier boxes up the leftovers. “I’ll take these down to the kitchen so the others can have what they want, and I’ll leave you alone.”
The Host catches Doc’s elbow as he turns to go. “Wait.” Dr. Iplier turns back, and Host hugs him tight. “Thank you, for all that you’ve done for me. I know I’m difficult and hard-headed, but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Doc, startled for a moment, hugs the Host back with an unsure smile. “Well, what brings this on?”
Host pulls back with his face turned towards the ground. “I… with everything that’s happened… and the Author…”
Dr. Iplier’s face softens, and he places a hand on Host’s shoulder with a squeeze. “You don’t have to say it. I understand.” He hugs the Host once more, quick and tight. “You’re my best friend, Host. I’d do anything to keep you safe.”
Host smiles, a hint of blush in his cheeks. “Likewise, Doc.”
The Doctor smiles and shakes his head. “Call me Edward.” Host nods, and Dr. Iplier turns to go. “See you tomorrow, Host.”
“Isaac,” Host says softly.
Doc pauses a moment in the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Isaac.”
Dark: *watches Jacks egos nervously* ah - so the theme with your egos is you’re the most well adjusted one
Anti: *catches jackieboyman after he tried to jump off a building to fly, takes the scalpel from schnep saying “don’t take from my collection” and puts a bottle of lexapro in chases hand* yeah man how fucking sad is that
How is Dark feeling? I imagine he wouldn't be happy that he was messed with, but I'd like to think he'd be happy that Ollie isn't dead? I mean he DEFINITELY wasn't happy when he thought Ollie really WAS dead
Dark storms down to the library to give Host an earful about messing with his head, but Oliver and Anti are sitting in front of the door making cranes. Ollie looks up at a fuming Dark and smiles. “Sorry, Host doesn’t want to be disturbed right now.”
Dark nods slowly, eyes wide as he looks at Oliver. The yellow bot gets up from the floor. “I know that you don’t like them very much, but can I have a hug? I mean, you did think I was dead before now…”
He waits for Dark to nod and then gives him a gentle hug. Dark pats Ollie’s back twice and then steps back. “I’m… glad to know that you’re alright.” Dark eyes Anti who is still folding cranes and trying to hide his grin. “What are you laughing at?”
Anti looks up, as innocent as can be and shrugs, “Oh, nothing, Darkipoo. Nothing at all.”
Hey guys remember that scene in Big Hero 6 where Baymax diagnoses Hiro with grief/depression, downloads the database on how to care for him, and proceeds to conclude that the best course of action is to give him a very awkward hug? Imagine that with Google IRL and Dark.
If only because a love poem is more often than not an applied art (i.e., it’s written to get the girl), it takes an author to an emotional and, quite likely, a linguistic extreme. As a result he emerges from such a poem knowing himself–his psychological and stylistic parameters–better than before, which explains the popularity of the genre among its practitioners.
Joseph Brodsky, from section VIII of “Altra Ego,” On Grief and Reason (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1995)