"No use, minion," Emma huffed, "Can't read anything else today."

"I sort of noticed that when your eyes started watering," was Josh's unhelpful remark.

"Brilliant observation. You're worth every penny."

Josh rolled his eyes at her. "You look beautiful in that shade of passive-aggressiveness. Complements your skin tone."

"Fuck off."

"Okay, you want me to help? How about you tell me what it is you're doing with those papers, all day, every day?" It was a gross exaggeration — she'd spend maybe an hour or two a day reading and making notes until her eyes gave up, and then one more hour before she was ready to admit defeat.

"Poetry anthology."

That brought him up short. "You write poetry?"

"Not mine," she said in a tone that implied it ought to have been obvious, "little-known poets'. Used to run a publishing house. Small one. Had to sell last year." He could always tell when she was tired by how short she kept her sentences.

"Want to go out with a bang. The anthology. Published a call online. Asking for good works. Emails won't stop coming in. Some are excellent. Have to wade through the mediocrity to reach them. One idiot keeps trying to pass Blake's work as his own. Blake. Because we're all dumb and blind."

For all her acerbic, sometimes unpleasant posturing, Emma's generosity was very much one of her defining traits. That she wanted to spend her last months hunting for undiscovered talent, that that was what she considered going out with a bang, spoke volumes.

"Okay, tell you what: we eat lunch now, you promise you'll rest at least an hour afterwards and then I'll read some aloud to you, so you don't have to waste your eyes with the ones that aren't worth it. Deal?"

Her shaky eyes lit up. "Deal, minion."

#

He read maybe half a poem aloud before she declared herself ready to commit suicide. Josh felt vaguely offended. "If you tell me what I'm doing wrong I'm sure I can do it better."

"Sure. Have a couple of years to spare? I don't."

"I can't be that bad," he protested.

"You're not. If you're into poetry read as an instruction manual. Thanks for the thought. No, thanks. You could make Sylvia Plath sound boring." She took the sheet of paper from his hand, disappointment evident in her aggressive stance. Josh had waved a sliver of hope at her then taken it away. "Besides. Don't know what I was thinking. You don't have the voice for it."

He was now mildly, rather than vaguely, offended. "What's wrong with my voice?"

"Too high." She must have seen his stricken look because, for once, she tried to appease his wounded ego. "For this. Don't mean in general."

Well, if she hadn't deemed him a worthy possibility then she would certainly not consider using the automated voice of a screen reader. And he knew everything she did was on a deadline — her own. There must be some other way — "What about your brother? He has a deep, pleasant voice."

For someone that frustrated, the speed of her smirk was disconcerting. "Noticed that, did you?"

"I have ears," he shrugged. "You wanted a lower voice, he has it."

"He does. And he knows how to read poetry. But can you convince him, minion?"

Josh didn't know why he was surprised, that he'd be the one selected to tell Emery he needed to make room for even more personal time.

#

"Poetry," Emery said, unflappable. "The two of you want me to spend my afternoons reading poetry. Shall I order an outfit, that I might perform the dance of the seven veils after dinner as well?"

Josh snorted at the mental image that evoked. "Your sister might wheel herself from the room in a hurry, but I think I'd pay good money to see something like that. You'd have to do the whole performance, though."

Emery stared at him in shock, mouth slightly parted. Josh had expected laughter, but it took longer, just a beat. They'd been careless words, thrown for fun, and yet there was something in the silence that passed between them. Something that felt different. Something that dared Josh to look at it and see.

Emery's laughter broke his trance, the world resuming its normal speed. Whatever had just happened was stored away to be examined later, or not at all.

"I think you'd demand your money back as soon as you found out I can't dance." His voice was softer, too, just a fraction. His eyes were still crinkled at the corners in that way that suited him so well.

"Who knows," Josh quipped back, "it might have intrinsic artistic value even without the dancing. As long as you promise not to ask for any heads on platters in the end, Salome."

Emery laughed again, a sound Josh was beginning to find addictive. Afterwards, he made a show of sighing, but his brown eyes were warm and inviting. "How long would these poetry readings take?"

"Half an hour or so every day would be a good start. Her eyes aren't responding that well to the abuse she puts them through, and apparently suicide is a much better alternative to listening to me read."

"Well." Emery unlocked his phone. "We can't have suicide. Let's set up a time, then." His muttering was as theatrical as the sigh had been. "One of these days I'll endeavor to understand how it is I hired you to help and all you've done is create more work for me instead. The fact that I'm still paying you attests to my level of insanity, no doubt."

Josh was poised to continue bantering but found he couldn't. He rose from his chair and laid a hand on Emery's shoulder, causing Emery to look up from his phone. "I promise, these are the moments you'll cherish. It's the opposite of regret, what you'll keep when she goes."

Emery clapped a firm hand on top of Josh's, eloquent eyes moved to sadness. "Thank you for that. I was beginning to forget that, before you came."

Something in Josh was disappointed when Emery lifted his hand.

#

Some things he really should have anticipated. Such as the fact that, the day after Emery agreed to not rush his departure, Josh woke up to a defrosted freezer and a spotless kitchen. Now that Emery could move however he wanted to without fear of spreading TB, he was taking it upon himself to act as an unpaid maid. It was easy to forget Emery hadn't always had money, that he'd grown up doing regular household chores, but muscle memory served him well.

Josh set up Emery's account that same day, in case he decided his other kind of memory wasn't doing quite so well.

Coming home from the bank, he was greeted by the sight of Emery... Cooking. Josh wondered if he was having a hallucination. "What are you doing?"

"Smothered pork chops," Emery replied as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"You cook?"

He looked up the next step on his laptop. "I am endeavoring to find out."

It wasn't half bad for a first attempt. Josh hated how much he loved the whole thing.

#

"No, you cannot have my lunch hour," Emery said the moment Josh peeked into his office. "Surely you must understand I need to do actual work in addition to poetry and dinner."

"Peace," Josh replied, grinning, "my mistress has no designs on your lunch hour. For now."

"Your mistress?" He raised an eyebrow. "Three months ago you were my minion. You're moving up in the world. What do you need?"

Light banter aside, Josh felt proud of the work he'd accomplished so far. If his goal had been to make Emma smile — even laugh — more often, he had achieved it with high marks. Now if he could only get to a point where he was the brunt of the joke less often, he'd be a happy man. "Breakfast every day. And Scrabble on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, or Saturdays after dinner."

"Scrabble on Saturdays, breakfast on the weekends," Emery countered.

"Scrabble on Saturdays, breakfast every day. And if you come by the kitchen in the mornings while Emma is in physical therapy you might find I've brewed coffee, to reward those who'll need to have breakfast without it."

"So that's when you do it!" The corners of Emery's eyes creased. "I've been trying to find out how you got away with it."

"But you can't have any if you don't come to breakfast. It'll be dishwater for you." Josh maintained the stern look on his face with some difficulty, wagging a finger for effect.

"You drive a hard bargain," Emery conceded, still smiling. "I know when to admit defeat. Breakfast every day it is, but no more than thirty minutes. Bring the news of my capitulation to your mistress."

"Yes. Victory is miiiine," Josh cackled maniacally as he left the office, just because it seemed like the appropriate thing to do.

There was something about the Hall siblings that made it so different from any other job he'd taken, so much lighter than usual. He could hardly remember the last time a loved one had joined in on any sort of joke yet Emery, despite how serious and focused he appeared, had a sense of humor a mile wide.

His smile shrank with his next thought. He'd miss them both, when it ended, and he couldn't think of a single reason that would justify staying in contact with Emery.