Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
He had spent the better part of the evening pacing the atrium, the memory of the kiss replaying in a relentless loop. He had tried to categorize the event and file it away as a necessary component of their investigation.
A sleepover to monitor her sleepwalking. Observation and protection. Nothing more.
He repeated the words like a mantra, a shield against the rising tide of... something else. Something that had nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with the memory of her lips against his, a sensation that made the vines coiling beneath his collar twitch.
Now, Splice stood in the hallway outside Goldie's apartment, his hand raised to knock, but he hesitated. The building hummed around him with a low, resonant frequency of quiet approval, the corridor lights dimming to a softer glow.
Finally, gathering his composure, he knocked.
The door swung open almost immediately, and the carefully constructed fortress of Splice’s composure crumbled. He had braced himself for her usual glittering onslaught of perfume, shimmering velvet, and disarming chaos.
He had not braced for this.
Goldie stood framed in the warm light of her apartment, but she looked…
different. Stripped of her usual armor of sparkle and silk, she was simply, starkly, her.
She wore dark leggings that hugged the curve of her hips, a soft cotton t-shirt with the words “World’s Okayest Witch,” and a zip-up black hoodie. Her feet were clad in running shoes.
"I figured if I'm going sleepwalking, I should do it in real clothes this time instead of my nightie," she said with a wry shrug, stepping aside to let him in.
The word nightie was a spark on dry tinder. His mind instantly conjured the image of her from when she had opened the door, her hair mussed from sleep and sex, her velvet robe falling open to reveal the slip-thin gown beneath.
"Practical," he managed, the word scraping its way out of his throat.
As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of cinnamon and bergamot washed over him, but now it was laced with the warm, buttery smell of popcorn.
On the coffee table sat a large bowl of the snack.
Beside it sat a small vase filled with what appeared to be a few sprigs of mint, rosemary, and, confusingly, green onions.
Next to that was a tiny dish of what looked suspiciously like fertilizer.
Goldie caught his stare and flushed. "Well, I mean, you're part plant, right? I thought maybe you'd want some ambient greenery? Or maybe you get hungry for, I don't know, photosynthesis supplements?" She gestured helplessly at the dish of fertilizer, a sheepish grin on her face.
The unexpected sweetness of the situation hit him like a physical blow. He was not something that was grown to be cared for, yet this vibrant, chaotic, glittering woman wanted to feed him. Like he was worthy enough to be something she wanted to make happy.
"Goldie." His voice came out softer than he’d intended. "That's... no one has ever..."
"Oh gods, it's stupid, isn't it?" she interrupted, her words tumbling out in a rush as she moved toward the coffee table, as if clearing it away could erase her own vulnerability. "I don't know anything about plant care. My mom always said I could kill crabgrass, I have such a black thumb—"
"It's perfect," Splice interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. He reached out, his fingers closing around her wrist to still her frantic movement.
She looked up at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and he felt something fiercely protective and entirely his own unfurl in his chest as he gazed into her earth-brown eyes.
"So," Goldie said, clearing her throat. She gently pulled her wrist from his grasp, though the flush on her cheeks deepened. "Ready for the world's most awkward slumber party?"
Despite Mycor’s encroaching rot, the murder, and the political chaos swirling around them, Splice found himself returning her smile. "I believe I am."
The relief in her expression was palpable. "Right. Drinks. We need to stay hydrated!" She spun toward the kitchen with a renewed, almost manic purpose. "Make yourself comfortable!"
Splice settled onto the couch, the cushions sighing under his weight. He listened to Goldie bustling in the kitchen, the soft clinks and thumps of glasses and bottles drifting through the apartment.
He let his gaze wander to the window. Outside, in the dusking glow, a vine trailed lazily against the glass. For a heartbeat it seemed to lift, reaching toward him in recognition. His lips curled despite himself, even as he shook his head to dismiss it.
"How's Mycor?" Goldie asked, padding back to the couch with a glass of water for him and a generous pour of white wine for her.
"He is the same."
She leveled a finger at him, her tone mock-stern, but her eyes were soft with genuine concern. "Did you give him any more of your life force?"
Splice shook his head.
"Good," she said firmly, taking a sip of her wine. "Not that… not that I don't want him to be okay, but you gotta keep your strength up if you're going to be following me around."
"You may not sleepwalk tonight," he pointed out.
Goldie was quiet for a moment, then pressed a hand to her chest, fingers splaying over her heart. "I don't know. I feel like... it's going to happen. There's something building, right here."
Then, the sparkle returned to her eyes as if someone had flipped a switch. The brief solemnity vanished, replaced by a familiar, mischievous energy. She grabbed the television remote with a theatrical flair.
"I downloaded a movie for us to watch. Guess what it is. Come on, guess!"
Splice's mind went entirely blank. He stared at her, trying to dredge up any knowledge of human entertainment from what he’d absorbed over the eons.
"Um." He racked his brain desperately. "Something with... explosions?"
"Nope! Good guess, but no. Try again."
What else did humans find entertaining? "A documentary about soil composition?"
Goldie stared at him for a beat, then let out a delighted laugh. "Oh, you are a precious, precious creature. No."
"Goldie."
"Fine." She sighed dramatically, then broke into a wicked grin. "It's Invasion of the Body Snatchers! I chose it just for you! If you've never seen it, it's a classic. Plant people! In pods! Taking over the Earth! You can tell me how accurate or inaccurate it is."
Splice went very still.
Goldie’s smile faltered, replaced by a flash of horror. "Is that offensive? Did I just racially profile you? Oh, Splice, I'm sorry if I—"
"No," he said, and the word was a strangled thing. "I just..." He struggled for a word that could encompass the strange, warm expansion in his chest. "It's… fine."
She chose a movie about plant people just for me.
The movie started, eerie music swelling as the opening credits rolled.
The tension, thick and uncertain a moment ago, dissolved into the simple, domestic sound of the film.
Goldie grabbed the popcorn bowl from the table and held it out to him.
He took a small handful, the salty kernels feeling foreign in his palm.
She settled cross-legged on the couch, hugging the bowl to her chest as her eyes, already wide and luminous in the dim light, glued themselves to the screen.
Maeve appeared from nowhere to press against Goldie’s side with a proprietary rumble, while Oberon, with a flick of his dark tail, claimed the space on the back of the couch directly behind Splice's shoulder.
Splice found his own gaze fixed not on the television, but on Goldie.
The way she unconsciously tucked a stray strand of coppery hair behind her ear.
The way she absently munched popcorn while her brows knitted in concentration.
She was so intensely alive, so vibrantly present in this small, quiet moment, that the weight of the world faded into a distant, muffled hum.
"You're not watching," she murmured, her voice a low counterpoint to the film's tense score. She didn't take her eyes off the screen, where a man in a trenchcoat was discovering suspicious-looking pods in a greenhouse.
Splice did not want to look away from the woman curled up beside him, but he obeyed, dutifully turning his gaze to the television. On screen, the protagonist was growing increasingly paranoid as his friends and neighbors were replaced by emotionless duplicates.
The popcorn in his hand fell to the couch cushions as he tried to focus on the plot.
But his senses were traitorously attuned to her.
The soft sound of her breathing, and the way it seemed to sync with the film's rhythm.
The way she unconsciously leaned closer to him during the moments of rising tension.
This, he realized with a feeling that was equal parts wonder and terror, was what humans called intimacy.
The movie ended in a crescendo of paranoid tension and alien revelation, the credits rolling over a final, chilling shot of the male protagonist’s distorted, screaming face.
Goldie turned to him, the spell of the film broken. "So? What did you think? Accurate representation of plant-based entities taking over the world?"
Splice considered this with gravity. "Their approach was unbelievable," he said finally. "True integration requires patience. Like ivy on an old wall. It doesn’t tear down the brick; it becomes part of it, slowly, until you can’t remove one without destroying the other. It takes time."
Goldie burst out laughing, the sound bright and infectious in the small space. She playfully flicked a half-popped kernel of popcorn at him, which bounced off his chest. "You're such a dork. I love it."
For a moment, he just looked at her, this creature of impossible brightness. He did not entirely understand the joke, but he understood the warmth that her laughter sent through him, a feeling as real and physical as sunlight on a leaf.
With a final, happy sigh, she clicked the television off, plunging the room into a softer dimness lit only by the glow of the city outside. She stood and stretched with a languid grace that made the vines on his arms stir.
"Right. Time to get this show on the road." She gathered the empty popcorn bowl from the table. "I'm taking a sleeping pill and calling it a night."
She padded toward the bedroom, pausing in the doorway to look back at him, a silhouette against the hall light. "You'll be okay out here?"
Splice nodded, settling deeper into the cushions. "I’ll be fine."
"Good." She hesitated, her hand resting on the doorframe, a flicker of something unsaid in her expression. But then she simply smiled, a softer, more tired version of her earlier grin. "Goodnight, Splice."
"Goodnight, Goldie."
The bedroom door clicked shut. He was alone with the quiet hum of the apartment, the scent of her, and the unsettling, undeniable feeling of anticipation.