Chapter Text
Something is off.
I can’t quite name it. He is definitely Nick. He’s definitely so very, very Nick. From the freckles across his nose to the tightness of the sleeves he rolls up over his biceps. From the way he walks, to the way the joggers hug his arse, and strain against his thighs, and yes, I am regularly thankful to the god of soft cloth that joggers were invented.
I watch him all day, during breakfast, when we do our Saturday chores. I’m not like constantly vigilant, like an inspector noting all the things. In fact, I don’t even think about it every minute of the day. He really is Nick, but with something inexplicable that doesn’t make him all the way Nick. It only jolts me every hour or two.
But it’s enough so that when he’s making dinner, I finally can’t keep it in.
“You’re not Nick,” I say when he sits down across from me.
“I’m Nick,” he says easily. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re not my Nick,” I say. “You look, sound, walk, and talk the same, but you’re not him.”
“Charlie,” he says.
“Don’t.”
“Charlie.”
I shake my head. I’m stubborn and grumpy, and I’m not going to stand for anyone — least of all some stupid gorgeous Nick doppelgänger — lying to me.
“Don’t lie to me,” I say between clenched teeth.
”Okay,” he says finally. After a long, long pause. “You’re right. I’m not your Nick.”
Fucking hell.
I didn’t actually think that was right.
But now there’s—
and he’s—
“How are you Nick and not my Nick at the same time?”
“This is sort of hard to explain, but I’m a Corporeal Locum.”
“You’re a— a… what, now?”
“A Corporeal Locum. We’re meant to temporarily take the place of our Universal Mirror when they can’t be there.”
“So my Nick isn’t here, but you’re a Nick and you’re like, standing in for my Nick?”
“Essentially, yeah.”
“And you thought I wouldn’t notice?”
“Not every one does.”
“Does this happen to everyone?”
“No, I meant not every Charlie notices.”
“What in the name of Sarah bloody Nelson are you talking about?”
And he freezes. Because invoking his mum’s name is serious business. We both know that.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m making a mess of this. Can we go sit in the lounge?”
I nod and follow him wordlessly, sinking down on the sofa we picked out together with the extra money Nick made teaching a summer programme when we were two years into living together, poor, and so desperately in love.
He sits down next to me, his face kind.
“When I said ‘not every one,’ I meant: Not. Every. One. Two words. Every Charlie. I didn’t mean everyone: one word, like every person. There are very few humans for whom there are Corporeal Locums.”
“You’re telling me that out of 8 billion people on the planet, there aren’t many—”
“247 billion, actually. It’s not just in our present day. It’s all of human time.”
“So we’re, I mean, I—” I swear my brain is starting to hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m kind of fucking this up.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay, so there aren’t many humans that have stand ins like me. With so many timelines and universes and infinite options, most people’s universes look so different: different lives, spouses, occupations, so many things. But we’re different. We do have stand ins, or Corporeal Locums, because you and I? We’re kind of a… universe constant?”
“What? That’s… I mean— what?”
“Sorry,” he slides over closer to me. “Can I hold your hand a minute?”
“Of course.”
I mean, even when my world is topsy-turvy because this Nick — who is not my Nick, but is still Nick — I mean, I don’t even know how to fucking describe it at all, but even then? Being with Nick, holding his hand, breathing him in, it always comforts me.
So he takes my hand. We turn to face each other on the sofa and the familiar honey-brown warmth of his eyes calms me. The way he holds my hand is still the same. People often describe the comfort of someone rubbing their thumb over the back of your hand as comforting. And it is. But Nick uses his entire hand. His thumb rubs gently, but the fingers on the underside lightly massage my palm. I’ve always teased him that either Nick’s hand lotion is infused with CBC oil, that I have an invisible “calm down” button on my palm somewhere, or else Nicholas Nelson is just perfectly matched for me.
“So, you’re not my Nick?” I ask him, point blank.
”I am Nick, and I do have Charlie,” he says gently. “But you’re right, I’m not the Nick in this universe.”
I’m sort of afraid to ask, but I do anyway. I have to.
“Is my Nick—” Fuck, I can’t even finish the sentence.
“He’s going to be fine!”
Something about how he says that doesn’t help, doesn’t fix the over-beating of my heart. My vision starts to tunnel, and I can feel the flicker of panic licking the edges of my lungs.
“No, please don’t worry,” he pleads with me. “Charlie, Charlie, I promise.”
But I can feel the tightness traveling down my spine.
“Can I—” he continues. “Can I give you a hug? Please?”
And while I don’t even know what the fuck is going on right now, hugs are always okay. So I nod, and he pulls me in. He smells almost exactly the same, and he feels just like Nick, the warmth and heft and essence of him. The cotton of his hoodie, the broken in softness that relaxes my skin.
The way we fit together, the way his arms go exactly where I need them to go… the warmth of his chest against mine, the slow rise and fall of his breaths… it helps me calm myself.
I burrow in as best I can, inhaling just above his armpit, and it’s Nick, Nick, Nick, with just a hint of not quite just under the surface, but I can’t tell if that’s me knowing this isn’t my Nick or if it really is something.
He holds me for a long, long time. He nuzzles my temple, the shell of my ear, my neck. It’s exactly the way Nick holds me, and I let myself lose myself in pleasure until my breathing is completely steady again. Until I can feel my feet grounded in my socks, feel the rough carpet under my feet. I can see the plants we have in the window, the stack of books on the table, Nick’s empty afternoon mug of tea that he always forgets to put in the sink.
“Okay,” I say against his collarbone. “I’m okay. Well, I’m not okay, I mean, I’m ready to… listen?”
He lets go gently, one breath at a time, and sits down with me on the sofa again.
“I’m not from this universe. Mine has actually ended, or at least my time in it has ended. But just before my parting, I was invited to the strangest place — just called Headquarters — where I met the Essentials and they told me about Universe Constants. They told me that I had heightened senses, impressive reflexes, and they invited me to become a stand in for Nicks in other universes that needed to be taken out temporarily. A Corporeal Locum.”
“Why would someone have to be taken out?”
“Sometimes it’s a health thing. A lot of Nicks have simple heart defects that can affect their longevity and the Essentials want to have the Healers repair them. Sometimes they get injured. I’m not always sure, because they don't always tell me.”
“Why is my Nick—”
“He’s fine. And I can’t tell you.”
My brain is absolutely reeling.
“What can you tell me?”
“Apart from the incredible amount of information I’ve shared already?” His grin is crooked and I smile at him in spite of myself.
”Yeah, what good are you?”
“Well, I’m meant to be part of your normal life temporarily until your Nick comes back.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know.” And the low, gravelly way he says that gets under my skin, heats all the liquid inside me, because he’s still Nick, and Nick is still mine, all of me, and the best of me.
I lean toward him and he matches the angle just enough so our lips touch softly, briefly, perfectly. We kiss three times, gently, and then I rest my forehead against his. “I still love you, even though you’re not my Nick. Is that weird? I can’t explain it.”
“I don’t even understand it myself,” he says genuinely. “I feel it, too. I see you and I’m just… so in love with you.”
We spend the next couple of hours talking, and then we snuggle under a blanket and watch a movie — I even let him pick a Marvel movie — until we’re both struggling to keep our eyes open.
So we share the bathroom the way we always do, teeth brushing, face washing, bits of skin care. When we slide into bed, he breathes into my neck and lightly traces my jaw with his nose.
“I can hold you tonight, all night. Your Nick should be back sometime before you wake up. I’m not allowed to make love to you, but we can snuggle, and sleep, and kiss.”
“Mmm,” I say against his warm skin, breathing him in. “I like kissing.”
So we do. For a long time.
“There’s something so odd about this,” I whisper to him. “You are wholly and exactly Nick. And, sometimes, you don’t smell completely right. I mean, like there’s a hint of not, underneath all the Nick that you do smell like. Is that weird?”
He stares at me.
“Wow. That’s. Yeah,” he starts. “Charlie, that’s exactly what it is. Each universe has minor molecular differences, and while we, as humans, don’t have the capacity to actually detect them, it manifests through a sense of smell for some of the Readers.”
“Readers?”
“That’s what they call the people like me that are often invited to become Corporeal Locums.”
“Wow,” I say. “Well maybe that’ll be me one day.”
“Maybe.”
We talk for a while longer, and I feel drowsiness descend over me slowly like warm hot chocolate. And while I love sleeping, and I love sleeping with Nick, part of me isn’t sure if I’m actually awake or not.
“Nick,” I mumble sleepily. He moves closer and pulls me against him. “Thank you for being here with me, and I’m sorry you have to go, and I’m also happy I’ll have my Nick, and that feels weird to say. I hope one day I can meet you again. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Charlie,” he says, pulling me in close and kissing my forehead. “Being with you today was amazing.”
As I drift off to sleep, I think I hear a note of hope in his voice, too.