Disclaimer: This tale uses the word "fuck", and not as a curse word, as meaning what it means in the dictionary.
The doctor gazed into the looking glass. In the looking glass was the looking Glass, reflected by their own glassy look into Glass's looking glass. Looking, Glass made their looking glass show Glass's ass, the looking glass showing a crooked ass as Glass crooked to move Glass's ass's crack away from the glass's crack that made Glass look aghast.
"How's the ass?" asked Glass, unsure whether that Glassy pass would pass as ass.
"Eh," said Diogenes. "I've seen worse."
The two of them were doctors, and not the "let me write you a prescription" kind of doctor, or the "invented a soft drink" kind of doctor, or the MFA kind of doctor, although Diogenes might have liked art. Glass probably didn't. But there was one masterpiece that they both enjoyed equally, and it was found in Diogenes's bedroom. It was the poshy French poster for some movie or a street or something that hung above Diogenes's bed as they fucked each other until the air was unhealthily thick with fuck-smells.
They were not the most prominent faces amongst the senior staff, not to everyone else. If you asked someone about them, they might not be able to describe their appearances, or their personality quirks, or what genders they are, even if that person was writing a story about them. But those things don't matter when you're in love. Which they were, with the idea of frequent animalistic sex between shifts.
They had toys, only to be used with each other, or maybe with themselves if the other wasn't around, but with the agreement that they'd think about each other or maybe role-play like the toy was the other person but turned into a sex toy that could still talk and was nervous about the whole situation. The really kinky stuff was really just for show, because Diogenes figured that having a whole hidden shelf of sex equipment would be sort of badass compared to having a lonesome dildo shoved in a drawer somewhere. Mostly they stuck to the bare necessities: Velcro-brand velcro cuffs, a blindfold nicked from a cognitohazard station, and a Lowe's paint stirrer to administer smacks and stir the sex paint1. Diogenes had a double-ended number that they had named "Twin Peaks" (to go with the bullet vibrator Eraserhead, and the less said about Videodrome the better) but Glass objected to it for reasons that should be obvious.
"I'm really dissatisfied with my work right now. I know we're doing good, and I know we're more successful than ever, but it feels so empty and futile. We're killing ourselves in a career of sacrifice to a world that never asked for the service and doesn't know we're doing it. Did you know that the Foundation takes ownership of everything I come up with and then uses almost none of it that doesn't have any application in keeping weird things from touching people or each other? I could have won the Nobel Prize in whatever it is I do. I could have recognition, and not just the facial recognition that lets me in to see the animal monster. I could have accolades other than the Skippy for Best Cube and the Lifetime Stare-At-This-To-Reset-Your-Meme-Addled-Brain Award. I and you, Diogenes, are stuck here, for life, and the only comfort I have in this sterile hell is found in your sweaty, tremulous genitalia," said Glass. Or, that's what Glass would have said if they weren't face-deep in Diogenes's sweaty, tremulous genitalia.