Prompt: A writer starts going crazy when his characters start talking to him. 

J. Jackson Alexander was a household name. Everyone knew the works of J. Jackson Alexander. Everyone owned the works of J. Jackson Alexander. A strange group of fanatics were even vying to have his first novel, Assault and Battery, replace Bibles in hotel rooms.

It was that very book, Assault and Battery, that catapulted the young writer into stardom. Having only just graduated college, the young Jay, as he preferred to be called, spent his free time between three jobs typing out pages and pages of a heart-pumping, gut-wrenching adventure story with enough twists to bind an anaconda in loops and characters as real as you or I. Jay was thrust from his humble apartment in Midtown to the red carpet, where he was tossed a Sharpie and told to sign anything that came at him. And, of course, keep writing.

Jay didn't mind the fame, or the publishers knocking on his door at three in the morning, or even the frightening fanfiction he sometimes allowed himself to read, emerging scarred. All Jay wanted to do was dig deeper into the wells that were his characters, fleshing out their worst fears, every flaw within them, painting for the reader a picture so detailed every expression was carved on the page, a beating heart lying ready to dive into. 

His main character, almost as famous as Jay himself, was Vander Wilde, a tough-as-nails adventurer with a dark side and a soft side and a few other sides in between. To Jay Vander was like a die, cast with different faces showing each time. He would be impassive at some times, mercilessly beating diplomats for information, and he would go home and curse himself for his cruelty, drinking himself into a stupor. Critical and commanding, rugged and pensive, Vander was the mystery everyone wanted to solve. Jay had configured him so well that the public was roaring for more -- not novels, although they were roaring for those as well -- but for another five hundred pages of Vander Wilde, where another strange facet of his chameleon-like character would be put on display.

Jay knew Vander Wilde perhaps better than he knew himself. To him Vander was something of an old friend, dependable, ever-present, and one that he knew every aspect of. When he was talking he could almost imagine Vander beside him, dropping in comments and snarky sarcastic lines that kept the public in stitches. 

Vander drank while Jay wrote, taking swigs in the short pauses and gulps during the long ones. Or at least, this was how Jay pictured it. He never had to search within him to find Vander, because Vander was always with him. Vander Wilde flowed from him effortlessly, and neither Jay nor his publishers really knew why.

Jay Alexander was shy where Vander Wilde was bold. Jay kept to himself, writing all day in his house whereas Vander could barely stay in a country for five minutes before he was rushing off to another adventure, sometimes a little too hastily. Where Jay was an introvert Vander could be friends with a random man at a pub in minutes, seconds if he tried. This was how Jay imagined it, of course, but Vander was so close to him that these facts seemed obvious.

Explaining Vander to others was tedious to Jay, because how could they not see the sliver of fear so clearly shown in his character's eyes? The shiver of terror as it crept down his spine, buried under bravado and a set jaw, the tiniest flaw? No one knew Vander like Jay did, and to everyone else he was a mystery while to Jay he was clear as day. There was no mystery to be solved -- Vander was a person, or the closest to a person that could be shown on paper. It was so easy to relate to Vander because you felt that you could almost have a conversation with him.

Jay thought nothing of this, until Vander actually did hold a conversation with him.

It was a long pause, and the draught of whiskey held the silence as Jay squinted at the computer screen. Vander Wilde was kneeling in the tropical forests of the Congo, examining a footprint that might be the print of the drug lord he was hunting, and Jay was at a crossroads. Should Vander continue on his quest or should he fail and the audience would know that even ace adventurers are flawed? As he pondered this a rugged voice broke the pause, followed by the clink of a glass against the table. 

"Definitely the second choice." 

The tone was so Vander, so dry and gritty, the tone Jay had echoed in his head for so long, that he wasn't even surprised.

"Why? Shouldn't you keep going? La Espejo needs to be stopped, you know."

"Nah." Another pause, another drink, but when the voice spoke again it was still crystal clear. "You don't want to rush it. Besides, I've been speeding past these 'clues' for a while now. Let's show them what failure's like, huh?"

"Let's."

And with a word Jay and Vander began their partnership.

It was a strange one at first, with Jay still trying to force words into Vander's mouth while the character took a life of its own. New bits of Vander's personality showed themselves every day -- an odd side of compassion that Jay was sure to allude to, gruffness when personal questions were brought up, and a dislike of coffee that Jay twisted into a humorous scene with an Italian noblewoman. As he got to know Vander Jay realized that the man really was a mystery, with his books only scratching the surface of Vander Wilde, not even reaching into the torrent of emotions that rested below the surface.

Fans exploded with news of Vander Wilde, how his character was only growing in the new books, never tiring or slowing like others that they had known too well. Where Sherlock Holmes was predictable Vander was an enigma; where James Bond was boring Vander was a new experience every book, like reconnecting with an old friend.

All the while Jay grew more reclusive. Vander didn't like to show himself outside of the apartment, although he would come if Jay really wished it, and without Vander Jay felt like a part of him was missing. The distinctions between the character and the man began to blur. Jay took to drinking in the pauses of writing, keys swirling before his vision, and he would wake up the next morning with his head on the keyboard, drool pooling around the space bar. His hidden humor grew sarcastic and stubble lined his jaw like Vander's did. Jay was no fool, he noticed this change, but still allowed himself to converse all the while with Vander, who was now a close friend.

"Where am I this time?" Vander was pacing the floor of Jay's apartment, work boots stomping against the floorboards. As Jay watched flecks of mud peeled off from the soles and landed on his carpet, mud from a Peruvian wildlife refuge where two arms smugglers had set up their base, and Jay simply assumed Vander hadn't changed clothes since them. His forehead was slicked with sweat and smeared mud, and his face was two days unshaven.

"I'm debating, but how about the Middle East? They have such fascinating customs." Jay proposed, then a thought struck his and Vander's minds in tandem.

"You wouldn't dare." Vander hissed, although the poison in his voice wasn't genuine. A bloom of curiosity burst forth in Jay's head and he smiled slightly, fingers poised over the keyboard.

"Vander Wilde's last adventure. I've made enough money off of this series, anyways. Some critics are calling for it to end."

"They're fools." Vander scoffed, rubbing a hand over his chin. "They can't say it's boring, though."

"I know, you're just so interesting. Hey, that's a good line. Maybe for a sassy Middle Eastern woman whose wits spar with yours..." Jay mused, and Vander huffed.

"You're the writer. Have at it. Just make it noble, okay?"

The death scene was easy and impossible. Jay acted out many with Vander -- painless death by bullet, without another thought about what he left behind, so many actions left unfinished, but they both agreed it left a bad taste in the mouth. One last act of kindness, saving an orphan girl from death, was considered, then scrapped, because Vander declared he looked like a 'godforsaken saint,' despite how paradoxical the statement was. Slow death by bleeding out, alone and without anyone to comfort him, seemed a good choice at the time, before Jay scrapped it altogether. 

He couldn't return to writing afterwards, with Vander's death looming over him like a cloud. It seeped into his writing, and Vander turned dark and cynical, vying for the good in life as his own slipped through his fingers. The balance was fine and ever so delicate, with Vander barely foreshadowing the end to come, just enough to dupe the readers into thinking the new Vander was depressed and alone. Vander himself contributed to the scenes, adding in commentary, just the right dash of Vander Wilde when he was needed. 

Finally the death scene came, and Jay spoke to Vander over a handshake. The exchange was how he wanted to facilitate Vander's passing -- polite, composed, ready. 

"It's been a good run." He said simply, feeling the coarse skin of Vander's weathered hand in his own.

"I'll say." Always gruff, always tough. Jay couldn't keep the smile from his face.

"So this is how you're going to go, then." Keeping his grip tight, Jay clung to Vander like a lifeline. His last tie to his success, his only friend.

"I guess it's so." Barely angling his eyes away, Jay could read the disappointment in Vander's stature. He wanted to stay. He wanted to live. But he knew how this ended.

"Come with me." 

The words were so sudden and unexpected that Jay started, letting go of Vander's hand. "What?"

"It'll be easy. E-mail the last chapter to your publisher and take some pills. We'll go together. We'll always be together." 

Vander, the staid, ever-steady Vander, his voice cracking with strain, was asking for the unthinkable. A new trait had emerged that Jay hadn't seen before. He was lonely. 

"I can't! You're not even real!" Jay shouted, pulling away from Vander, who glowered at him. 

"You know better than that. You know I'm real." And to Jay he was. Unfortunately, Vander was often right. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. Rebellion flared within him and Vander sighed.

"Fine. If we must."

Jay and Vander melted into one easily, fluidly, like they were always meant to be. In a stupor, Jay watched as his fingers flew over the keyboard, crafting a beautiful death scene easily, speedily. Without even proofreading he opened his e-mail, send the chapter, but not after typing in three words at the end that stared up at him with finality.

THE END. GOODBYE.

Jay cried out with fear and shock as Vander stood and led him to the medicine cabinet, poured out a handful of pills, so small and insignificant to hold so much death, and he sat down on the bed. Jay-Vander raised him arm, threw back his head, and swallowed the pills dry, one by one. Vander was already dead, and he helped Jay lie down as his vision blurred, stomach contorting painfully as the drugs took effect, burning his innards. A hand pushed stray hairs away from his forehead with a tender caress -- more tender than Jay ever imagined Vander to be.

"It'll be over soon." Vander promised, and Jay knew he was right. "Then we'll be united, as we always were meant to be."

United. It didn't sound so bad after all.