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Earth had not gotten smaller, Lije knew that. But there was knowing and then there was... knowing. He had taken to staying at work until the cleaning staff arrived, at which point he would force himself out the door and onto the last train home.

It was full, of course; they all were. The city lived in shifts, which had never bothered him before. He always got a seat, and could eat in the privacy of his own home. What luxuries.

As he stepped out, the city closed around him. A comfort, before. Now?

Empty for the lack of him.

"Uh, about your hand..." Shit. Why had she said that? She felt herself slide into panic, but Nick just smiled.

"I know it's there, sweetheart."

Okay, that was new. She tried to look casual. Unaffected. Shit.

"I don't mind talking about it." He held his his fist up, such as it was. "It irks me when people pretend like it's not there. Like I don't know what my own hand looks like." He flexed each skeletal, metallic finger in turn.

Breathe, she told herself, then put her own hand over his. "It looks like the hand of someone I love."

Animals were rare, in Volisport. There were the goats, of course, but given that you hardly ever saw them detached from a cab, it was hard to think of them as... well... alive.

Edvard hunched down, taking care not to get his shoes wet, and peered into the grate. Whatever was in the gutter (certainly not water) was bound to stain, and also, he'd borrowed them from Barnaby.

A pair of golden eyes peered back at him, accompanied by a trembling "meeev".

"Well," he muttered, "nothing for it. I suppose I'll have to build some sort of mechanical kitten-rescuing man."

Rimmer wasn't stupid. Lister was forcing his hand; had been manipulating him from the very moment Ace had told them he was dying.

He wanted Rimmer to leave.

And frankly, who could blame him? It was bad enough having to share a mile-long spaceship, but Starbug's cramped quarters must have driven him over the edge. Of course he'd jump at the opportunity to throw Rimmer out of the nearest airlock.

He didn't have to be so gointing smug about it, though.

"Don't go, bud," Cat yelled through the Wildfire's accelerating engines.

"I have to," Rimmer groused to himself. "I'm selfish."

"So... if there's a universe in which we're fictional..."

Kryten tutted. "Don't , sir. That way, madness lies."

"No, listen-"

"I literally have no choice, sir; exiting the lift at this point would result in a catastrophic hull breach. However, what we experienced was a hallucination."

"Yeah, but there are infinite alternate dimensions, yeah?"

"Perhaps," Kryten conceded.

"So, which came first"

"First, sir?"

"The characters or the people. The story or..." he gestured, "me."

"Well, Peter Szondi suggests in his groundbreaking work on the theory of modern drama that form is content and content is form."

"Meaning?"

Kryten shrugged. "Essentially - both."

"It's about immersion."

Quark hunched down and looked at the bottle Julian handed him. "Are you sure that's not Odo? I'm not sure I want to shake that thing."

"What?"

"Wouldn't be the first time. But sure, I'll give it a go." He glanced at the recipe on the padd. "Three measures of gin..."

"Gordon's gin. Specifically."

"Whatever. This one, right?" He shook the bottle.

"Careful!" Julian reached to steady it.

"You wanted it shaken!" When Julian glared, he grinned. "Just kidding. I still don't get it though."

"Immersion." Garak smirked, winding an arm around Julian. Quark rolled his eyes.

There is a belt around the third planet orbiting Gamma Draconis made up entirely of the light bees of dead dimensional alternates of himself. There are times at which Rimmer wonders if every new Ace sees this, and if that goes some way toward explaining the attitude of so many of them.

Probably not. They're all gits on a genetic level.

He includes himself in this. But there is something to be said for the idea of being part of a continuum; not just a legacy, but a greater whole. Just another link in the chain.

One word, really:

Smeg.

"When do we start?" Barnaby Fortescue III - Lilith would not be referring to him as "The Butcher" - stood in the corner, grinning from ear to ear.

"Start what?"

He leaned in, conspiratorily. "The crimes."

Lilith glared. "We broke into a mansion! You were there."

"Was I? Are you sure?"

"Yes! You talked to that sleepwalking lady!"

"Oh, that." He frowned. "Does that count?"

"As what?"

"Just seems to me like it shouldn't count, if there's no danger." Before she could continue, Barnaby raised his hands. "But I'll trust your judgement."

People, Lilith thought, were a lot more difficult than ghosts.

Dwarves are even less comfortable on water than they are on the surface, but Varric, to torture a metaphor, was already a fish out of water. Who would have thought Vicounts spent so many days at sea?

The Proud Cock was a fine ship, which he only very occasionally regretted having let Sera name. He was comfortable, even out here on the deck with the stench of salty wind messing up his hair.

Seeing the roofs and towers of Kirkwall rise in the distance - that felt like home, yes. The grinning qunari at his side though, that was his anchor.

Four years. Plenty of time, or so you'd think. Yet here she was at her best friend's wedding reception, and all she could say was:

"Oblek." The brides blinked in confusion. "Uh," she repeated, "hezky oblek?" That fucking owl.

"Uh... diky?"

"Klobouk," she added, taking frantic inventory of their surroundings.

"Ano?"

"Chci... jiný klobouk."

"Proc-"

"Vidím hezký šperk!"

"We can speak English if you like-"

"Moje žena nenosí šperky."

"You're not married? Listen, we appreciate the effort, but-"

"VELKÝ FLÁM."

They looked at her. She looked at them.

"Dobrý," she said, reaching out to hug them both. "Dobrý velký flám."

"Sex".

"No thanks, I'm doing the crosswords." Lister didn't even bother looking up.

"It's the constant of the modern age, Listy. The root of all evil."

"Nonexistent constant, in your case," Lister muttered, not too loudly.

Rimmer circled the table, snatching the magazine out of his hands. Lister flinched. He'd never get used to that hard light body.

Body.

Now there was a word. It echoed in his mind as Rimmer rambled on and on about the merits of elective celibacy.

Nonexistant constant. Like the two of them, orbiting one anoth

Lister licked his lips, and tried to be bored.

"Don't keep all of your eggs in one basket," Julian said, to Quark's blank stare.

"Why are all Human expressions about farm animals?"

"They're not. I suppose it just feels a bit like a chicken coop in here." Julian absent-mindedly stroked a tribble, as another attempted to climb his leg.

"There's a Ferrengi expression," Quark groused, shooing another dozen out of the replicator. "Roughly translated, it means 'too many hens make a lot of noise'."

The bar echoed with the undulating purring of endless fur balls.

"It's also the plural noun for women."

Julian scoffed, but it was worth it.

"I don't know," Aziraphale slurred, two-thirds into his bottle of unspeakably expensive Merlot, "I always imagined the two of us... you know, closing up shop together."

"Isss your shop," Crowley managed. His spectacles were balanced on the end of his nose.

"No,, I mean, all of it. The universe. Her creation." Aziraphale gestured. "At the end of it all, I thought you and I would be there... putting the chairs up on the table, turning out the lights. You know."

Crowley caught his eye. "You. An... me."

"Yes."

They sat in silence, a moment, eternity looming.

"That'd be all right."

"Go to bed, Rimmer." Lister pulled the blanket over his head and aggressively ignored the sounds of... sniffling?

The room was still dark. Jumping down, Lister made his way over to the figure huddled by the door.

"Rimmer? Y'all right?"

A stifled groan. Smeg, he shouldn't have let that woman work him over like that, but it had seemed funny. At the time. Lister held out his hand, but Rimmer twitched away.

"No broken bones? Let me-"

Rimmer grabbed a hold of him, and would not let go. Lister sighed. He'd bet his last dollarpound this would be forgotten tomorrow.

Lister always enjoyed being alone, which came as a surprise to people. It was like because he enjoyed spending time with others, he must want to be around them all the time.

That was stupid. Even if you liked Zero G football, you couldn't do it all the time. You'd collapse.

Flat on his back in the observation dome, he reached out for another beer. How many days now? Maybe ten. Maybe twenty.

The ship was so quiet. Holly left him alone most of the time.

Slowly, Lister put his hands over his ears. He could still hear the silence.

The room was filled with sweating, yelling, vibrating bodies. Where was he... ah.

There, at the bar, topless and with his hair shaved in a curious fashion. "Crowley," Aziraphale exclaimed, "what a coincidence!"

Crowley muttered something into his drink, staring at him over the rim of his glass.

"What are you doing here?"

"Wasting my time. Thought these kids would be easy to corrupt." He sneered. "You fit right in."

Aziraphale looked down at his suit, the soft fabrics still bright in the dark. "Are you making fun of me?"

Crowley bared his teeth. Maybe it was a grin. "No."

"And this one," Aziraphale said with pride, "is Forget-Me-Not."

"Lovely." Crowley nodded at the flower bed. "You named these, then?"

"Well you know, not personally." Crowley and Aziraphale could not interfere in the affairs of mankind. However, they both knew the little ways in which a mind could be nudged this way and that, until... "This one is Bachelor's Button."

"Is it really."

"How about you? You must have done some..." Crowley did have an affinity for plants.

"Yeah, that one's mine, actually."

"That tree?"

"Yeah." Crowley leaned over and whispered in Aziraphale's ear. Slowly, the angel's face reddened.

"Crowley...!"

"So," Varric continued, "there we were, just me and Hawke, an angry mob heading toward us, and no way out except this giant, metal door."

"Metal door?" Sera frowned. "I thought dwarves did everything in stone."

Behind her, Dorian giggled into his goblet, literally too deep in his cups. It was that sort of night.

"Yeah, they're also big on metal."

"They?" Sera raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, you're one to talk. Anyway; Hawke suddenly realizes - the door's handle is an arm. So..." He gestured.

"She... wrestled it open?" Cassandra snorted? "Please."

Varric shrugged and drank. "You had to be there."

"Hi, I'm Captain America. You know, pets can be a lot of fun. Like this kitten."

Steve exhaled as the animal climbed up his chest, thankful to be wearing his suit. He glanced at the script, and continued.

"But being a pet owner also means a lot of responsibility. You have to feed them, play with them, and train them."

The kitten settled on his shoulder, licking his ear.

"Even older pets can be trained. With patience, love, and a lot of heavy petting, even a silver fox can be-"

Groaning, Steve threw the script away. "Tony! Every fucking time...!"

The Inquisitor was very drunk. Drunker, in fact, than Varric had ever seen her. From his vantage point at the back of the tavern, he could see her swaying gently, one head above everyone except Bull, exchanging laughs and pats on the back.

He was startled to suddenly see her face next to his, stray hair catching on her horns, eyes unfocused. "Let's fight something," she slurred, swinging her drinking horn.

"We already did, Spikey. That's why we're celebrating."

She huffed. "Need more. Gotta... stop brain. Thinking," she added.

There were other ways, Varric pondered. Something to consider, another night.

Daneel was staring. Lije tried to ignore it, but it was hard when a perfectly formed figure of a man was watching you with that absolute, inhuman calm.

"Elijah? You haven't selected a drink."

"Yeah, I know. There are too many options." So many drinks, and none of them alcoholic. How did Spacers stand it?

"I would have thought you would welcome the variety. Earth has a limited selection."

"Yeah, that's what makes it hard."

"I do not understand."

Of course he didn't. He was a robot. When did he ever have to make agonizing choices?

Daneel kept watching, silently.

Garak took another sip of his drink. From his vantage point, Julian could not see him, nor could the charming girl with whom he was engaged in conversation. They had just returned from the holosuites.

"That was amazing." The girl laughed. "We don't have anything like that on Bajor."

"No holosuites?"

"Nowhere near as advanced. I felt like I really was on a Terran sailboat."

Julian took her hand. "It's just lights and omicron particles. None of it really exists." He looked into her eyes. "A journey into emptiness."

As they kissed, Garak sighed. A journey into emptiness. How appropriate.

"Don't you think it's dangerous?" Cassandra narrowed her eyes, but the figure who called himself Cole had disappeared, as though he had melted into the tapestry of the world.

The Iron Bull took another bite out of the apple Dorian had handed him. "Nah. We need all the people we can get."

"Is he people, though?" Dorian leaned back against the castle wall, his face unreadable.

"Doesn't matter. Throw him in the pot. Different meat makes the stew better."

"Delightful," Cassandra muttered. Dorian laughed. But Bull was watching the Inquisitor, meeting her eyes. Ah yes - there was a smile there.

"You know," Garrus said, sliding a sleek glass cylinder across the board, "Turians are famous for their poetry."

"I do know that." Shepard raised her eyebrows. Another thing Turians were famous for was their clarity of communication, but here they were.

"I'm just saying." Garrus let go of the cylinder. "We know our way around words."

"Is there a point here?"

Garrus inclined his head toward the board, and looked up at her, expectantly. "Mate," he said, with some desperation, when Shepard did not respond.

"You don't know how to play chess, do you?"

"Please have sex with me again."

"Hey Rimmer!" Lister leaned back and raised his eyebrows, "d'ye know why ye've got that H on yer head?"

"Because I'm dead, Lister."

"Yeah, but you know."

"The H," Rimmer said, sardonically, "stands for-"

"I know! But why?"

"So people can tell I'm a hologram! Have you finally gone space crazy?"

"Why do they need to, though?"

"You know why! Holograms aren't people, not in any ways that matter. Go bother Cat!"

Lister watched him walk away, turning his attention back to the JMC crew manual, and resumed reading: -to prevent the crew from forming unhealthy attachments to the dead.

Tony smiled genially across the table. "Glad you could make it. Sit down; have some coffee! Did you need me to throw the paperwork to your pad?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Steve sat down in the chair opposite. "Do we have to do this every year?"

"Consistency," Tony exclaimed. "Very important. How else can we track long-term performance and set realistic goals?"

"Every year?"

"Now," Tony said, ignoring him, "where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Same answer as last year."

"Gonna need you to say it, Cap." Tony's leg twitched. He kept glancing away.

"Still married to you."

"And you're sure it's been translated correctly?" Martin peered through the curtain at the agitated passengers. They were rambling in a language that sounded like German, if it had been raised in Belgium by a thruple consisting of a Frenchman, an Italian and a Dutch person. Which, come to think, described Switzerland rather perfectly.

"Yeah, absolutely," Arthur beamed. "It's the safety instructions."

"Which agency did you use," Douglas asked.

"That's the brilliant bit; I did it online! For free."

Martin twitched. "May I see the website?"

Arthur held his phone up, and Douglas coughed politely. "That's a random word generator."

The humans cheered, and Loki took a step further back from the circle of rowdy youngsters. Barely children, in Asgardian terms, but these creatures lived such short, miserable lives. Someone bumped into him, and he reached for his knife, but a familiar voice distracted him.

"Well fought, friends!" Laughter and more cheers - the crowd parted to show Thor standing victorious, fifteen youths collapsed at his feet. He caught Loki's eye and winked, beaming. He spoke their tongue with such joy. He thrived in their company; drinking their piss-water ale, singing their crude songs.

"Pathetic," Loki yelled, and Thor laughed. Gloriously.

"I honestly never thought I'd see that guy again," Jen said as the paramedics rushed off with the man in the severely singed super-suit. "What was he doing in there, anyway?"

"Trying to save the Czech ambassador. She was at the hotel for a conference."

"I guess he was trying to be a hero." The paramedics hurried back into the burning building. "Careful - it's like a clay oven in there."

"That's very specific."

"Whatever it takes to make the prompt work. Come to that, he's a porcupine, not a hedgehog."

"What?"

"Nothing." Jen sighed. She'd probably have to represent him.

It isn't really water. Of course she knows that; how could she not? Brains are funny though - look out on an expanse of endless liquid, and it tells you, here is an ocean.

Kira sits by the edge of the Great Link, legs pulled upt to her chest, exhales, and lets her brain keep telling her she should be hearing par-gulls and smelling salt; hearing the calls from fishing boats returning to the harbor with their catch.

She cannot sit here forever, literally or metaphorically, but it is only her twentieth visit. She can procrastinate.

The tide might come in.

"A little light reading, Listy?" Rimmer picked up the battered book and peered at the title. Retention Ability of Malt and the Yeasting Process - A Treatise on Deep Space Brewing. "You can't beat the classics."

Pulling himself with some difficulty out of the maintenance hatch, Lister snorted. "Laugh it up. You'll see." A faint, sickly-sweet smell wafted from below. Lister closed his eyes. "Smell that? That's success."

"No, that is the anal leakage of an diabetic cat. At best."

"Keep going," Lister grinned, "and I won't give ye any."

"Why would I-"

"I don't mean beer."

Rimmer swallowed. "Carry on."

Nicholas forced his shoulders to relax as he drove. He couldn't get the case out of his mind. Who would want to steal butter from Mr. Grey's farm?

"Black sheep," Danny said.

"Good thinking... an inside job! One of the kids; young Blanche or-"

"No, I mean there's a black sheep." Danny waved at the field outside. "Don't see 'em that often."

Nicholas sighed. "I'm doing it again, aren't I? Thinking too much?"

Danny smiled. "Just a little. You gotta learn to relax, love."

Nicholas leaned over to kiss him.

"White raven."

"What-"

"No, there's literally-" it hit the window.

The child was shivering, blue and very small, smaller even in Heimdall's arms. Frigga gestured to a healer without turning her head, and the woman hurried off, returning seconds later with an entourage of others, who swiftly took the little one away.

"The Allfather-" Heimdall began, but Frigga laughed.

"Of course this is his doing. The old fool." Who else would take an infant barely quickened and bring it home as a war trophy.

"Will she live?"

"He," Frigga said, considering. Born too soon, unfinished in myriad, critical ways, and yet... She sensed life in him. Fierce like fire. "Yes."

"You look older." Crowley tilted his head.

"Do I?" Aziraphale frowned. "I'm not supposed to." He did not age. It was less divine magic and more that his cells had been quite firmly instructed not to decay.

"Well, you do. You've got those," Crowley gestured at his face, "lines."

"Wrinkles?"

"Yes, whatever they're called."

"I did before."

"Yes, but not quite so many. Or as deep."

"You know, this isn't what passes for polite conversation among humans."

"We're not human."

A fair point. And yet... Aziraphale pursed his lips, about to snap a retort when Crowley muttered:

"I like it."

Thor ran across the courtyard, face red with excitement. He could see Loki already moving his hands in the air above the easel, flickers of color sparking into existance.

"Show me," he gasped, nearly crashing into his brother, who did not flinch.

"Show you what? I've barely started." Loki's voice was still high, like mother's, but somehow sounded more serious than Thor's ever could.

"You're making a world-window!"

"I'm learning to."

"Show me. Please? I'll be quiet."

"I don't know how yet," Loki snapped, but his hands kept moving. Spellbound in every sense of the word, Thor watched him work.

It was so easy to want to believe, here in the golden afternoon. Jerusalem's cobbled streets shone like the light in his eyes; the gleam in his smile. Of course he was divine. Of course he was the son of God.

Of course everything would be all right.

Judas fell to the side of the crowd, still keeping a watchful eye. They had only been here a few minutes, and trouble would come, as it always did.

Mary was easy to dismiss; a carefree spirit. Young. Naive. But right here, right now, Judas felt the bitter truth: He envied her.

"Was it something I said?" Julian craned his neck, toward Major Kira's retreating back, as though it would explain what had just happened.

"Really, Julian." Garak sighed and gestured to one of the waiters.

"All I said was that I enjoyed Bajoran opera!"

"And..." Garak's eyebrow ridges did not raise, but there was, Julian felt, a clear implication thereof.

"I don't know!"

"You said," Garak cleared his throat, "that you wish they'd written more of them."

"So?"

"Inter arma silent Musae."

"Pardon?"

"Just an Earth phrase I picked up while taking measurements. Latin, I think." He raised a glass, smiling.

"You are quiet tonight, Wolf-kissed." Randvi stands in the doorway of the longhouse, half in shadow, like a faintly familiar dream.

The snores of the wolf-dog, the smell of ale brewing, the background noise of people living their lives. None of it disappears when Eivor closes her eyes. "Am I?"

"More than usual."

Her visions - Eivor's visions - are no more or less real than this soft ground, this kind, sweet woman. Who, then, is thinking these thoughts? Whose memories are these?

These are dangerous mind-roads to tread. Randvi holds out a mead-horn, and Eivor takes it.

Perhaps that is enough.

The spoon spun around and around, now and then darting to the side in a surpise attack on the rim of the bowl. Little flecks of orange stained the tablecloth and napkin, vanishing when Aziraphale miracled them away, only to reappear seconds later.

"You're torturing that thing," he groused.

Crowley, who had somehow contorted himself into a position where his legs were hanging over and under one arm of his chair, shrugged and continued.

"That is champagne-infused passion-fruit sorbet. You haven't even tasted it."

"You know I don't really eat, angel."

"Then why-"

"I'm here to watch you do it."

If he could remember why they were on the floor next to Miles's couch rather than on it, Julian felt everything would be a lot clearer to him. It was probably something to do with the Andorian brandy on the table, and the nearly empty tumbler of same in his hand.

"Because I love my wife," Miles said.

"Is that why we're on the floor?"

Miles frowned. "Nuh. Is... us."

"We love your wife?"

"No!" Miles reached for his own glass. "Us. Y'know."

"Do I?"

Miles had fallen asleep, glass in hand. Julian sighed. He probably shouldn't have kissed him.