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They've been on the road for almost two days when they hit the edge of the park.
They take turns driving—Tesla and Emma—while Einstein sits in the back with Joachim. They're in the middle seat, even though they have enough space to stay on their side; the boy won't sleep without their jacket to cling to. Einstein absentmindedly smooths his hair as they move.
The sun set an hour ago, and this far away from the towns, the stars are bright in the sky above.
"It's a shame that we got here after sundown," Emma murmurs. "It's so lovely here during the day."
Tesla says nothing, so she must be sleeping.
"How much further until we reach Nancy's base?"
"Just under two hours," Emma says. "She prepared for this for a long time—although I imagine she thought that she would be experiencing it herself."
Joachim snuffles in his sleep—it looks for a second, as if he's on the verge of tears. Einstein holds him a little closer, until the tension in his juvenile form softens. Eight years old. They would've been around the same age when they went with Emma to study. Did they seem as unfathomably young to Carl and Emma then as Joachim seems to them now?
They're pretty sure that they were at least slightly taller than him.
In a matter of days, this boy has lost everything.
"Have you been able to reach Henrietta?"
Einstein shakes their head.
"She must be off the grid." Emma huffs. "I'll try and call her again tomorrow—I'm fairly sure that she's in Greece at the moment."
Joachim looks most like his mother. He has her dark hair, warm skin, rich, brown eyes. Despite the logic of it, the fact that he should resemble someone so much whom he never truly sees is still fascinating. Einstein is overcome for a moment by the powerful urge to scoop the boy up into their arms and cling to him close.
They turn around a bend, and Einstein thinks that they almost catch a glimpse of one of the geysers in the light of the moon.
Last they were here, they were all alive. Einstein, Tesla, Planck, Joachim, Edison, Schrodinger, Welt, the Finn. Only the five of them are left. Can it really be so few?
They don't have a place to stay here.
Einstein sets down what little luggage they brought along just inside the door of Emma's apartment. It's barely a night bag. Basic toiletries, a change of clothes. They rummage through it, then freeze as their fingers brush against soft wool. They swallow, grasping the fabric and slowly pulling it from the depths of their bag.
Welt's scarf. How did that get there?
They take a shivering breath as they fold it and set it atop Emma's television cabinet.
Tesla shifts the eight-year-old in her arms as she leans back against the front door to close it. "It smells like must here," she grumbles faintly.
"Dr Planck spends the majority of her time at work." Einstein pulls the string to switch on the table-lamp, casting the interior of the apartment in a warm, yellow glow. It's cold, dusty. There's a faint damp smell eminating from beneath the windowsil. Still, in this light it seems like a place that has the potential to become cosy.
It has to, at least for now.
The walls are adorned with kitschy prints and postcards, while an abandoned granny square sits atop the coffee table. The crochet hooks have a faint layer of dust over them, as does the overturned book resting on the arm of the sofa. "She said this is a pull-out bed." Einstein picks up the book, tearing a blank page from their notebook to mark the page as they set it aside.
"Don't think I can do much pulling out at the moment, Mophead." Tesla adjusts her hold on Joachim again.
Einstein feels under the sofa for the lever. "It should be—there we go." They unlatch it, collapsing the couch into a somewhat undersized double-bed.
"She doesn't have a spare room, does she?"
Einstein shakes their head.
"Can you take him?" Tesla doesn't wait for a response before shifting Joachim into their arms. He stirs slightly before he settles again, face buried in their shoulder. "I'm gonna need a drink."
"Now?"
"When else?" She pulls open a cabinet and produces a bottle of brandy. Sometimes they swear she must have a homing beacon for alcohol. "She said we should make ourselves at home," Tesla adds when she sees their expression.
"We need to get Joachim to bed." Einstein carefully lowers themself onto the thin mattress, setting Joachim down beside them. He yawns, opening bleary eyes to his surroundings.
"Do you want to change into some comfier clothes?" Einstein says softly.
Joachim squints at them. "I didn't bring any."
Of course he didn't. He snuck along with Emma because he thought he'd go on a fun adventure. They think their heart may break.
"I have a spare shirt. He can wear it as a nightgown." Tesla waves her hand as she takes a sip. "Whew, strong—good. It'll be in my bag."
Einstein nods.
Tesla's luggage is a mess—they will let it slide on this occasion considering the circumstances that they have been faced with, but they really ought to nag her to keep things organised more often. But then, she has the grounds to nag them back about their room back in London. Perhaps they are as bad as each other.
They find the shirt crumpled at the bottom of the bag. It's cold, clean. Still smells of laundry detergent. They hand it to Joachim, who blinks slowly.
"C'mon, I'll show you where Dr Planck's bathroom is so that you can get changed." Joachim nods, standing, and Einstein leads him down the hallway with a hand on his back. The room is cold tile and brass taps, but it's clean enough. "Make sure to wash your face and rinse your mouth. We'll go out and get you a toothbrush tomorrow, okay?"
Joachim nods.
The door softly clicks shut, and they hear the water run.
Tesla clears her throat from the end of the hallway. She has another glass in her hand, clean and empty. Usually, Einstein doesn't drink. Usually. They nod, and she fills it half way with thick amber liquid before handing it to them.
The taste is thick, bitter. They fight the urge to gag as it burns the back of their throat, their oesophagus, their stomach lining.
"I don't know how you drink this stuff."
Tesla shrugs.
Einstein holds out the glass for a refill.
They wake to light filtering in from beneath Emma's blinds. She still hasn't returned home—not that it's any cause for concern. She's no stranger to long nights working. Emma used to joke that no man would ever be happy placing second to her work. She stopped when it started to become too real.
Joachim sighs in his sleep, and their eyes gradually swim back into focus. Followed by memories of the previous day. The fight, the explosion, that surge of brilliant warmth that flushed through their veins, Welt, Reanna, Edison—they swallow. Tesla lies on Joachim's other side, awake. She's watching him as he sleeps, heavy shadows beneath her eyes.
Light burgundy eyelashes hide her irises as she lays there, still. Did she always look so gentle? Einstein must've noticed it before; it seems so familiar, yet.
"You stayed up?" Einstein whispers.
Tesla hums quietly.
They take Joachim to the nearest mall. He needs clothes, toiletries, something to do and something to eat. Tesla walks through the multi-story expanse—that great American monstrosity—with his hand in hers. The Finn used to do this, Einstein thinks, arms laden with bags of clothes.
Emma called earlier. "I still haven't been able to reach Henrietta—would you mind trying her number again when you get a chance? If we still have no luck, I'll try and get in touch with her university."
Einstein doesn't know what they will do if they do manage to reach her. Will they tell her to come and collect her son? They can't imagine that it could ever be that simple—Joachim cannot go back to how he was. They cannot pretend that nothing has changed.
Einstein leaves the two at a cafe with their purchases before going to locate a payphone. There's one on the street just outside the mall, and they rummage around in their pockets for change in the correct denomination to operate it. Correct currency, even. They sift through shillings and pence before finally landing on a nickel. They press it into the slot and wait for the telltale click.
The phone rings.
If Henrietta picks up—I'm sorry ma'am, your husband was killed.
The phone rings.
They can't lead with that. No. But they've never been good at niceties. Tesla was always the gentler of the two, despite her outbursts. Passion is, after all, a crucial component of compassion.
The phone rings.
Maybe they'll just ask her to come to Wyoming. But wouldn't it be cruel to leave her in the lurch like that?
The phone rings.
Will she even notice that her husband and son are gone?
The phone rings.
Would she only care if she knew?
The phone rings.
Wouldn't, then, it be kinder not to tell her at all?
The line goes dead and Einstein sets the phone back on its hook. They hadn't noticed it before, but standing out in the cold, their fingertips have begun to numb. They lean back against the side of the booth. Nothing exists outside for a moment. A part of them drifts to calculations, probabilities that this moment has even happened, the likelihood of the atoms that form their figure ever managing to combine in the way that they have.
But they can't lose themselves.
Tesla and Joachim are waiting.
When they return to the food court, the two have wandered off, leaving their bags at the table. Einstein panics for a horrid, lurching second, before they hear the familiar sound of Tesla's laughter from across the court.
They're still here. Nothing has happened. Everything is okay.
They've found a stationary store—Tesla is indulging Joachim, evidently, if the stack of multi-coloured notebooks in her arms is anything to go by. She holds each one up for inspection before either putting it back or handing it to the boy.
Einstein frowns. There is still only a coffee set out on the table—they clearly haven't eaten yet, though they were gone for long enough for them to at least have started on a meal. They hope they haven't forgotten. There have been times, after all, where they've had to gently remind Tesla that food is in fact not optional, even while working on a prototype.
Tesla catches their eyes through the store window and waves. Einstein takes a seat at the abandoned table. They are lucky that no one has attempted to take their belongings.
A minute later, the two are back. Tesla is empty handed, but Joachim has acquired a small soft-covered notebook and a tin of pencils.
"Have you eaten?"
"Not yet," Tesla says brightly. "We realised that we didn't have anything to do while waiting, so I thought it would be nice to get Joachim something."
"What did you get?"
"A sketchbook," Joachim says softly. "I wanted—I thought it would be fun to draw something, maybe."
Einstein smiles. "Hm, I think so too. What are you going to draw?"
"I'll show you when I'm done."
The food isn't particularly remarkable. Tesla takes charge of ordering and returns with a couple of hot dogs and a ridiculously adorned milkshake for Joachim. Whipped cream, sprinkles. Einstein feels sick just looking at it. Still, the food isn't necessarily bad. There's a certain appeal to something that is rich and easy and ordinary. Not like Emma's 'oysters.' They smile softly at the memory of an easier time.
"Is there anything else we need?" Tesla asks in-between mouthfuls. "We have clothes, basics, et cetera."
"I doubt that we're going to be able to have our belongings sent from London," Einstein sighs.
Tesla stares at them blankly. "Our things?"
"We have enough clothes to last us a few days, but after that—"
"Crap! I forgot about us!" Tesla bangs her fist against the table. Joachim quickly lifts the sketchbook out of the way before the coffee splatters can hit the page. "Damn. I guess there's no way we can persuade Shicksal to do us a favour."
"And I doubt Emma's clothes will fit either of us."
Tesla groans. "We already have so much to carry. If only—" she stops, though they both know what she was going to say. If only the boys were still here. "I'm sure we can come back."
"We can come with Dr Planck, next time."
Tesla nods. "Speaking of Dr Planck—I'm going to drop by the base at Yellowstone this afternoon. Apparently Nancy still has a couple of my prototypes lying around. Even if we can't get our work from London back, I won't be restarting from scratch."
Joachim clears his throat and they both look at him.
He turns his sketchbook around to show them his handiwork.
"Oh! I love it! Look, Mophead, he's got you perfectly! And there! There's even my good looks—this is wonderful!"
Einstein swallows.
Joachim stands between the two of them, crudely-drawn hand in crudely-drawn hand each as Tesla beams bright and the corner's of Einstein's mouth turn up. The three of them. In that image they look happy, as if nothing has ever happened. Perhaps in that image, they are.
The world continues to turn. They do not have a funeral for the others.
There aren't any bodies left, anyway. Abyss Flower is just as destructive as it is restorative.
Einstein also notices another thing. Cuts, minor injuries, bruises, splinters and scrapes—they all heal within a couple of hours. It's the same for Tesla. Something has changed. Something is different, now. Perhaps they'd been too tired at first to notice it, perhaps the months following had made things difficult to pick apart from the ordinary after-effects of an experience so life-altering. So much so that they were unable to tell that their lives had been, indeed, altered.
Nancy Thomas Alva Edison gets a statue that Tesla claims to hate and a dedication at the entrance to the base.
Schrodinger has a plaque and a promise that she will always be welcome back.
They have nothing of Reanna to memorialise, so they dedicate farmland, owned by Edison and left to them, to her name. They grow rye in the fields out back.
Joachim spends hours out on the deck, barefoot, watching the stalks wave in the wind. "It's like an ocean," he says, once. Tesla has asked about it—she's in overalls, with those thick fireproof gloves on. They're renovating the barn into something liveable, and she has decided that welding the new support beams together will be her task. Her cheek is smeared with soot.
Einstein has been two more minutes away from reaching out to wipe it all afternoon.
"You think so?"
Joachim nods.
The conversation ends there, but their company does not. Tesla lays aside her torch, and sits beside the boy in silence until the sun sets.
The Finn had a headstone, and Welt—they don't arrange anything for Welt, but they hang his scarf on one of the hooks beside the front door (once Tesla has installed them), and keep a wardrobe filled with his clothes in the spare room.
They tell themselves it is because they are convincing the world that Welt Joyce lives, that they will need such things to properly dress up any who play the role. In reality, Einstein thinks, it is because they are still waiting for him to stumble through the door and once again be baffled by their talks of quantum mechanics and alternate dimensions.
They watch the two of them through the kitchen window while Emma prepares dinner. Her hair is beginning to grey, but they and Tesla—Joachim, too, most likely—remain unchanged.
"Deep in thought again, Lieserl?" Emma teases.
"I always am."
"Usually you don't look so melancholy."
"Tesla asked if she could get the name of the brandy you have in your cupboard."
"Hm, of course she did." Emma lays the place settings out on the kitchen table—also hand-made, another one of Tesla's hobby projects. The more time passes, the more she seems driven to invent. As if she could not be herself without it. "Coronet."
"Hm?"
"It's Coronet. I find it overrated, myself. She can have the rest, if she likes."
They throw Joachim the best ninth birthday party that anyone has ever thrown (according to Tesla).
Cake (homemade and dry, with buttercream icing that is more butter than cream, and messy calligraphy to wish their boy a happy birthday). Cake (store-bought and in a box, with fluffy whipped cream and delicate piping.) Robots to play music and videos and to sing cheerful songs so that the place doesn't feel so empty. Streamers and banners and a bottle-cap badge with the number nine scrawled in permanent marker.
Tesla indulges him with so much sugar that he crashes at six in the evening, and she has to carry him to bed.
"Out like a light," she says, traipsing back down the stairs.
The sitting room is a mess. Wrapping paper and plastic plates and spilt soda and crumbs. Tesla steps carefully over a box of felt markers in as many colours as they could find them. At least, unlike Emma's apartment, there is space to make a mess in their converted home.
"Want a drink?" She offers Einstein a hand.
"One of us needs to not be hungover in the morning."
"Why? It's not like we have to get him to school."
"We do still have to teach him."
"Just come with me, Lieserl." She hardly waits for reciprocation before wrapping a hand around Einstein's wrist and yanking her up from her spot on the couch. She drags her into the kitchen, then leaves her in her inertia to retrieve a glass from the cupboard and the bottle of Coronet still on the counter-top.
She pours a shot and drinks it before Einstein has a chance to comment, then replaces the bottle.
"Dance with me." She holds out a hand, insistent. There's music playing from the other room—some romantic ballad from last year's hottest motion picture.
Einstein pauses for a moment.
"Dance with me?" Tesla rephrases it has a question.
Einstein takes her hand.
Neither of them are excellent dancers, but they know the basics of swaying around, hand in hand, and there's some muscle memory of a waltz that Einstein must've been taught when they were little. The steps are simple, a box—their mother must've drilled it into them.
The song plays on a loop while they dance, attempt at actual movement gradually deteriorated into a gentle, slow-spinning embrace.
Their hand has slipped from the dip beneath Tesla's shoulder-blades to the small of her back. Hers has shifted from the curve of their shoulder to the crook of their neck. They remain paralysed for a moment, wondering whether to pull her close, so that they're flush against one another, or to let go with a flourish.
Tesla's breath is soft against their cheek—faint with the scent of brandy.
And they're kissing her.
Her hand winds through their hair, gentle yet firm. And they're kissing her. They pull her close, until they're pressed about as close together as is physically possible. They're kissing her. Their free hands lace together. When did they start to kiss her?
"Tesla, Ein—"
They freeze at the sound of Joachim's voice in the doorway. Einstein pulls back, grateful for a moment that the angle has shielded him from seeing anything.
"I threw up."
"Ah."
"It must be all the sweets," Einstein says, innocently. Tesla gives her a look that says that she will certainly be debating this later. And that also, perhaps, suggests something else to come later. Einstein leans back against the kitchen counter.
"Come on, let's get you all cleaned up," Tesla says with a sigh. "Where were you sick?"
"In the bathroom sink."
"Okay, that's good—" Tesla takes his hand and leads him back upstairs, their conversation fading into distant murmurs.
Einstein traces their fingers over their lips, the ghost of the kiss still set in their mind.
That cheesy ballad continues to play.