There was a point during his convalescence in his brother’s questionable care, shortly after he’d come to realize in some sort of vague sense where he was and what was going on, when he woke to the feeling of careful hands on his left foot. He’d spent so long consumed by fever dreams and night terrors it was a moment before he was certain that he wasn’t sleeping. Eyelids barely open, he gazed down towards his feet. Diogenes was crouched there, slowly running his fingers along Pendergast’s insole, lips moving silently.

When they were younger, before Diogenes’ illness—for Pendergast still called it such in his mind, even though he now knew it had been something else entirely—he had allowed this frequently. Diogenes had been a student of anatomy even then, and had found his brother’s pale, nearly translucent skin a fascinating source of study. Pendergast, for his part, had been something of a hedonist even in youth, and had enjoyed the contrast between the heavy Louisiana air and Diogenes’ small, cool hands as they followed blood, bone, muscle, and nerves. Sometimes, after there parents had gone to sleep for the night, Pendergast would lie silently on top of his bedclothes, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, as his little brother traced the lines of his body like an atlas.

Shaking off the memory, Pendergast let out a deep shuddering breath, all pretense of sleep forgotten. Diogenes looked up at him and smiled, oddly guileless, before bending to his task again. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Then his fingers resumed their progress, moving ponderously over the fine bones of Pendergast’s foot. His lips moved again, silently documenting the bones. Cuboid, calcaneus, talus, navicular, and then to Pendergast’s ankle, the tibia and fibula, inexorably up past his knee, the patella, along and beyond the femur.

————————————

Pendergast remembers the first time he saw Corrie, dyed hair, heavily kohl-rimmed eyes and black clothes studded with metal spikes and strung with chains, and thinking to himself that she dressed herself in armor. When he was much younger Pendergast had realized that when you were different enough to draw attention, the trick was to highlight those differences yourself, before others had the chance to do it for you. It didn’t stop the stares or the mockery, but it did deprive them of some of their power.

So in the unlikely locale of Medicine Creek, Kansas, he saw something of himself reflected in Corrie. “What’s so important about fitting in?” he asked her before he left. “I never did,” he added, uncharacteristically revelatory, and immediately embarrassed by the admission.

He briefly allowed the girl to wrap her arms around his waist, feeling a surge of unusual affection. It was, he thought, something like what most people felt for a younger sibling, though he could in no way attest to the veracity of this. Discomforted at the thought, he stepped away, loosing himself from her grip. When she looked at him he found himself stuttering out an explanation for his behavior, surprising himself with his honesty. She was obviously nearly as uncomfortable with him baring his soul as he was, and this made him smile slightly.

Hopefully she would grow out of her stifling upbringing rather better than he had.

————————————

Several weeks after learning the truth about his great-grand uncle Antoine and his narrow escape from the basement of 891 Riverside Drive, Pendergast invited Smithback to drinks at The Bones. It wasn’t the sort of establishment he would have chosen to visit on his own, but he knew Smithback liked its atmosphere.

The invitation was something of an apology for his role in dragging Smithback into the situation, as well as a way for him to check up on the man, who he counted as one of his few friends. Pendergast was pleased to see Smithback looking relatively well, dressed in one of his characteristically ill-fitting suits, hair unruly. The reporter still appeared a little on the thin side, his face was somewhat drawn, and he was savoring his drinks less than normal, tossing them back quickly. Nevertheless, he was quick-witted as ever and didn’t seem to be in any physical discomfort. Fairhaven’s incisions had been clean and careful, at least, and Smithback’s wounds had almost certainly healed more quickly than Pendergast’s own.

“I am sorry,” Pendergast said at one point, after they’d been drinking in relative silence for some time. “It would appear that I am something of a bad penny, where your experiences are concerned.”

Smithback gestured at him with his snifter of over-priced whisky. “Are you serious?” he demanded, eyes shining with humor and liquor. “Do you have any idea how much hay I made off this story? A personal account of my torment at the hands of The Surgeon. I deserve a fucking Pulitzer!” he said, and in his enthusiasm sloshed a little of the amber liquid onto the table.

Smithback continued to nurse his drink and a few minutes went by. He sighed, glanced at Pendergast, eyes suddenly dark, and then looked away. “I have dreams about it sometimes.”

“Ah,” said Pendergast.

“I guess that’s to be expected, right?” Smithback passed a hand through his hair, which sprang up in its wake, unrepentant as always. “Anyway, it’s less than it used to be, so that must mean I’m getting over it.” He looked at Pendergast again, who found himself at a loss as to how to respond.

Smithback laughed nervously. “Geez, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like you need anything else to worry about.” Pendergast opened his mouth to assure him that, really, listening was the least he could do, but Smithback waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, forget I said anything. I should be getting home anyway.”

He pushed himself upright, and then swayed unsteadily on his feet. Pendergast was at his side in an instant, holding Smithback’s elbow in a firm grip. “I think I drank a little too much,” Smithback admitted as he began to stumble towards the door. Pendergast dropped a few bills on the table as they passed.

They walked alongside one another as they made their way out into the crisp Manhattan evening. The day had been unseasonably warm—an early harbinger of spring—and the air felt pleasant after the close quarters of the bar. “Are you still on pain medication?” Pendergast asked.

“A little.” Smithback sounded contrite, and Pendergast was mortified that the possibility hadn’t occurred to him earlier. “That would explain my current state, huh?” He stumbled again and might have fallen, had Pendergast not leapt towards him and wrapped an arm around his waist. Smithback automatically threw his right arm over Pendergast’s shoulders and wind-milled the other until he’d righted himself again.

The weight caused an unexpected strain on Pendergast’s barely healed wounds and he grunted quietly as he repositioned his grip on the slightly taller man. “You’re heavier than you look,” he said truthfully, and Smithback laughed.

“Solid muscle, that’s me,” Smithback replied, stepping hesitantly forward on legs as unsteady as wet noodles. He flexed the bicep of his free arm and Pendergast found himself smiling slightly. Smithback grinned back. “You mind waiting with me while I get a cab? I think I might embarrass myself otherwise.” He squeezed Pendergast’s far shoulder by way of explanation.

“Of course, William” said Pendergast, and helped him along to Central Park West, where they stood a better chance of finding a cab at such an hour. Smithback was a solid weight against his side and, Pendergast was surprised to realize, not an entirely unwelcome one.

Smithback gradually regained his legs as they went, sobering somewhat with the exertion, and was able to hail a cab himself. “Will you be alright?” asked Pendergast, steadying the other man as he slid into the vehicle. He automatically placed a hand on the crown of Smithback’s head to make sure he didn’t bash it against the low doorframe.

“I’ll be fine,” said Smithback. He grinned. “And thanks.”

————————————

After the experience of being bricked into an alcove of Count Fosco’s catacombs, Pendergast developed a powerful phobia of small, dark spaces, though he would never admit this to anyone. His confinement in a jail cell was bad enough, particularly at night, but the long minutes he spent ensconced in one of the tiny, cold cavities of the morgue, followed by his brief trip wrapped in a body bag were far, far worse, and he spent most of the time in deep meditation to keep the panic at bay.

By the time D’Agosta deemed them safe and unzipped the bag, letting in welcome if harsh fluorescent light, it was all he could do to hang onto his carefully guarded control. His side ached fiercely where his ribs had been broken and his face burned and throbbed where he’d ripped the stitches out of his angry flesh. He was cold and filthy and he could smell the stink of his own fear sweat. Worse, he could feel the ghost of chains across his chest, sharp-edged manacles around his wrists, and he had to fight the desire to gasp in air like a drowning man.

So when D’Agosta moved as though to reach for him, shouting jubilantly, Pendergast remembered the steady, comforting strength of his friend’s fierce embrace when he’d first revealed his continuing existence, and held up a protesting hand. “My dear Vincent, please,” he said, as calmly as possible, “no effusive demonstrations of affection until I am showered and dressed.”

He was fairly certain that if he’d allowed the contact he wouldn’t have been able to let go.

————————————

Pendergast is lying stretched across the crisp white sheets of Viola’s bed, enjoying the feeling of the warm Mediterranean breeze through the window. The bedclothes are pure bleached cotton, stiffer than he’s used to, but cool and light against his skin. He’s on his stomach, sleepy and sated, his left hand pillowing his face so he can watch Viola in the adjoining bathroom as she dries herself after a quick shower.

Viola hangs her towel carelessly over the top of the door and walks towards him. She’s so casual and confident in her uncovered body that even with the sheets pulled up to his waist, Pendergast feels naked under her eyes and knows a moment of the self-consciousness that he’s never been able to entirely shake.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she tells him as she seats herself on the bed next to him.

“I am glad to be with you,” he replies.

They have this exchange several times a day, because they both know he won’t be staying long, though they haven’t discussed the matter. Constance is patient, but Pendergast knows that even Viola can see the girl’s discontent. Besides which, Pendergast can already feel wanderlust tugging at him, the desire for purpose and adventure as strong as ever humming through his veins.

Nevertheless, Viola smiles genuinely and bends to press a light kiss to the space between Pendergast’s shoulder blades. Her wet hair trails along his back and he hums a little at the sensation.

Viola chuckles and uses her fingers to play with the drops of water she’s left on his back. Pendergast stretches under her hands, and she follows the play of muscles. The fingers of her left hand have calluses at the tips from playing the violin and her palms, when her touch changes from light to purposeful, are surprisingly strong and tough from working in the gardens.

Viola moves her hands over and down his back to pull the sheet away, along the trapeziuses and rhomboids, down to the lattisimus dorsis, and finally to the erector spinaes. Pendergast expels a great gust of air and turns his face into the bed, mouthing the names of the muscles against the cool cotton.

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