That smile was jarring to the Etherite, only for its rarity in his regard. Like a smile in a dark hallway, it was.
"Why don't you both. I'm picking up Brett. Won't be but five minutes."
Olek got to his feet, kissing his master's temple before taking Sky's hand, leading him into the kitchen.
The fox nodded. He looked amused about something only he understood, in his own gentle way. “Mm. He’s waiting for you.”
The hand that wasn’t being held by Olek scooped up Woodstock as Sky got to his feet. He was indescribably fond of the little creature, and grateful for his existence. There were secrets in this house only Woodstock knew.
“Sit,” Sky told the cat. “I’ll prepare the tea while you tell me what’s on your mind.”
Bo: Bo looked up from his laptop, glaring behind half-moon glasses. Stocks in neon green rose and fell over a black background on his screen, but his only focus was the ghoul in front of him.
"Where have you been?"
Brett: Brett’s face was set in thoughtful lines as he absently walked through the door. There hadn’t really been a whole lot of time between here and Bronwyn’s house to digest the conversation he’d had, otherwise he probably would’ve been better prepared for facing Bo.
Then again…all things considered, maybe it wasn’t the worst thing. With any luck.
Brett sighed and sank into the nearest chair.
“New Orleans.”
Bo: The mage blinked once, twice, and shut his laptop after a few clicks. Monitoring his finances had been a passive activity waiting for this very moment, and this very moment was as unsettling as he felt.
"Hva i helvete? How? Why?"
Brett: All questions would be answered succinctly and in order. That much he had decided.
“Bronwyn MacAllister’s familiar Vincent teleported me there and back. She wanted to talk to me and wanted to do it face to face.”
Bo: A name, two names, which had Bo on his feet. Yes, those names had saved his life, but those names sent a chill down his spine.
"Why did -" He swallowed. "Why?"
Brett: “She’s pregnant. For the third time it seems. And she wanted to talk to me because she wants to talk to you.”
Bo: If the fact that this was her third had significance had gone over Bo's head. Far from his concern. Evident from the irritation in his eyes. His brilliant quartz greens shadowed by the dim light of the dining room.
"What does she want?"
Brett: Brett sighed again. He didn’t want to approach this with a defeatist attitude but he knew—and had warned Bronwyn—that they had to be realistic about their expectations.
“She wants to talk to you about the collar on Torsten’s neck. She asked me to see her so I could ask you if you would be willing to listen to what she has to say.”
Bo: Shoulders sharply raised, falling as his hands fanned out and slapped back to his thighs.
"And what does she have to say that's so important she had to steal you?"
Brett: “She didn’t steal me, baby. She asked and I agreed to go. As far as what she has to say?”
Brett shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”
Bo: "How long did you know you were going to New Orleans?"
Brett: “Since I asked for permission to leave the city one hour after sunset.”
Bo: "How long have you kept this from me?"
Brett: “Since lunch today.”
Bo: "You didn't think to tell me? Text me?"
Brett: “I didn’t know what she wanted to discuss or if I’d even be able to see her so I didn’t tell you beforehand. I’m sorry if I made you worry.”
Bo: Bo's fingers softly twitched, before turning away towards the kitchen. Occupying his hands with a glass of whatever wine they had left from celebrating their new home.
His eyes found Brett again as he took a wincing gulp.
Brett: Brett knew murder in a man’s eyes when he saw it. Only question was whether it was directed at him, Vincent, Bronwyn, Torsten, or all of the above. Smart money said all of the above in some combination or another.
At least the wine glass hadn’t made contact with a solid surface. Yet.
“Hva tenker du på?” he asked in an even, calm voice.
Bo: "Det er bare dritt," Bo managed through his teeth.
"She should have come directly to me. Something could have happened to you and I wouldn't know because you didn't tell anyone."
As much as he wanted to scream, he didn't, but the empty glass in his hand did crack. Slammed onto the counter in his irritation. The damage he could fix, but the rage affected his husband no matter how he tempered it.
"Give me her number."
Brett: Aaaaaand there it was. Yep, definitely saw that one coming.
Brett could have said that Bronwyn hadn’t wanted to approach Bo directly because she was afraid he’d refuse to talk to her—she’d admitted as much—but that wouldn’t be productive. Bo was already upset and Brett had a feeling even the hint of a word in her defense would only add fuel to the fire.
Brett took out his phone and sent her information to Bo.
“Are you going to talk to her?”
Bo: Bo took the time while Brett fished for her number to lower himself to eye level of the glass. Despite gritted teeth, whispered an incantation under his breath, taking hold of the stemless cup only to slam it back on the counter once more, sealed to perfection. Not quite as neat and quiet without his wand.
"What do you think I'm going to do?"
Brett: That wine glass wasn’t long for this world. Brett would lay bets it would be broken a couple more times before the night was out.
“Honestly? I think you’re going to call her to yell at her and tell her you’re not interested in whatever she has to say.”
Bo: "Is that all I am? All I do? Just scream when I don't get my way?"
Brett: “No,” Brett said softly. “It isn’t. But I saw how you reacted to just her name. I know what she represents to you, as does she. I also know that despite whatever I say, there’s a not zero chance that it won’t matter and you won’t talk to her.”
Bo: Bo was reminded of the last time her name had been between them. The air had been acrid then. Tears and screaming that day. It had been long and exhausting and excruciating.
A slow breath was taken through his nose.
"Don't... go off like that again. Don't... scare me."
Brett: “I’m sorry. For going off and scaring you and not telling you what was going on. I’m really sorry, sweetheart.”
Bo: One hand remained clenched against his will. He was trying. That's all he could do.
"I know... you'll have to. Someday. Being... with him. I can't stop everything, but this is important."
Brett: Brett could see as much, and he was proud.
“You’re right. It is. And I should’ve told you what was going on after Vincent came to see me.” That he hadn’t could be chalked up to two things: curiosity and a fear similar to the one Bronwyn had shared with him.
Bo: He wanted nothing more than to be angry. To throw his cup across the room and perhaps the bottle along with it. Anger on par with an orgasm, burning his skin from the inside out. But he had magic now. Healthier outlets because he knew how much his anger could frighten the man across the room, and that look of fear he hadn't seen in so long had crept into Brett's eyes, however briefly, and he hated himself for it.
But no matter how he felt, his chest was still hot, and his skin tingled. Adrenaline he couldn't simply wish away.
"I'm going for a walk. Have... dinner delivered. Whatever you want."
Brett: After all these years, Brett no longer had to grapple with the urge to press his company on Bo when he had an outburst. He knew his husband needed to feel what he was feeling, to let it burn itself out. All Brett could do was give Bo the space for that to happen and offer his support afterward.
One thing that hadn’t changed, however, was the way his voice would naturally slip into that gentle, calm tone at the first sign of an outburst.
He nodded. “Okay. Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here when you get back.”
Bo: Bo didn't reach for keys or wallet, but his wand and his phone. Slipped into his jacket in the foyer as always, despite the weather, and shut the door behind himself.
Bronwyn's number was punched into his phone, stared at it for a time, standing motionless on the front porch and its newly painted pillars.
No. Not here. A block away would do, where Brett would be unable to hear. So he walked, and by the time he reached the stop sign his phone was to his ear.
Brett/Bronwyn: Brett watched his hand go, holding in his sigh until the door had shut behind him. That hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped, although it hadn't gone as badly as he'd anticipated. It was in moments like these that the progress Bo had made was most obvious. That was something to be proud of.
All of Bo's favorites would be ordered for dinner, but not before Brett gave the kitchen a little clean to occupy his hands.
Across the country, Bronwyn paused the TV and picked up her ringing phone, gasping softly when she saw the number on the display. She didn't recognize it but it had an Edenton area code.
Brett hadn't been home for very long. Could he already...?
Don't get your hopes up.
"Hello?"
Bo: There was so much Bo wanted to say. Scathing, terrible things so she might feel the same consternation he had felt in the silence and absence of his husband. The same rug swept from under him, feeling vulnerable and useless.
But her voice was familiar. Soft. Anticipating. The same woman that had saved his life was the same woman in love with his beast.
That's what this was about.
"The next time you feel the urge to speak with me, don't involve Brett Parker."
Bronwyn: It was him. Even so, she knew that the fact that Bo was calling was no guarantee of anything except maybe an impending argument.
“I was afraid you would refuse if I didn’t. Would you have agreed if I hadn’t asked him?”
Bo: "I should refuse anyway." But what he wanted wouldn't be achieved by salting this ground.
"Have your bird transport me now or you'll never hear from me again."
Bronwyn: “Oh.” She sounded surprised, like she hadn’t been expecting his answer. “You don’t want the plane ticket then?”
Bo: "What are you waiting for? More calculations?"
Bronwyn: “I thought—never mind.” Bronwyn shook her head. Gift horse, mouth. “I’ll send Vincent right over. Where should he collect you?”
Bo: "Where did he collect Brett?"
Bronwyn: “At the police station.”
Bo: "I'll be there in ten minutes."
Bronwyn: “All right. See you in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. That was precious little time to prepare. She’d expected to have a week at the bare minimum but apparently she’d underestimated how Bo would react to her talking to Brett.
She set her phone aside and eased to her feet. “Vincent!”
Bo/Vincent: Not Bo returning to the house only to walk inside, grab the keys to his Beetle, and walk back out without an explanation. Perhaps later he would say they were even, but much like Brett, his focus was on the next step.
Vincent poked his head through the entryway not a moment after his name.
"Ma'am?"
Brett/Bronwyn: Brett had barely opened his mouth to speak before Bo disappeared as quickly as he'd appeared. So much for dinner.
"I deserved that," he said to himself, nodding in resignation. Since it seemed he'd have some time, might as well cook something instead of ordering, so Bo could have a hot meal when he returned.
Bronwyn went into her closet to select something to wear that wasn't the nightgown she currently had on.
"How's yer energy holdin' up? Do you think you can make a couple more roundtrips to Edenton?"
Vincent: Considering Vincent rarely flew far from the neat that was Bronwyn's home, not even to his own in Maine, there was plenty energy and to spare.
"Whom I getting now?"
Bronwyn: "Bo. He just called. In ten minutes can you pop over and get him?"
Vincent: The familiar blinked and straightened. Surprise surprise.
"Same place?"
Bronwyn: They were two of a kind on that score. Surprise after surprise after surprise.
She nodded. "Aye, he'll meet you at the station. Do you know if Torsten's doin' anythin' right now?"
Vincent: "He's building toys out back." By toys, he meant little wooden swords, sheaths and all.
Bronwyn: Hearing that made her entire chest clench in one breath and reminded her how important this all was in another. Whatever ended up happening this evening, and even if her efforts were already doomed, she had to at least try.
"Can you fetch him for me? I better call Lucien, too. We don't have a lot o' time."
Vincent: "Lucien?" But he was quick to turn around, conserving his energy and running downstairs to the backyard, rather than popping in and out.
Bronwyn: Bronwyn selected a dress from her closet and returned to her bed to straighten the covers. She didn’t want to appear quite as pitiful as she felt.
As she worked, she dialed her eldest son.
Torsten/Lucien: Vincent had given nothing, as usual, which had Torsten upstairs nearly as swiftly as his wolf form. Eyes like a forest stared at the druid expectantly.
Lucien picked up after three rings.
"Hey, Mama B. What's up?" asked her son, out of breath.
Bronwyn: Torsten would find her with her phone between her shoulder and her ear, trying to get her nightgown off.
“Hi, lovey. Are you busy? Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Torsten/Lucien: "Just workin' out. You okay?" His usual question since her pregnancy.
"What? What is it?" Torsten whispered.
Bronwyn: “I’m fine, I promise.” Meant for both Lucien and Torsten. “Do you think you can be done and over here in the next ten minutes?
Torsten/Lucien: "Like, no?" Call it his blond moment. "With Vincent, yeah. What's wrong?"
Torsten crossed his arms and waited for an explanation.
Bronwyn: “Wh—right, Baton Rouge.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. Maybe she wasn’t totally fine and was in fact more frazzled than she thought she was.
“Nothin’s wrong, I just have somethin’ to do and hopin’ you could keep Torsten company while I did it.”
She met her revenant’s eyes. “Someone’s comin’ to see me today.”
Torsten/Lucien: "Someone... So, I gotta distract him or let him play dad?"
The man of subject was rubbing his eyes with two fingers, taking a deep, slow breath.
Bronwyn: “The former. I’ll ask Vincent if he thinks he can go and grab you but if he can’t and you can’t it’s okay.”
Half-undressed, she held her hand out for Torsten’s.
Torsten: "You can hang up the phone on your son and tell me what's going on. I don't need distraction, I need answers."
Bronwyn: “I’ll text you in a bit, darlin’.”
Bronwyn hung up and took a deep breath, resting her hands on Torsten’s crossed arms.
“In ten minutes Bo is comin’ to see me. I want to talk to him in private.”
Torsten: The revenant took another slow breath. Reluctant arms wrapped carefully around her waist.
"He's in North Carolina. He can't do anything to me there, Thistle."
Bronwyn: “I know. But I need to talk to him, and by some miracle he’s agreed to talk to me. There are things I need to say to him, Torsten, things I can only say if we’re alone.”
Torsten: "Not alone." Knowing the man he had once been was not the same as knowing what he had become. That apprehension was as obvious as his irritation.
"Keep Vincent within earshot." Which, he realized, he couldn't be. "Vincent, or I'm not leaving."
Bronwyn: Bronwyn nodded. Vincent would have to be around anyway since he’d be taking Bo home after they spoke, but she’d only ask him to remain nearby and willfully deaf.
“All right. Vincent’s going to Edenton to get him and he’ll be the one to take him home so he’ll be here. Do you promise me that you’ll go to a bar or somethin’ and stay until Bo’s gone?”
Torsten: "You're asking about my collar. At some point you'll send for me or you won't."
Torsten stared at the floor between them. His eyes were small and thoughtful, searching for something profound to say.
"He tried to save my sister. For his own academic clout, but he tried. He listened to her stories. Told her about his mother. Let her into his life. Underneath all of that anger and hatred is a terrified child. Terrified things use their claws. Are you certain this is what you want?"
Bronwyn: She knew nothing of Bo’s life prior to meeting him years ago, but just from what little she’d seen since, he had all the reason in the world to be angry, hateful, and afraid. She didn’t hold it against him, how could she?
He was so painfully…painfully human.
“I’m certain that I have to try.” She whispered without meaning to. “Trying is all I can do.”
Torsten: "Put yourself first." His chest caved with a massive sigh. "Don't let him get into your head." By complying, he knew he gave himself away. He wanted the collar removed; this would be their only chance. Still, the concern in his eyes was evident. As were his lingering hands covering her hips.
"This should be me."
Bronwyn: Bronwyn stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "It can't be you, love. It has to be me." It couldn't be a battle or an argument or a struggle for higher ground; it had to be a conversation, one that was entered into with sincerity but no expectations on either side. It would work or it wouldn't.
But she had to try.
"You better get goin'. I need to finish gettin' dressed."
Torsten: Torsten remained like a stone for a time. Her hands were small in his own, and he contemplated their life together, and what would change from this moment forward. Such small hands with such heavy intentions.
"Vincent," he emphasized, waiting patiently to lock eyes. "I'm trusting you to keep your word."
He would be the first to let go. To turn away in search of his boots and leave without another word. Before he could deny himself this window of freedom.
Bronwyn: Bronwyn sighed as she watched Torsten go. She could feel his concern even if he hadn’t voiced it, and she couldn’t deny that she felt some of her own.
But she had to take this risk. She had to try.
Once she finished putting on her dress, she combed her hair and tried to do a little something with her face. Just enough to look put together and not like a pitiful creature that couldn’t go outside.
She studied herself in the mirror. It would do.
Now to go downstairs and start some tea.
“Vincent, is there any o’ my grandmama’s shortbread left?”
Vincent: The familiar sat up from his hunched position over the breakfast nook. Eyes wide as though having been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but it was, in fact, several shortbreads stacked neatly in front of him.
"Ye....yes."
Bronwyn: The sight made her smile and it was a welcome relief. Leave it to Vincent to break any tension.
“Good. You can have two before you go get Bo. The rest are goin’ to be shared once he arrives, provided he doesn’t decide to throw them at me instead.”
Vincent: "He'll think they're poison," he shrugged. "I wander to wondering thoughts, if he was a bad man, before."
Bronwyn: “Judgin’ from what Torsten has told me, I don’t think so. Too ambitious for his own good maybe but no’ bad.”
Vincent: "Torsten said my name a lot. Want me on your shoulder?"
Bronwyn: “I really think I should talk to him alone but Torsten doesn’t want you far from me.”
Vincent: "I don't wanna be far from you."
Bronwyn: “You don’t have to be. Maybe just upstairs or in another room?”
Vincent: He considered for a moment. Realizing the innocuous perception she wished to display didn't sit well with him, but nodded just the same. She was his mistress.
"Another room."
Bronwyn: "Ye're worried about him too, aren't you? You think he might try to hurt me?"
Vincent: "He's just... unfriendly." A man he could marvel, perhaps admire, but from outside the searing area of effect. "He's got glass shards for body armor."
Bronwyn: Bronwyn sighed. “Do you think I’m bein’ naive?”
Vincent: "I'll be in the next room."
Bronwyn: “Would you feel better on my shoulder?”
Vincent: "Think he remembers me?"
Bronwyn: “I’d lay bets that he does, even if it’s only a little. Ye’re a hard one to forget, lovely.”
Vincent: The familiar nodded. "Next room, then."
Bronwyn: “Are you sure?”
Vincent: "Yes, ma'am. Are you not anymore?"
Bronwyn: “I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly confident about this whole thing but I can feel myself waverin’ and wobblin’ regardless.”
Vincent: "Is... Is that what happens to pregnant women?"
Bronwyn: She smiled. “Shaky confidence and emotional wobblin’? Can’t say whether it happens to others but it’s been happenin’ to me for months.”
Vincent: "I'll never let anything happen to you, mistress."
Bronwyn: Bronwyn took his face in her hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, wondering if he knew just how much of a lifeline he’d been to her since the day he’d come into her life. Her sweet familiar.
She kissed his forehead. “I know, love. I know.”
Vincent: He had a notion, and not just because they sometimes shared minds, but because of her affection, such as this sweet moment before a storm.
"I'll go get him now?"
Bronwyn: "Aye, I think you'd better," she said with a nod. "Tread lightly, okay? He isn't likely to be as cooperative and polite as the sheriff." Plus, judging from their conversation a few minutes ago, he was already in a less-than-friendly mood.
Vincent/Bo: Not conspicuously hostile, but neither was he polite. Standing beside his car in a tucked away area of the police station parking lot. Bo waited with his eyes to the sky, and then towards the feeling of primal energy.
He said nothing when taking his place beside the familiar, hidden further by the weathered brick wall and out of sight of security cameras. No hellos or needless small talk. Only stiff arms and raised chin, refusing to look his porter in the eyes.
Bronwyn: Bronwyn left the tea to brew and took the seat Vincent had vacated in the breakfast nook to rest for a moment before Bo arrived. Between dressing and coming downstairs, she’d managed to wear herself out.
Such was her new normal.
But, as long as she had a bit, it couldn’t hurt to pray to who or whatever was listening for a little bit of help. Asking for her hopes to be realized was asking too much. Help was enough.
Vincent: Rather than appear in the house, Vincent returned them to the backyard, out of sight. An opportunity for his mistress to prepare herself with a knock on the back door.
Bronwyn: Even if she’d had an hour, Bronwyn doubted it would make a difference. Time wasn’t the deciding factor here. At least, not in the short term.
The woman who opened the door was more or less the woman Bo would remember. Her skin was paler, her face a bit thinner despite the curve of her growing belly, her eyes tired. But it was still Bronwyn MacAllister.
“Come in,” she said softly. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
Bo: Her greeting was as much expectation as the situation itself. This was a long time coming, but the bump in her middle had caught him off guard, and it was all he could stare at. Brett had said as much, but seeing her so far along...
The man in front of her was older, of course, but one could hardly tell if not for the updated wardrobe and stronger spine.
"Just... conversation."
Bronwyn: She nodded and gestured to the breakfast nook. "Please sit."
There were three teacups sitting on the table beside a pretty teapot, as well as a plate of shortbread and a sugar bowl. Bronwyn poured tea into two of the cups, leaving one at her seat and offering the other to Vincent along with two pieces of shortbread.
Only then did she take her seat, looking across at Bo with a gentle and inexplicably fond expression. "You look well. I'm glad."
Vincent/Bo: Vincent would keep to his word, taking his tea and shortbread and quietly disappearing into the neighboring room to eat in silence. An ear out, of course, and his mind open for private words.
There was a quiet, hidden part of Bo that was humored only two cups had been filled. She knew him well enough. What had it been, one encounter? No. His memory was hazy, but not that much. It had been days. Years ago, but she had left an impact, and a tingle in his spine.
He didn't know what to do with her compliments. Evident by his lack of eye contact, but he knew what he could do.
"You look sick."
Bronwyn: "Aye." She nodded as she stirred half a spoonful of sugar into her tea. "I'm sure I do. Pregnancies take a toll even in the best of circumstances. In mine, well...it goes without sayin'." But her babies seemed to be healthy, and they were alive. That's all that mattered.
Bo: "It's because of his species, isn't it? Half alive, half dead."
Bronwyn: Bronwyn nodded. "It is, aye. They're only alive because there's magic keepin' them that way. Otherwise...they'd end up like the others."
Bo: "Clearly they can procreate, so what is the issue?"
Bronwyn: "My species," she said quietly. She'd told herself she would answer anything he asked her as honestly as she could, even if it hurt to do so. He deserved that much.
"If I was like him there wouldn't be an issue. But because I'm no', even though I can get pregnant, my body thinks the baby's already dead and rejects them."
Bo: Some of the venom in his expression seemed to dissolve. His gaze dropped to the table. In a gesture she might have been familiar with, Bo gently rubbed his hands together, only to slowly spread them apart.
"Leslie Issott's been here."
Bronwyn: It did seem familiar but Bronwyn couldn't place exactly why until Leslie's name was mentioned, then it hit her. She could swear she'd seen him do it before.
"Aye. He's the one who provided me the magic to keep my babies alive. Do you know him?"
Bo: There seemed to be conflict behind those lashes. Lips thinned and tight before deciding to breathe.
"He's... useful."
Bronwyn: "He's a good man. A verra good man. He deserves the world and I owe it to him."
Bo: "Not the world."
Bronwyn: Bronwyn sipped her tea again, falling silent for a moment as she looked at her reflection in the teacup.
"This is the third time he and I have been expectin' a child." His name wasn't said, but it didn't have to be. "Losin' the first one was a shock. Losin' the second was a nightmare. Both times, my babies didn't get the chance to be any bigger than the palm of my hand. This is the furthest I've ever been along.
"I can feel them. They have heartbeats. There was a time when I didn't think I'd ever get the chance to hear a heartbeat that wasn't my own comin' from inside me ever again. If I can this time, it's because of Leslie. He does deserve the world."
Bo: "That answers the question of which you'd choose, holding the hands of your child or Torsten, hanging over a cliff."
His empty teacup was pushed aside.
"So then why am I here?"
Bronwyn: She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she felt the gathering moisture in them. "Ye're here because...there's ev'ry chance that that question won't need to be answered.
"My babies are alive. For now. Leslie's magic was a blessin' but it was always meant as a temporary solution. Without his help, I wouldn't be pregnant and without help from someone else, I'll die long before I ever get to meet my babies. I do look sick, ye're right. My body wasn't built to be pregnant for the three years revenant pregnancies last. It's been put in no uncertain terms to me that if a solution isn't found to speed things along, childbirth will probably kill me."
Bo: Bo stared at her, wondering if this was even about the collar anymore. Seemed the conversation had been derailed by grief and unborn babies. Perhaps Brett had been mistaken, or she was very good at manipulating. She didn't seem the type, but he hardly knew her. It had all been a haze buried beneath his curse.
"Life is not my expertise. You didn't bring me here for this."
Bronwyn: It was about all of it. The collar, her grief, the children who had been lost and the children whose lives were hanging by a thread.
Bronwyn shook her head. Her battle was lost, and her tears fell. “No. And if I’m tellin’ you all this it isn’t because I want yer help. It’s because I want you and I need you to understand that I’m no’ askin’ what I’m about to ask lightly. I’m sure Sheriff Parker told you that I want to ask you if you could remove Torsten’s collar but I want you to understand why.”
Bronwyn wiped her face with her hands and found herself resisting the sudden urge to take Bo’s hands.
“It wasn’t just me that felt the pain of losin’ our children. They were his children, too. He wants to be a father so badly and he’s been given hope twice already and had it snatched away. There’s a chance it will be again and if I can’t give him a child, if what I am snatches his hope and his happiness again, then I at least want to try to do this for him. If all I can give him is the sight of the collar bein’ removed from his neck, then I want to try. I have to try. That’s why ye’re here, Bo.”
Bo: All it took was a single tear for him to avert his gaze. The nearest window would suffice. He would listen, but he appeared well determined not to look.
"Why do you talk like that? The self-pity. 'What I am snatches his hope. If I can't give him a child.' You speak like a problem. Did he do this to you? Made you feel this way?"
Bronwyn: He couldn’t even look at her and that spoke volumes. She already knew she was fighting a losing battle; that just sealed it.
Bronwyn took a napkin from the holder on the table and wiped her face, shaking her head.
“No. He’s never once made me feel like it’s my fault. He’s never reproached for me anythin’. He’s been lovin’ and supportive.”
Bo: "Then why do you speak that way?"
Bronwyn: “Wouldn’t you, if yer children kept dyin’ because yer body kept rejectin’ them and a hundred hoops needed to be jumped through for a chance that it wouldn’t happen again?”
Bo: "You're not the undead one."
Bronwyn: “But I’m the one who carried them. People can tell you somethin’ isn’t yer fault a hundred times but that doesn’t mean yer brain will believe them.”
Bo: Eyes closed a second longer than they should have. A bit of his bottom lip was pulled by his teeth.
"They'll hunger for... things. Liver and raw meat. They'll have tempers. Short fuses like their father. They won't age the same. Did he tell you that?"
Bronwyn: She nodded toward her refrigerator. “There’s been liver in this house since the day Torsten first stepped foot in it. I haven’t ever made him a steak that wasn’t rare enough to still be mooin’.”
As for the temper and the aging?
She took another sip of tea to calm herself down. “Ev’ry parent hopes their children will outlive them. If these babies live, they certainly will outlive me. Like their father. I’ve made peace with that. I’m just glad my soul found his again. Short fuse and all. A temper isn’t a reason no’ to love someone.”
Bo: Now Bo was looking at her. His brow slightly knitted. Just barely a wrinkle.
He wanted to be offended. Every petty bone in his body wanted to regenerate the venom he had lost, but there was too much to relate to.
"You think he's your soulmate?"
Bronwyn: “I do,” she said, suddenly aware of her engagement ring and comforted by its presence.
“Have you ever felt a pull toward someone that you couldn’t fight or explain?”
Bo: The window was much more interesting now.
"If you have something to say to me, you say it to me directly. Don't go behind my back like that again. Unless you swear to that, we're finished here."
Bronwyn: Bronwyn nodded. “I swear it. You have my word that I won’t go behind yer back ever again.”
Bo: He could look at her again, if only to judge her expression. His ear hadn't tingled once in her presence. Her bird, yes, but not her.
"Call him."
Bronwyn: She was tired and sad and perhaps even desperate, but Bronwyn’s eyes were sincere. She was laying her heart bare to Bo.
Her phone was taken out of her pocket, his number dialed, but still she didn’t dare hope.
“Torsten?”
Torsten/Bo: The phone was answered before a single completed ring. Bo returned to staring out the window, contemplating his life and choosing to ignore the voice on the other end.
"Are you alright?"
Bronwyn: “Yes, I’m all right,” she assured him, holding in a sniffle. If he thought she was crying she just knew he would assume the worst.
“Can you come home?”
Torsten: His question came in slow and deliberate. "Just tell me, you're safe?"
Bronwyn: “I am, I promise. Come back.”
Torsten: "Do you want me to stay on the line?"
Bronwyn: Bronwyn shook her head. “No, you don’t have to. Just drive safely, okay? I’ll see you in a wee.”
Bo: "How long is a wee?" Bo asked once Torsten had hung up.
Bronwyn: She slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Probably just a few minutes.” She doubted Torsten would have gone too far, worried as he was about her seeing Bo.
Bo: Some sugar was slowly brushed off of the table with fingertips.
"Why him? Of all people, you chose a nearly feral half-vampire. Why?"
Bronwyn: “It goes back to what I mentioned earlier about soulmates.” She selected a shortbread from the plate and dunked it in her tea.
“Sometimes you feel a pull toward someone that you can’t fight or explain. I don’t think I consciously chose him but I was drawn to him.”
Bo: "He comes from Vikings. Real Vikings. Killers. Wolves." All from the pages of his journals, but he couldn't bring himself to elaborate. "You're a..." Fingernails tapped on the table. "...You're not like them. They're going to hurt you. When it happens, you shouldn't hesitate to destroy him."
Bronwyn: He’d said when, not if. In Bo’s eyes, her being hurt by Torsten or his family wasn’t merely a possibility, but a foregone conclusion. Was it fear or hatred or bitter experience that made him so certain?
“Nothin’ in this world is set in stone,” she said softly. “What we are doesn’t have to determine who we are and what we do. We make choices ev’ry day that matter more than what we happen to be.”
Bo: "A vampire cannot change their bane any more than they can change the stars in the sky. They're cursed. Do you understand?"
Bronwyn: Fear, hatred, and bitter experience; it wasn’t just one fueling this conversation, but all three.
Bronwyn nodded. She didn’t have a vast knowledge about vampires but curses? “I do, aye.”
Bo: "D'er lettast aa laera av annan manns skade."
No, he would not be translating. Only smoothing his clothes as he stood. Unable to sit still any longer, he pulled out his phone and pulled up Brett's last message to read. Something to do and consider.
Bronwyn/Brett: No translation meant Bronwyn would have to try to remember what he’d said and ask Torsten about it later. Her curiosity wouldn’t rest otherwise.
Brett’s last message wasn’t a message, but a photo of Olek in the kitchen that had been caught mid-yawn.
Torsten/Bo: {Text to Brett} I'll be home soon.
And Torsten had only allowed himself a five-minute distance via drive. Not a whisper nor a scream would be heard from the young mage. Bo had been a dangerous man, but never once to him. Not before. But the man he had known had died with a curse Was this collar that important, he asked himself, stepping into the threshold to find that very mage straightening with his presence, returning his phone to his pocket and raising his chin. There was a level of fear behind those eyes only he knew. That man he thought had been destroyed was in there, somewhere, behind those blond lashes. The tightening of his jaw, the deliberate blinks in twos.
Neither man would speak, as though caught in the gravity of each other's existence.
Bronwyn: Bronwyn felt a lump form in her throat the longer the two of them stared at each other. She couldn’t begin to imagine what either of them were thinking, if they were thinking anything at all.
How many years and how much pain had passed between them?
She got to her feet and moved to stand beside Bo, putting herself in Torsten’s line of sight.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked softly, unable to bear the silence.
Torsten/Bo: Both sets of green eyes found her. Neither said a word. Only the one she had regarded moved, nodding. Something had to be said, but words failed both men.
It took everything in Bo's power not to pull out his wand and materialize a crystal prison around the revenant. Maybe one just too long and sharp in his chest. Perhaps a curious case of bad luck. Perhaps send him back into the ocean again. His chest began to burn to the point of having to touch himself.
He turned away entirely.
Bronwyn/Brett: Shaky hands got another teacup out of the cabinet and filled it. Even if Bo hadn’t wanted tea, it didn’t feel right to give the cup that had been meant for him to Torsten. Just looking at it sitting on the table was enough to threaten tears for reasons she didn’t understand, but that could possibly be attributed to the suffocating tension in the kitchen.
{Text from Brett} Okay, baby. Dinner will be waiting
{Text from Brett} I love you
Torsten/Bo: Bo took a breath and placed his hand over one of his pockets. They didn't need to see what was underneath.
"Jeg bryr meg ikke om hva vi en gang var. Når dette er over, vil jeg aldri høre navnet ditt igjen. Jeg vil aldri tenke på deg igjen."
His voice had remained strong until the last sentence. He managed to swallow and keep his composure. He could have asked for nothing else but the strength to hold his head high.
"Jeg skjønner," Torsten sighed.
Bronwyn: She didn’t understand a word that was being said but it wasn’t yelling and that was reason enough to keep hoping. Everything felt so fragile, including her.
Perhaps she should sit and try to drink more tea. Anything to calm down.
Torsten/Bo: Torsten took a step toward the kitchen and was stopped abruptly by a twitch in Bo's shoulder. A tick he'd seen before, at the mill. One would think the revenant a statue.
"I'm sorry what happened to us. To you."
"I've already agreed. Opening your mouth is not intelligent."
Bronwyn: And up she got once more to stand not between them, but near to Bo’s side.
“Would you rather we all sit?” she asked him. “Or are you more comfortable standin’?”
Torsten/Bo: It was seeing Vincent from the corner of his eye, standing in the entryway watching them both that stuck one of his many nerves. Knuckles cracked with a fist, scoffing.
"Come here."
As though he had never left. Torsten could do nothing but stand directly in front of his long-left master.
"Bend down." A command purely out of intent, for once, to observe the ivory and gold collar. He could feel quintessence like a current running through the antique. Old, old magic. As old as revenants themselves.
This time, Bo's swallow was visible. Hands gently shaking. This felt like forgiveness. Doing away with one more piece of his control.
His hands retreated.
"Say it again. What you promised." Bo looked to Bronwyn.
Bronwyn: The commands were what did it. Seeing Torsten compelled to obey them was what made the dam overflow and had tears streaming down her face again. It was just as painful now as it had been then, back when she realized just how much Torsten meant to her.
She wanted to close her eyes, but then she wouldn’t have been able to meet Bo’s. And she needed to.
“If I have somethin’ to say to you,” she began, turning to face him fully, “I promise I’ll say it to you directly. I will never go behind yer back again. I give you my word.”
Torsten/Bo: A mantra had begun in his head. The only reason he didn't have Torsten picking up a kitchen knife and using it on himself. If he were honest with himself, there were two reasons. This was for Brett. This was absolutely for Brett, but this was to give Bronwyn peace. To dry a mother's tears. He was almost certain she was a sirin.
In one swift movement, the golden circle center of the collar was pushed. With a loud clack, the two metal ends split apart.
The collar was held in a white knuckle grip. He couldn't look at the man that was once his. Refused to note the white tan line around his throat. Only gasped and recoiled when pulled into Torsten's arms. His entire body shook. Cheeks red and eyes moist.
"Jeg gjorde det ikke for deg!" I didn't do it for you!
"I know. Takk. Takk."
Bo managed to retreat, refusing to look at anyone but the familiar watching him in the other room. Straightening his clothes like a lifeline.
"Take me home."
Bronwyn: Words were impossible. All Bronwyn could do was nod and gesture for Vincent to come and take Bo back.
The tears wouldn’t dry for a while yet, but that there was peace, there was no doubt. Peace and a gratitude and relief so profound she could hardly stand. She wanted to say something to Bo but couldn’t begin to find the words to express what she felt. This didn’t feel real.
“One day,” she managed, “I’ll know how to thank you. Get home safely.”
Torsten/Bo: There was a piece of Torsten gone. A nakedness to his throat. He wouldn't dare touch where it had been. Not in Bo's presence. After unwanted affection, he didn't dare move until Vincent neared and disappeared with the mage. Only then did he walk the few steps to the weeping druid and lift her in his arms. Their burden had been lifted.
And Bo's mind felt as though it were unraveling. He didn't want to walk to his car, drive himself home, and face his husband. He didn't want to do anything but process what had happened. No sooner had Vincent disappeared did he bite down on the back of his hand, doubling over just managing to breathe.
Bronwyn/Peabody: If hearing the final commands Torsten would ever be given overflowed the dam, Torsten touching her broke it completely. The release of tension, the realization that this was the very first time she was seeing him without anything but the clothes on his back, it was all just too much.
The only thing she was capable of doing was clinging to the man she loved and sobbing into his shoulder.
Whatever respite the universe decided to grant Bo wouldn’t be nearly as long as he would perhaps desire.
Not long after he returned, a pair of headlights would cut through the darkness as a squad car pulled into the lot. Their light had spotted the mage.
The headlights cut out, the engine shut off, and Jeremy Peabody emerged from the open door.
“…Bo?” he called. “That you over there?”
Torsten/Bo: The blond figure straightened with a deep nostril inhale. The two pieces of the collar were tossed in the passenger seat of his car. He couldn't pretend Peabody didn't exist, but there was nothing he could say without harming one of them. His means of escape was language.
"Jeg har det ikke bra. Du aner ikke hvor mye jeg vil skrike. Jeg vil ikke hjem. Jeg vil bare drepe noe. Jeg ønsker deg..." The mage sniffed again.
I'm not alright. You have no idea how much I want to scream. I don't want to go home. I just want to kill something. I wish you...
I wish you weren't so kind.
In New Orleans, Bronwyn was being carried upstairs to their bedroom. No words spoken. Only to exist with their emotions and allow his beloved to touch the pale line servility had created.
Bronwyn/Peabody: Peabody had heard Bo speaking his native language before, but that wasn’t what gave him pause. It was his tone and the distraught look on his face.
When Bo didn’t feel like talking he had no problem telling him to fuck off; this wasn’t that. This was closer to what some would call a cry for help.
“Do you want me to call Brett?” His tone wasn’t soft and gentle like Bronwyn’s had been. His was calm and reassuring.
Bronwyn didn’t dare to do that yet. She didn’t think she’d be able to handle it.
Right now it felt like she was finally releasing not just the past few months’ worth of tension, but years of it. For so long she’d wanted to see Torsten free of that collar and now that he was, she was nearly hysterical with relief.
Torsten/Bo: Torsten didn't feel anything in regards to his collar. Not with Bronwyn in his arms. His only priority was her comfort and that of their children. If she needed to cry, so be it. If she needed to be held, or a bath, or kissed into her hair, so be it.
His concern was also on the man he would never lay eyes on again. Every conversation they had ever had. From Poland to Iceland. To the comfort of his sister's den, surrounded by dogs and birds and the sweet sound of Flora's voice, filling the room with history and wisdom. To the sound of Bo's quick scratch writing, hanging on her every word. To their first and last kiss in his old bedroom. Where Bo had simply said, "I just wanted to know," before meeting his fate in America. It was done. He was gone. That man, he told himself again and again, was reborn into someone else.
But that someone else was very much the same. Traumas he couldn't remember. Those he wished he could forget. Those he was reliving right before Peabody's eyes.
Bo sat sideways in the driver's seat, wiping his face with just a little too much aggression.
He could manage to say it, but the bite wasn't there.
"Fuck off." But he didn't mean it, and he hated that he didn't mean it.
Bronwyn/Peabody: These days it was hard to say she needed to cry. A more accurate statement was that she couldn’t seem to do anything but cry.
Eventually she would exhaust herself, however. The ragged sobs would quiet until they became sniffles, her shoulders would gradually stop shaking, and she’d become a rag doll in the revenant’s arms.
No, he didn’t mean it. A deaf man in Reno could tell that he didn’t mean it.
How to proceed? It was established that when Bo wanted something, he asked for it. That included Brett. If Brett wasn’t here it was because Bo didn’t want him here, which meant he also probably didn’t want Peabody to call him.
Well. Answer was clear enough.
“…Want a beer?”
Torsten/Bo: She would cry for both of them. With a little encouragement to drink a sip of water, nothing else was said by the revenant. She would remain in his arms, above the sheets, eyes closed, allowing both of their minds to rest, free of at least one more burden.
Bo was watching the grass by his feet. He couldn't bring himself to look at Peabody. He didn't want to make that connection. The deputy already gave him mixed feelings. The obvious response to such nonsense was anger. Anger was exhausting.
"Beer is disgusting."
Peabody: The deputy wasn’t dissuaded. He could spot a situation that needed alcohol a mile off.
“Want a glass of wine? My place is close, and empty.” Bridget was working the night shift all week which worked out great since Bo didn’t like her.
Bo: Bo nearly scoffed at the idea of Peabody with a bottle of one before remembering Bridget. Of course.
He didn't want to go home. He knew what would happen when he did. But, Brett was waiting for him. Perhaps months ago...
"I have to go home." He felt it necessary to add, "Don't tell Brett you saw me."
Peabody: Peabody nodded. “Hey, I just returned from patrol and went in to do my paperwork. Didn’t see anybody.”
Bo: Deep breath. Held. Exhaled. "Thank you."
Peabody: “Don’t mention it.” He gave Bo another nod and walked across the lot to the side entrance of the station.
Bo: He'd forgotten what he'd requested for dinner. Forgotten what shirt Brett had been wearing. Driving back to the house was a blur. He'd managed to stop when required, but he couldn't say which route he had taken.
Walking through the front door, all he had in his hands were the keys and the collar.
Brett: Since the choice had been left to Brett, he’d elected to cook something simple and comforting. He’d made pasta with grilled veggies and some garlic herb toast and had a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.
He was dressed in a comfortable T-shirt and sweatpants and his hair was still wet from his shower.
And when Bo walked in with the collar in his hands, any and all questions he might have had were immediately answered.
“Hungry?” he asked softly.
Bo: Eyes and cheeks were still red. The collar was still in his fist, white-knuckled when he raised both hands to his forehead. Shoulders heavy and shaking. This was exactly what he knew would happen. One look at Brett. Just the softness of his voice, and he was doomed. He had no intention to cry, but such gentleness tore at his walls so expertly.
Brett: “If you want to scream,” he began, “the walls are soundproof. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. If you want to eat in silence, we will. If you want to throw something, the table is set.”
Brett stepped closer. “If you want comfort, I’m right here.”
The choice was Bo’s to make and would be respected.
Bo: He wanted to hate this man. Wrath was an easy emotion. Cathartic. Rage was an old friend with a hand on his shoulder. Had been since childhood. But this was a man he actually cared about. A man worth the effort.
But by bedding his primary instinct, all that was left was raw and tender. Words he could not articulate.
The lights in the foyer flickered.
"I feel... it. On me. Him." Elaborating would hurt his husband. Hurt himself. Show more vulnerability. He began to pull at his hair.
Brett: Brett didn’t have to ask who ‘he’ was or question the why or the how of Bo being able to feel something on him. Not when Brett himself was so familiar with such a sensation.
The flickering lights didn’t startle him. Not anymore. “I’ll start the shower for you and wash your clothes so you can get clean.”
Bo: All he could manage was a single nod. The two pieces were placed on the foyer table. It took everything in his power not to throw the collar. The catharsis it would bring would pale in comparison to the memory he would harbor of Brett flinching.
Every movement was mindful, shaking just to sustain, not to scream or break.
His wand was placed on the bathroom sink. Arms aching and loose, making his clothes a struggle.
Brett: Brett turned on the shower and got Bo a fresh towel while the water warmed. A bath probably would have been more relaxing but he knew how much better it felt in circumstances like these to feel like you were actively getting clean. Besides, having water gently fall on you felt just as good as sitting in it.
He longed to help Bo, to reassure him in some way, but he wouldn’t. Not unless he was asked.
Bo: "I frighten you, don't I?"
Hands rested on the edge of the sink, staring down the drain so as not to look at his husband.
Brett: He shook his head. “No, baby. You don’t and you never have. I’ve been afraid of blood, my father, the vampires in this town, but never of you.”
Bo: "Not when I scream? Why? Why are you like this?"
Brett: “Screaming’s never been something I’m afraid of.” He’d have a rough time doing the job he did if that were the case.
“Why am I like what?”
Bo: "Why are you complicit with everything I do! You let me do anything! When I throw things! When I scream! I left the house and you let me! You're a doormat!"
You are the balm and the gauze and the cool running water and you save my life again and again and I don't deserve you. I'm not worthy of you, and I will push you away before you hurt me.
Brett: Brett was quiet for a moment. He let himself listen to the shower running, let the echo of Bo’s raised voice fade into it.
“I’d rather be a doormat than a jailer,” he said quietly. “You know what I spent a lot of time wanting when I was a kid? To be allowed to be upset. To be allowed to feel anything really. If something made me sad, I couldn’t show it. If my parents made me angry or hurt my feelings, I couldn’t say anything. I had to swallow it. I made myself learn how to be silent when I cried because if my dad heard me, he’d call me names and slap me. As I got older I told myself that when I became an adult, I was never going to be like him. I wasn’t going to get angry with someone for feeling something. I wouldn’t hurt someone when they were already hurting.
“So if you need to call me a doormat, that’s fine. Maybe I am. But I’m not going to get upset with you for being upset, and I’m not going to keep you chained so you can’t ever leave the house. You’re not a doll. You’re my husband.”
Bo: The more Brett spoke, the heavier his words became. Weighing on his shoulders to the point of bending over the sink, held up solely by his elbows. Hands rested the weight of his face by his forehead. He couldn't remember a single instance of his childhood, but he felt Brett's experiences as though his own. He had seen them upon the pages in ink. A tyrant Catholic and Ventrue dictator for father and uncle cut from the same cloth.
"I'm sorry," Bo sobbed. "Jeg mente det ikke. Jeg burde ikke ha gjort det."
Brett: “I know.” Brett’s voice was so, so soft. He hadn’t been given permission to touch his husband, and he didn’t, but he did step closer so Bo could feel that he wasn’t alone.
None of this was personal. He knew Bo wasn’t lashing out because of him or something he’d done. This was simply a rough situation, and Bo was simply a man with demons trying his absolute best to fight them and keep them from winning.
“I know you didn’t, baby. I know you didn’t mean it. I forgive you.”
Bo: He simply needed to exist. To breathe and allow the tension in his chest to subside. He waited, and it lingered. Only the sobs between broken breaths eased the clench.
Some minutes later, he managed, "Will you... shower with me?"
Brett: That was perfectly fine by him. Bo didn’t have to say or do anything. As long as he was breathing and trying for calm, that was already a victory.
Brett nodded. “Absolutely. Do you want help getting undressed?”
Bo: "No." He'd already dismantled enough of his pride for what remained of the year. The least he could do was remove his clothes.
Brett: “Okay.” In that case, Brett would go grab another towel and start removing his own clothes.
He’d already showered but that hardly mattered. This was about helping Bo to feel clean and safe and calm again.
"I've already said my piece," said Bo, fingers light against Olek's chin as he stood. As much as it pained him, Olek would benefit from another perspective. Even someone as old as his familiar, harboring the memories and points-of-view of those who came before him, still required more.
"I'll make us tea." A look was given to Sky. Did he want some?
Curious. Still, Sky’s face remained neutral and open, inviting confidence and conversation. His monk, dead now for so many years, often wore a similar one. How fitting that Sky should think of him now.
The fox smiled and nodded at Bo. “Mm. I can prepare it if you’d like.”
"Meditating makes Olek think of... a forest." A forest in particular. He didn't have to elaborate for Bo's benefit, but the mage couldn't recall an instance of hearing Olek mention his former masters to their newest addition.
"Do you want to discuss that with Sky?"
Olek looked through his bangs at Sky's serene face. "Does Sky talk about his masters?"
If Sky felt any curiosity about their silent exchange, his face didn’t show it. Such matters were intimate and private.
The fox nodded. “Yes. Speaking about them doesn’t trouble me.” He’d been fortunate enough to have masters he loved and who had loved him. Speaking and thinking of them in quiet moments honored their memory, and some of those memories had already been shared with Brett.
"You don't have trouble sleeping," inflection at the end of his voice made Olek smile. Slowly, the cat sat up and stretched.
His beloved familiar was his saving grace. If not for him, he doubted the fox would have been welcome under this roof. The discussion whether or not they had been destined for each other had been exchanged, for both cat and fox. Did they need them, despite their wedding rings? He had to learn to accept that.
"Too many thoughts in Olek's head," he shined. "Is this what being old is?" He looked to Sky for guidance.
Sky was acutely aware of the fact that were it not for Olek, he probably wouldn’t have been able to live by his young master’s side. Perhaps that was why he had a soft spot for the cat.
That, and the sense of camaraderie shared between two people who could fully relate to and understand each other.
“It can be. Our lives become more complex and entangled the longer they extend, like a tree’s root system. You should meditate. It’ll bring you peace.”
The Silent Treatment || Bretan & Olek || April, 2024
Brett: "I'm hooome," Brett announced as he walked through the front door, feeling his entire body sigh in relief as the quiet of his house settled over him. Well, the relative quiet. Woodstock was doing his usual happy song and dance to welcome him home but that wasn't a nuisance. It had been a very, very long day and hearing his dog bark in excitement was music to his ears.
"Hey, buddy." Brett scooped him up and gave him a pet, wondering why he didn't hear Bo until he remembered that his husband had texted him earlier telling him that he'd be going out. "Guess it's just us. You hungry? Where's your brother?" Brett looked around. "Oleeeeek. I brought tunaaaaaa."
Olek: A series of chirps and trills started from the top of the stairs, bouncing gently with every step until reaching the first floor, where a tortoiseshell cat stretched its long legs and yawned, showing off his perfect pearly fangs.
A proper greeting this time in the tone of "Brrrr?" as he trotted over to the ghoul and pretended to use his leg as a scratching post. A little game he played. No claws today.
Brett: Like with Woodstock's barking, there was an instant ridiculous smile on Brett's face the moment he heard that first little chirp. This right here was his reward for the day he'd had.
"Awwww, big yawn," he chuckled, switching the shopping bags he was carrying over to the hand that was still holding Woodstock so he could scratch Olek's head. "Hey, fluffy baby. Did you have a good day? Lots of napping?" His arms were already full but he didn't care; the cat was being scooped up, too.
Olek: Purrect. Maybe someone would find it odd that a cat would hug a human's neck, but not in this house. Quite normal for both Bo and Brett to receive such affection. Same with the curious sniffs at his hair, his face, and when he had the opportunity, his hands.
Brett: There would be plenty of interesting things to smell on Brett today, but almost none of them were particularly pleasant. Aside from the usual scents of his body products and the station and his car, there was sweat, alcohol, car exhaust, and body odor that did not belong to him.
“Ya’ll wouldn’t believe the day I had,” he sighed, nuzzling into Olek and Woodstock’s fur as he carried them to the kitchen. “Lady almost caused a traffic accident because she was texting and ran a light and then tried to argue with me about it when I pulled her over. Oh, and that was after I actually managed to pull her over. She almost took me on a high-speed chase. Why are tourists like that?”
Olek: Well, that sounded terrible and exciting! Better than the scent of ash stuck to his skin after being in the presence of his domitor. The poor man seemed to only have a break at home. Time for some heavy-duty nuzzles to wipe the day from his skin and clothes.
Brett: Only around his animals did Brett feel comfortable enough to giggle, and aggressive cat nuzzles always got him.
“Awwww, thank you, honey.” He kissed Olek’s head and set the bags on the counter and him and Woodstock on the floor.
“I’m gonna go shower and then we’re gonna make some dinner, okay? And we’re not gonna tell Bo about the fresh tuna or the chicken I’m gonna make ya’ll. It’ll be our secret.”
Olek: Fresh?! Not from a can?! Bo's journal had called Olek his familiar - November 2010 - and some days there was no mistaking his awareness. His noises were long and grateful, circling Brett's leg quite recklessly.
Brett: “Oh my goodness!” Brett carefully walked over to the fridge to put everything away, making sure he didn’t one, trip or two, accidentally step on Olek. “Are you so happy, honey? Are you a happy fluffy boy? Watch your feet.”
He was almost certain that if he could’ve, Olek would open the fridge and help himself. His lack of thumbs was all that stood between him and being a little menace.
“I’ll slice it up for you as soon as I’m done, okay? You be good and wait for me.”
Olek: Fine, fine. He would sit on his hunches and wait.
Little did Brett seem to realize, that was exactly what happened when there was no one to entertain him but Woodstock. The many nights when leftovers would go missing, furniture shifted, and Bo's clothes out of order, it had been none other.
They both seemed to have forgotten what he was.
As often as he thought about revealing himself to Brett, asking politely for his aid in breaking his curse, he thought just as often what a terrible idea that was. He'd heard every story of every unsavory incident in his absence. Really, did he want the ghoul to faint? Absolutely not!
So, there he sat, eying the fridge and... maybe he could just... no, no. He'd wait.
Brett: Showering, like coming home and loving on his animals, was always a balm after a hard day. It was one of those comforting little rituals that always seemed to help no matter how he was feeling or how long he spent actually doing it. Feeling better started with feeling clean.
He was gone just shy of fifteen minutes and returned smelling like himself, which was exactly how things should be. “Okay, I’m back. Thank you for being a good, patient boy.”
As he set about getting everything to prep for dinner, he continued telling Olek and Woodstock about his day.
“So after the texting lady, I got called down to the docks because those kids that’ve been sneaking onto people’s boats to party finally got caught. One of them got too drunk and ended up passing out. Owner of the boat found him this morning with his pants half off and sharpie all over his face, snoring away. His friends drew dicks on him while he slept.”
Olek: Woodstock was a bit oblivious to what was being said, but enjoyed the sound of his master's voice. It was Olek who climbed onto the bar stool across from the ghoul and sat handsomely, watching intently as Brett talked about his day. Not the first, and guaranteed not his last.
His eyes softly blinked. He chattered his pleasure at the story and placed his paw on the table. Just testing the waters.
Brett: Brett couldn’t help but smile at the cat. Sweet boy. He always listened so patiently to all of Brett’s rambling, as if he really understood everything Brett was saying.
Granted, he was a magical cat so maybe he actually could. But without the ability Brett had once had to communicate with animals, he’d never know for sure.
The ghoul took that little paw in his hands and gently squished each tiny toe bean in turn. Truthfully, he was kind of grateful he couldn’t talk to Olek. Better to assume that the cat didn’t mind listening than to potentially be asked to quit his yapping all the time.
“Should’ve seen his parents, they were mortified. They’re gonna let him stew in a holding cell for a couple days to teach him a lesson. Hopefully it sticks. Oh, and that meth head is back. Again.”
Brett sighed and went to grab the tuna from the fridge.
“I got the pleasure of helping Peabody chase him down. Guy smelled like he hadn’t showered since Christmas.”
Olek: Brett gave the best massages. Bo avoided him most days, looking at him with eyes most hurtful, confused. The days he did receive attention, it was when the mage was half asleep. Scratches behind his ear, just as he used to.
"Ech," said Olek. That didn't sound pleasant at all.
Brett: “Yep, exactly. It’s just my bad luck that we got the call about him right after we’d had lunch. I almost saw it again.”
Brett shook his head. That particular little scene had all but drained him, literally and figuratively. He would’ve stopped at Guildias’ to fill his tank, so to speak, but his domitor was busy. It would be another day or two before he could top up.
“Peabody hosed him down before we brought him into the station. I swear that water ran brown.” Another shake of his head. “Maybe being roommates with him in holding will scare that kid straight.”
He considered the tuna for a moment before deciding how he wanted to cut it. Sashimi? Yeah, he’d go with that.
Olek: His other paw joined the first. He stretched again. Sleeping sixteen hours a day requires a significant wake-up period. Another yawn and a vigorous shake of his head.
Ah, but what was Brett doing now? He'd stretch his back legs while he watched, trying not to imagine brown water while he enjoyed the scent of tuna.
Brett: “I should tell whoever is on duty to febreeze the car and let it air out overnight so it doesn’t smell for the next six months. County isn’t about to give us the money to have it professionally cleaned.” Even though all the squad cars could certainly use it. God knew B.O. wasn’t the worst thing that seeped into those seats.
“Actually, I think Peabody might still be at the station. He wanted to pull some overtime since he’s saving for his—ow, fuck! Dammit, Brett.”
He’d gotten distracted. He was too busy talking and thinking about the day and not paying enough attention to what he was doing. He’d sliced his hand right open.
He set the knife aside and tried not to drip blood in the floor as he turned to run his hand under the sink.
Olek: Wasn't the first time the sheriff had cut himself while talking. He was a sweet man, but sometimes as clumsy as children. Not all children. One came to mind that was only reckless with spellcasting.
But, he didn't dwell. He was sitting up, craning his head for a better view of the ghoul's injury. How bad was it this time?
Brett: “Don’t worry, buddy, I’m okay,” Brett said soothingly to Woodstock, who was making that little whining noise he made whenever he sensed his owner was in distress.
The ghoul looked over at the cutting board, relieved to see that none of his blood had gotten on Olek’s dinner. At least something had gone right today.
Without thinking, Brett shut the water off and grabbed a paper towel to dry his hands. “I’ll get your chicken going as soon as I’m done with the fish. Actually, you know what?” No harm in putting the water on now. It would take a bit to boil anyway.
But as Brett reached to open the cabinet for a pot, he froze.
Olek: Woodstock whined for many reasons. He was a rather anxious little fellow, but the scent of blood gripped the cat's attention, watching just as intently as the previous conversation. No chirps or trills, just waiting.
The scent had yet to dissipate, and that was... new.
Brett: Brett was staring at his outstretched hand as if in a daze, heartbeat quickening and chest tightening.
Over the years he’d become accustomed to shrugging off minor injuries. Bumps and bruises seemed to practically heal themselves with very little effort on his part and normally, something as simple as a cut would’ve begun to heal before he’d even managed to turn the sink on.
But that could only happen if he’d been fed recently, or if he hadn’t been using his abilities.
The day he’d been telling Olek about had drained him. Quite literally. It had taken a great amount of strength and effort to wrangle the meth head, even with Peabody’s help. The chase had left Brett exhausted and without the ability to heal himself as he usually did.
The cut on his hand had remained open and, having been deeper than he’d first thought, was now steadily bleeding.
Onto the floor and onto his skin.
It was the stomach-churning sensation of it running across his hand that had Brett snapping out of it and bolting for the sink again, desperately scrubbing at his hand under the full blast of the tap turned as hot as it could go.
Olek: This wasn't normal. He knew normal, having lived under their collective roofs and seen Brett nearly every single day for years. He would wince, cringe at the sight of blood, and heal himself. It was the way of things, and yet blood stained the immaculate floor like sloppy drippings of chartreuse paint. He didn't have to know its true color to recognize the scent.
Brett could walk himself to the car and drive to the hospital, but he wasn't. He was no different than an anxious child on the verge of tears.
That's right... he was afraid of blood now. A story he had not witnessed. Something about Woodstock? A vampire? Something, he forgot.
If ever there was a time to be helpful before the ghoul scraped skin away in desperation.
His transformation was slow. It had been some weeks since he had snuck out of the house, exploring Edenton in human form. Precious time to allow his limbs to elongate, his fur to recede. Brett was too busy to notice a man of over 6 feet, in linin trousers, V-neck shirt, long cardigan and scarf manifest just feet away.
"Brett," came a gently warm, soothing voice.
Brett: In truth, Brett wouldn’t have noticed if god had descended from heaven and appeared in the kitchen. All he could see, all he could focus on, was the hot water washing over the cut on his hand.
What blood there had been had quickly been rinsed away but Brett could still see and feel it. His hand wasn’t clean. It wouldn’t be clean until the cut had healed but maybe if he scrubbed a little harder and maybe if the water was a little bit hotter, it would be. He had to try. He had to be clean.
He heard his name, or thought he did, but it sounded very far away. It was probably his imagination. Like the hearts on the tile. Like the scent of lavender.
He reached for the dish sponge so he could scrub harder and didn’t realize his vision had blurred because of the tears in his eyes.
Olek: His name wasn't enough to interrupt the panic stinging his eyes and trembling his hands.
Human form had been avoided in Brett's presence for this very reason. He was a capable ghoul, a good husband, a man of strong morals suitable for his profession, but an innocent flighty creature.
"Brett," he said again, more firmly to be heard above the faucet. "Look at - Look at Olek, please."
Swift thinking, he held his hands up, elbows to his ribs, submissive and unarmed, for the sheriff's peace of mind.
Brett: It wasn’t his name but his cat’s that finally got Brett’s attention and made him look away from the sink, though what he saw did nothing to calm to his panic.
What it did do was make him freeze again.
A man—a man he did not recognize—was standing with him in the kitchen. He must have been he one that had spoken, and somehow knew both his name and Olek’s.
Brett’s teary gaze searched this stranger’s face first with trepidation, and then with confusion. A question was beginning to penetrate through the haze.
Why wasn’t Woodstock barking at this stranger?
Olek: At least he wasn't screaming. That was progress! The familiar did his best to keep his expression gentle, his voice calm and his movements fluid.
"Good. Yes." Fingertips softly tapped over his heart. "Olek. I'm... I'm Olek. Yes." The simpler he kept his words, the easier, he assumed, it would be to wade through his anxiety.
He then pointed to the ghoul's hand.
"I... help?"
Brett: …Olek? The stranger was Olek?
Brett peered around the stranger at the barstool where Olek had been sitting while he’d cut his tuna. It was empty.
He looked down at the floor, but all he saw was Woodstock sitting at his feet, still making his anxious little noises and ignoring the man completely. There was no cat in sight.
His mind wasn’t exactly cooperating at the moment but…he couldn’t seem to find a reason to doubt what he was being told.
He gave a cautious nod.
Olek: Strands of blond, brown, and black were combed back from his eyes. He took a cautious step closer, then another. Eventually, he cupped his hands in offer.
With his aversion to red, he assumed Brett would look away. He didn't have to wonder what the color really looked like. He had an assumption in his dreams. Not at all his lovely blues and greens.
He remembered when Bo was a teenager, what helped him, and took a slow breath.
"Mama said there'll be days like this, there'll be days like this, Mama said..."
Not full voice. One could barely call it singing, just above a whisper. His attempt at keeping the atmosphere light, as he pressed his thumb against the wound. First, to stop the bleeding, and then with a sympathetic wince, he pressed harder, numbing the area.
"Mama said there'll be days like this..."
Brett: Was this all just his imagination? Brett couldn’t help but wonder as he held out his hand to this man that wasn’t a man but actually his cat.
Even though his hand was starting to bleed again, Brett didn’t panic or become fixated on it again. He was too busy staring at the man’s face. It would’ve been more than enough distraction even before he started to sing.
His voice was nice. Gentle. And it gave such a surreality to the situation that it was actually keeping him grounded while his wound was taken care of.
Was this really Olek? Could Olek turn into a human because he was a magic cat? Had he been able to do it this whole time? Why hadn’t Brett seen him like this before?
So many questions to keep him calm and distracted.
Olek: There was the bleeding, and his hand should have been sufficiently numb, as if circulation had been cut for a few minutes. A temporary fix as he continued. This would have been over sooner had he put his mouth to the wound, but intuition told him not to dare attempt with a ghoul, so instead, he pinched. Pinch and mend, pinch and mend.
"Olek - I thought you were going to faint." Not just now, but seeing him... ever.
Brown-green eyes looked up from the wound, and his smile easily reached them.
Back to singing.
Brett: The numbness almost tempted him to look down at his hand but he didn’t dare. He knew better than to push himself when he didn’t need pushing.
It was enough to know that Olek was helping him.
Brett nodded. That was a fair assumption to make. He still could, but he didn’t think he would. He didn’t feel like he was in danger or anything.
“Why…” He swallowed. “Why haven’t…?”
Olek: The inevitable question. They would work through it slowly, like this wound. He took a deep breath from his nose, and kept his smile on his features.
"Because I didn't want to scare you."
Brett: He frowned. “Then…why didn’t Bo tell me?”
Olek: "He did."
Brett: “He did?” Had Brett forgotten? No, that was impossible. He’d remember being told their cat could turn into a person, wouldn’t he? But maybe…
Olek: "He said, 'Look, Olek is familiar,'" he pointed to an invisible book, flipped a nonexistent page.
Brett: “Fam—ohhh.” Olek was right. Bo had told him about Olek being a familiar after finding that information in his diary but until now, it hadn’t occurred to Brett to wonder what that actually meant.
Magic cat didn’t just mean magic cat; it apparently meant a magic cat who could turn into a person.
“Wait, then do you…turn into a person…around Bo?”
Olek: The familiar shook his head.
"All better. Olek clean. Don't look."
Brett: Brett didn’t need to be told twice. He closed his eyes and covered them with his other hand for good measure.
Olek: There he was, moving about the house as a part of it. Wetting paper towel and setting to work on the floor, another for the counter while he hummed.
"Better?" not physically, of course. He knew as much. No more tears?
Brett: Even after Olek spoke again, it was still another couple of seconds before Brett worked up the nerve to open his eyes.
They were, in fact, free of tears and a little clearer. Not as panicked.
He nodded. “I’m okay. Thank you.”
Olek: Olek's smile immediately ached with its intensity. "Good." The stained paper towels were shoved all the way down to the bottom of the trash bag. Out of sight out of mind.
"You need practice."
Brett: Was this really his cat? Brett had no reason to doubt it but it was still so surreal. He’d seen magic before but this was different.
Magic didn’t usually put an entire person in front of him.
“Practice?”
Olek: "Mm. No more fear. No crying. Why didn't you heal? The color?"
Brett: “Oh. Um…” Brett subconsciously rubbed at his freshly healed hand.
“I’m low on uh…I think I used my abilities too much today and I need to go see…”
Olek: "Oh." He didn't know how to feel about Brett's circumstances. Reminded him too much of Bo's predicament, and everything that followed. His master must have really changed to allow this relationship to flourish. Good? Bad? It wasn't that simple.
"I... should have..." he gestured to his face, "...sooner."
Brett: He’d never thought about disappointing his cat, and he really hoped that having to give that answer hadn’t done it.
Brett shook his head. “No, please don’t be sorry. You couldn’t have guessed how I’d react. Expecting me to faint was a fair assumption to make.”
Olek: At least he took it in stride. That made him laugh, light and bubbly.
Brett: Brett couldn’t have fought his smile if he’d wanted to. Olek’s laugh was so cute. It made him want to—
His eyes widened.
How often did he kiss and cuddle Olek? How many times had he done it today alone? There wasn’t a day that went by without Brett babying him and now—
“Does—does it bother you how affectionate I am? I’m so sorry if it’s ever made you feel uncomfortable.”
Olek: Brett's widening eyes widened his own, though not with worry, but playfully mirroring his expression, smile still warm on his features.
"If I didn't want it, you'd know." Playfully, he swiped a manicured hand over Brett's chest.
Brett: Yes, he supposed that was true. Olek had never been shy about letting them know when he didn’t like something. Still, he didn’t quite know how to feel now that he’d seen Olek’s human face.
Would it bother Bo? He’d never said anything but…
“Oh god, you’ve seen—” Everything. Olek had seen absolutely everything.
Olek: Fingers came up to his lips, trying his best not to laugh, and failing gloriously. It was nice seeing Brett like this. Better than what was happening minutes ago. This was much better.
"Your secret's safe with me. All of them."
Brett: “Oh god,” Brett repeated, chucking helplessly as he covered his quickly reddening face with his hands. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
He wouldn’t be stepping out of the bathroom without wearing at least a towel from now on. Olek didn’t need to see all that.
Olek: Maybe Brett needed a little reminder that it really was alright, and the man before him really was just as accepting as the cat he had known. He reached out, wrapping long pale fingers around Brett's wrists, bringing them away just far enough to press a warm kiss between his eyes. A gesture so often done with nuzzles and licks just yesterday. Feel familiar?
Brett: If he needed any more evidence that the man before him really was Olek, how okay Brett was being touched by him proved it beyond all doubt. This man who didn’t like to be touched by anyone but his nearest and dearest didn’t feel the slightest unease or discomfort being touched and kissed by Olek.
Why should he when Olek gave him kisses just like that one all the time?
Brett smiled as some of his shyness dissipated. Very familiar indeed. “You know, I was really happy the first time you did that. It felt like you’d finally accepted me.”
Olek: "You treat my master so well." His voice was nothing more than a whisper. Their conversation was private. Not even for Woodstock's oblivious ears. "You're not a mage, but you're mine, too."
A glance was given to the clock stove, to the tuna forgotten on the counter.
"He'll be home, soon."
Brett: “I try my best.” Hearing that had warmth blooming in Brett’s chest. It was nice to hear someone he loved laying claim to him in such a gentle way.
“You better eat that tuna before I get scolded for spoiling you. Unless…do you not want to see Bo in this form?”
Olek: And, there it was. Did they have time to talk about this? He looked at the clock again. His chest caved with an exhale.
"I can't."
Brett: “You can’t? Are you not allowed to?”
Olek: Thank his lucky stars this wasn't a curse he couldn't discuss. Those were far too common!
But, he needed to be comfortable talking about this, so he took to the counter and crossed his legs.
"When he left," he gestured long ago, "Ol - I said to him, don't go. Bad feeling," he patted his stomach. The more he spoke, the more his amalgamation accent came shining through. "He said I was paranoid, emotional. I said he never listen to me, and called him hjerteløs. We wouldn't take back words. I said 'Olek's not speaking to you until you apologize!' and then, he said 'never!' and we curse," he pointed between himself and the door, where Bo would eventually return.
"And then he didn't come home. And he... didn't come home. And then he comes home and he's... not... him."
Brett: Brett’s heart broke a little more with every word Olek spoke, for both him and Bo. To think that Olek had correctly sensed something would happen. To think that maybe if Bo had listened then none of what he’d gone through would’ve happened.
It was a nightmare that never seemed to end, even when they thought it had. Poor Olek had never even gotten that small comfort.
The height of the counter wouldn’t deter Brett from hugging the man sitting on it. He was tall enough to reach and glad for it.
Olek: He saw just in time to uncross his legs. Coming from the ghoul, he knew this sympathy to be genuine. His back hunched, arms draped over Brett's shoulders. With the weight of his cheek buried in his hair, he closed his eyes. He felt he should be comforting him, not the other way around, so he did.
"It's all right. I thought... I thought one day, he would remember. It's... boring, waiting. But... I thought you'd be scared."
Brett: Brett didn’t know what it said about him that feeling blood on his skin scared him far more than seeing a cat turn into a man. Probably that he’d seen too much.
“I think we’ve all hoped that he would, someday,” he said softly, rubbing Olek’s back. “But I think, at this point, we have to make peace with the fact that those memories are gone. Who Bo used to be doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only the man he is now.”
He sighed and hugged Olek a little tighter. “Would you like me to talk to him? To tell him what you just told me and that I saw you in this form?”
Olek: That was a statement he'd never heard before. Eight years, and he had missed the part where someone had said that. The curse was broken, but that didn't mean his memories weren't in a jar somewhere they could break. Maybe they were, but no one was looking. Maybe.
But this Bo... didn't know him at all.
"I first saw him when he was nine. He was crying. I thought, that's too young to be so lonely. So, I waited. It didn't get any better. He's still... " my boy.
He nuzzled into Brett's hair, if only to prevent tears.
"Ok," he said wetly, "Yes."
Brett: If there was a jar, it was probably Bo’s journals. They were all his husband had of his old life. His old memories.
But Brett was certain that if a way did exist for Bo to recover everything he’d lost, that Bo would either find it or find someone who could.
Brett’s heart broke again for that lonely little boy.
He nodded. “He’s still that kid to you, right? You see him and see your Bo.”
Subconsciously, Brett had begun swaying back and forth ever so gently, almost rocking Olek. “I’ll help you get him back. I promise.”
Olek: All this time, at least Bo had someone to hold him, to take his hand when he wanted to throw something, to weigh him down against sleepwalking. To be there when he couldn't with hands and voice and power.
He was nigh immortal. He would continue on long after Bo's death, but he had missed eight years of conversations, of usefulness. It had been fine, under the assumption one day Bo would remember the man on the train. He didn't have every ounce of information. Now he had a little more, and it stung.
"He's my boy," he agreed, forcing himself to sit up. "But he's not a child. He's my favorite person. I can tell him everything, but... he won't want it."
Brett: “No, he’s not a child. But accepting you, accepting this?” He gestured at Olek. “Means getting another piece of himself back. He’s a smart man. Even when his anger gets the best of him he can still think. You owe it to yourself to try. And I owe it to you, too.”
Olek: "You owe me?"
Brett: Brett nodded. “For taking care of the person I love most. For never giving up on him. For listening to me ramble every day. For putting up with me.”
Olek: He was shaking his head before he finished. "Olek doesn't put up with you," he said without hesitation, without thinking, even. "Olek loves you."
Brett: Olek was getting another hug. An even tighter one this time.
“I love you, too, fluffy baby.”
Olek: The familiar snorted, and buried his face in Brett's hair again to bury some of his laughter. Hearing that in human form was even sweeter. Maybe Brett wasn't thinking, either.
Brett: Brett definitely wasn’t. But even if he was thinking, he’d have done the same thing. ‘Fluffy baby’ was Olek’s nickname regardless of what form he was in.
“Go on and eat your tuna. Bo will be back any minute.”
Olek: Eating in this form was a luxury these days. The only money still in his pocket were kroner. He hadn't studied every intricate detail of American dollars to perfectly conjure, yet.
He took a piece of tuna between his fingers and tilted his head back. Perfect flavor.
"My favorite," he sighed. Bliss. "Bowls of rice and fish and fish eggs. Nothing better."
Brett: Brett made a mental note of that. If at all possible, he wanted Olek to be able to have his favorite meal as often as he could.
That heavily depended on whether Brett would be able to get through to Bo, but he refused to be pessimistic about that.
“I’ll get you some fresh fish more often. Would be a shame to live in a fishing town and only have access to the canned stuff.”
Olek: "I've done," what was the word? "...gateforestilling downtown." He felt in his pocket, pulling out a small wad of wrinkled kroner, dropped on the counter. "When I want another taste, or bored," he smiled.
The front door rattled, buttons pushed and a woman's voice announcing Bo's entrance. A smart house, just like the last, and the last Brett would see of Olek as he immediately shrank, dropping the last piece of tuna he had pinched in his fingers.
And just like that, the forest cat was sprinting upstairs.
Brett: “Do you—” Before Brett could get the question out, the electronic lock was heralding Bo’s arrival and Olek was gone. He’d moved so fast that Brett half expected him to leave a little cloud of dust behind.
“Hey baby,” Brett called to his husband, shoving the money in his pocket and tossing the last little bit of tuna to Woodstock.
Bo: Keys and wallet were tossed in the black bowl near the door. Shoes softly clacked from the floor to the white rug, to the kitchen limestone. Today was a suit. Already adjusting his tie when he laid eyes on his husband.
A cursory glance later, "Busy day?" barely a questioning inflection.
Brett: Brett was smiling before Bo even walked into the kitchen. His mage looked like a million bucks, but then he always did. “Very busy and very tiring. One stupid thing after another. Yours?”
Bo: "I paid your vampire a visit." He had kept this secret under his tongue for weeks. Was high time to explain. "Invested in his business." And exchanged points of interest. "We've had a conversation about his situation, yours, mine. The town is continuing to grow. Touching base was necessary."
Brett: Brett blinked at his husband. "You did? When?" It couldn't have been today, Guildias had said he was busy. Or maybe what he had been busy with was this meeting with Bo? Although if that was the case, wouldn't he have told Brett?
Whatever the case, this certainly wasn't information he expected to be getting today. He didn't quite know how to feel about it.
"Did it go...well?"
Bo: His tie was pulled away entirely, folded, and placed on the kitchen counter. He could smell seafood but didn't see seafood. Where was his cat?
"Of course." He wasn't the tongueless child Guildias had met years ago. When he spoke, it was with authority now.
"You look tired."
Brett: It didn't go unnoticed that Bo had only answered one of his questions, but given what was in Brett's plans, he didn't think it would be wise to push. Besides, asking when Bo had gone to see Guildias was only for his own curiosity.
Brett nodded. "I am. It was a very long, very chaotic day. What would you like for dinner?"
Bo: Something comforting, he thought. What was the most comforting thing Brett could make?
"Soup and sandwich." By sandwich, he meant open-faced, filled to capacity with just about anything and everything from the fridge. He couldn't remember the details of Norwegian childhood, but certainly the cuisine still resonated.
"Are you going to tell me about your day?"
Brett: “Coming right up,” he said with a smile. “Is potato and leek soup okay?” As for the sandwich, Bo would be offered a choice between rye and whole wheat bread.
He nodded. “Which part do you want to hear about first? Speeding lady, meth head, or the teenager who woke up with penises drawn all over his face?”
Bo: "All in one day?" The city really was growing. Or deteriorating. He didn't know which. Probably both. Growth and deterioration were probably bedfellows.
He took to the stool nearest his husband.
"Did anyone hurt you?"
Brett: “Yep, alllll in one day. Started the day with the speeding lady.” He shook his head. “Tourists.”
Time to wash and chop vegetables for soup.
“Nope, no one hurt me. Not even the meth head, although it helped that Peabody and I went after him together. We got worn out but there were no injuries. Unless you count having to smell the guy on the drive back to the station.”
Bo: Bo nodded once, satisfied to know Brett hadn't needed to heal and conceal an injury before his return. Wouldn't have been the first time, but now he was in the habit of asking.
"I don't miss the station," was a lie.
Brett: “The station sure misses you,” Brett said with a grin, paying closer attention to the knife in his hand this time. He didn’t want a repeat of a little while ago.
“Two people in particular.”
Bo: "There's only two people ever there," he smirked.
Brett: Brett beamed at his husband. “And they both miss you a whole awful lot. Come and have lunch with me tomorrow. I don’t have to go out on patrol.”
Bo: "Fine," he said, softly. The station was generally avoided these days for no other reason than memories. A rare precious thing, but he didn't appreciate the man he was when riddled with a killing curse.
You're the only reason I'm here, he thought.
"Do you need me?" in the kitchen.
Brett: He shook his head. “Go and shower and get changed. Dinner won’t be long, I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”
Bo: Back from the stool, then, taking his tie with a heavy hand.
"I have something I want to discuss after dinner. Ideas for the house. Spells," he said, disappearing from view for the stairs.
"God ettermiddag, Olek," heard seconds later.
Brett: “Okay, we’ll do that. I’ve got something to talk to you about, too.”
The greeting to Olek made Brett smile. With any luck, Bo’s relationship with his familiar could be fully repaired and they’d have the comfort of their bond in its entirety. He wanted that for both of them so much.
Bo/Olek: Brett’s statement followed him up the stairs and to the shower. Olek leapt from his arms onto the tightly made bed of black and white, turned three times, and collapsed with a familiar comforting chirp.
The Etherite stared, wondering why, if what he had written was true, he had only mentioned Olek once in his journal. He stared, and the cat stared back.
His shower was long and searing. His thoughts were static and independent.
"What did you want to talk about?" Bo called from the top of the stairs.
Brett: When Bo returned, soup was simmering on the stove and the fridge was being raided for sandwich ingredients.
There had been basically no time between his conversation with Olek and Bo coming home, so Brett had barely had any time at all to think about how he was going to broach the subject. But maybe that was a good thing. It left less room for overthinking and worrying.
Sincerity was the only viable way forward. Sincerity and optimism.
Brett looked toward the stairs when he heard his husband’s voice and smiled, taking a deep breath.
“Olek,” he said simply. “I talked to him today.”
Bo: "You talk to him every day."
Bo turned the corner in black silk pajamas, hair still damp and nearly reaching his eyebrows. He was well overdue for a haircut.
Brett: He nodded. “I do, yeah. And usually when I talk to him, he’s a cat. Today was different.”
His voice was level, his demeanor calm. They could’ve been talking about absolutely anything.
“Today when I was talking to him, he turned into a person.”
Bo: A lot was going on behind Bo's stillness. The kind of stillness that usually followed deadpan seething and perhaps something broken. Words behind teeth when dealing with the unenlightened. Brett was neither an annoyance nor ignorant. The stillness was for himself, because what followed Brett's words was... nothing. Not a single tickle in his ear canal.
His husband wasn't lying.
"That's ridiculous," he heard himself say anyway. "He's never..."
Brett: Brett was braced for anger. For confusion. For flat out denial. He was ready for whatever his husband’s reaction might be and intended to meet it head on.
He nodded. “I was surprised, too. I almost couldn’t believe it until he reminded me he was a familiar. Makes sense that a magic cat can turn into a person.”
There were times when Brett let his voice become soothing and gentle to comfort Bo but this wasn’t the situation for that. It was liable to make it worse.
In cases like these, he made sure to speak calmly and rationally and answer every single question he was asked clearly because that was what his husband required to process things.
“I know he hasn’t. I asked him why he’d never shown himself as a person to me and he told me it was because he didn’t want to scare me. I also asked him if he’d ever shown himself to you and he told me he hadn’t since you’d reunited with him because he can’t.”
If given the go ahead to explain, Brett would repeat the story that Olek had told him about his last conversation with Bo.
Bo: What made anything out of Brett's mouth from this moment forward complicated was hearsay. He was telling the truth, his truth. It could have been a lie, but it wasn't in his belief, so what was Bo supposed to do with that?
How could he feel sorry for something he couldn't remember? He didn't possess that amount of sincerity for anyone.
His eyes closed. And then, a scoff.
"When we weren't around... he could have written a note. He could have said something in the fucking door cam if he really wanted. And I'm supposed to - I'm supposed to believe that?"
Brett: “I don’t know if the door cam would be a viable option since he can’t show himself to you, but if he did write you a note, would you believe it?”
Without his memories, Bo had absolutely no reason to believe Olek’s story. All they had to pin their hopes on was whether he’d believe and listen to Brett, and there were no guarantees there.
“If I asked him to write you a letter or I don’t know…recorded his voice so you could hear his explanation from him, would you be willing to listen?”
Bo: Bo held his hands out. The typical stop signal when teetering on a razor's edge. He leaned himself against the wall, staring at the floor. It wasn't Brett. No... No anger with his husband.
It was that small part of himself that refused to believe he had cursed someone unintentionally. Or it had been intentional, and then, what happened to him days later...
That small part was metastasizing rapidly.
"How many people can lie to you. To you?"
Brett: Brett nodded and stopped. He was pushing it. He could practically feel that he was pushing it. The fact that he’d managed to relay Olek’s entire story was already a major accomplishment, and he was grateful to have done that much at least.
The rest was in Bo’s hands.
“Not very many,” Brett said quietly. “I’m a cop. I’m a ghoul. It’s hard for an average human to lie to me but I’m not infallible. Someone who really knows what they’re doing could get one over on me.”
Bo: "Does it sound..." He couldn't ask that. He couldn't ask if it sounded like something he would have done. With the first uttered words, reality came down heavy on his shoulders, visibly sagging.
Brett: He didn’t know what Bo had been about to ask, but he could guess.
Does it sound like something I would’ve done?
Brett went around the counter to stand before his husband, close enough to offer comfort and touch should Bo desire it.
“Do you remember what I used to tell you on days when your curse really got to you or you had an outburst?”
Bo: The duel of his personality, wanting to swat Brett away, while reaching out to press the tip of his fingers against his husband's chest. Not a push, but to feel his strength. His pillar.
He shook his head. In this moment, he couldn't recall anything in his attempt to imagine what Olek looked like on two legs.
Brett: “The person you used to be isn’t the person you are now.”
Brett wanted so badly to pull his mage into his arms, to soothe and comfort him, but he’d never given in to the impulse before and he wouldn’t now. Bo needed a pillar so an immovable pillar he would be.
“Even if you had all your memories, you still wouldn’t be the same person. The big, awful things that happen to us shape us but the little mundane things do too.”
Bo: "You've heard every journal. How can you say that? I've always had big, awful things. This is the longest I've not been... used, or cursed, or..."
Brett: “You’ve always had the little mundane ones, too. And I’d be willing to bet that Olek was the source of a lot of them before you met me. The big, awful things aren’t all that you are, Bo.”
Bo: "You want that?" he whispered. The way Brett made it sound, Olek... was his Brett. Was he that selfless?
Brett: “I just…don’t want you to close the door on potentially getting back someone who’s cared about you and loved you for so much of your life and hasn’t stopped. I understand that it’s hard to apologize for something that you don’t remember, and you don’t have to make a decision right this second, but I think you should really think about it.”
Brett gave his husband an eternally soft smile. “I want you to have all the love you possibly can.”
Bo: Pressed fingers slid down Brett's chest, reaching out for his hand to grasp. If it was a desperate hold he wouldn't admit it.
And neither of them knew, upstairs, sitting on the top step, was a man-shaped familiar, elbows on his knees, picking at his thumbnail with his teeth.
"What does he look like? I'm not - I'm not apologizing to a cat face." He wanted to picture a human face.
Brett: Bo would easily find his husband’s hand, warm and strong and ready to hold his, just like always.
“Tall,” was the first thing that came to mind as Brett recalled Olek’s appearance. “Over six feet. Pale. His eyes are brown with a little bit of green. Hair’s dark and longer than both of ours, and there’s some lighter brown and blond in it. He has a sweet face. Sweet smile.”
Bo: "You like him," wasn't a question. Brett wouldn't regard anyone as fondly without merit. Bo was obligated to thank him, no matter anything else. The familiar had been there in his absence. He could only imagine the state he would have found Brett in without his assistance. Another peek into the familiar he had known and possibly loved.
Fingers curled tightly.
"I'm going upstairs."
Brett: “I do.” It was Olek. How could Brett not like him?
He nodded and gave the briefest kiss to Bo’s hand. “Okay, baby. Dinner’s almost done. Want me to bring you a tray or call you when it’s ready? Whatever you want.”
Bo: "I'll be back." Appearing upstairs or calling had the potential to break his concentration. He had no idea how long it would take for him to face the familiar. He couldn't pretend this wasn't his fault. The longer he dwelled on the number of years under a curse compared to his own, the heavier the guilt burdened his shoulders. His death curse had lasted just over a year. The familiar's burden had lingered since May of the same year.
Every emotion swelled with every step to the second floor. There at the top of the stairs was his cat. A hundred questions accumulated. Why hadn't he tried to write a letter? Why hadn't he tried for Brett sooner? Caution, Brett had explained. His husband wasn't that skittish. Why didn't Olek lock him in that day, and spared them both this pain?
Was it pain? Was that the ache in his chest? No, it was anger. Or both. Many days he went without knowing the difference between hurt and rage. What had his familiar ever done to help? Why did he omit him from the pages of his journal?
Instinct told him protection. Not once did he write about Brett. Not his progress, not his love and care and therapy. In case someone were to read about him. The pages were selfish, possessive, loving.
The forest cat followed behind his retreating figure. Brett would hear the master bedroom door slide shut. Left unlocked.
Minutes passed in silence stretching beyond an hour. And then a crash.
Brett: Respecting Bo’s wishes, Brett remained downstairs and finished preparing dinner while his husband took what Brett assumed to be some time to gather his thoughts. He’d received a lot of information that had no doubt brought up a lot of emotions; it was normal for him to need a second or two to digest it all.
When the soup finished without Bo’s return, Brett cleaned the kitchen and fed Woodstock. When half an hour passed and he still hadn’t appeared, Brett started a load of laundry and turned on the TV.
Only when he heard the crash would Brett rush upstairs.
Unlocked or not, he knocked on their bedroom door before he entered.
“Bo? Are you all right?”
Bo/Olek: The crash had been a vase of Bo's design. Made of snowflake obsidian, once the home of various white flowers dried years ago, now lay shattered by the wall leading to the bathroom.
On the floor at the foot of the bed was Bo, curled in the fetal position, face hidden, shoulders tight, sobbing like a child as mute as he'd once been.
Cradling him was Olek, long and human, lip bleeding, arms around his master's shoulders and head.
It was Olek who looked up, smiling despite his fractured jaw and split lip, eyes like glass.
Thank you, he mouthed.
Brett: Brett might’ve wondered how someone could smile when they’d clearly just taken a hit, but he understood the sentiment perfectly. If he had spent years not being able to hold and talk to someone he loved, they could shoot him and Brett knew he would smile because he finally had them back. That’s how he imagined Olek was feeling at this moment.
He nodded at the familiar and smiled before stepping back out, closing the door softly behind him. Olek and Bo had been without each other for a long time; they needed some privacy.
Leslie: {Text to Tristan} We're having a picnic when the girls are asleep. Out by the water
Tristan: {Text to Leslie} Oh yeah? Are we having it on the boat or do you wanna find a nice secluded spot somewhere
Leslie: {Text} Leaning towards the bridge out by the creek
Tristan: {Text} Then that’s where we’ll go
{Text} I’ll get us some wine
Leslie: {Text} Thanks baby
Tristan: {Text} I’ll be home soon. Anything else you want me to get?
Leslie: {Text} Mmmmmmm
{Text} Nothing I can think of
Tristan: {Text} I’d offer to take care of the food but we both know it’s better I stick with the wine
{Text} I’ll ask Meg to look after the girls for us
Leslie: {Text} If you want them to stay the night there.
{Text} Was just gonna do what my parents did, wait until I was asleep - or they thought I was
Tristan: {Text} She can just come over to our place and stay
{Text} All night is too long for them to be alone and I don’t intend to have you back before dawn
Leslie: {Text} Is that so?
Tristan: {Text} You can bet your bottom dollar, sweet thing
Leslie: {Text} Bet. See you when you get home
❤️❤️❤️
Guildias: {Text from Guildias} I will have you absent clothes before my arrival.
Callum: {Text from Callum} All clothes?
{Text from Callum} Even the lacy things I have on?
Guildias: {Text} Show me
Callum: {Text} That would ruin the surprise!
Guildias: {Text} Then leave those and surprise me
Callum: {Text} Actually, do you have a color preference?
Guildias: {Text} You look exquisite in black.
Callum: {Text} Then it’s your lucky day, husband mine
{Text} Any other requests?
Guildias: {Text} Do you harbor quiet desires?
Callum: {Text} Only the desire to make a memorable Valentine’s Day for my husband
Guildias: {Text} That's vague
Callum: {Text} But it’s true
{Text} Which is why I’ll be waiting for you in your garden
Guildias: {Text} Less vague
{Text} Shall I wear something specific?
Callum: {Text} Wear…..
{Text} Your favorite outfit
Guildias: Guildias stared at his phone a moment, curious if he should be concerned about his husband or not. Did he have a favorite he wasn't aware of? Did Callum actually want something?
Callum: {Text} Did I break you?
{Text} You went silent
Guildias: {Text} What is my favorite?
Callum: {Text} You would know that better than I would
Guildias: {Text} I don't.
Callum: {Text} Then just wear whatever you’re comfortable in
{Text} It won’t be on for very long anyway
❤️❤️❤️
Bo: Bo looked at his phone for what felt like the fifteenth time in ten minutes. It has been less, of course, but this was how it felt when Brett was absent like this. This hadn't been a regular everyday patrol that sent the ghoul outside of Edenton.
The wand in his hand was twirled and twirled again. Quintessence like static in his hands, ready to go off from some forgotten spell.
Brett: Whether it was a coincidence or the result of some latent psychic ability that had finally manifested itself, Bo wouldn’t have to wait long to hear from his ghoul.
{Text from Brett} Have you decided what you want for Valentine’s dinner?
Bo: {Text} That's what you have to say to me?
Brett: {Text} Just trying to distract you
{Text} You had an angel of death look on your face when I left the house
Bo: {Text} Are you safe?
Brett: {Text} I’m being safe, I promise
{Text} I’ll be back before you know it
Bo: {Text} Doubtful.
He didn't want to end it this way. Forced himself to write another text.
{Text} Just come home.
Brett: {Text} I will just as soon as I wrap things up here
{Text} You never answered my question
Bo: {Text} Apple cinnamon quinoa pancakes
Brett: {Text} Your wish is my command
{Text} Want anything on the side?
Bo: {Text} No
Bo: Minutes later.
{Text} Is there something you want?
Brett: {Text} Yep. I was planning to pick it up on the way home
Bo: {Text} This is a surprise?
Brett: {Text} Kind of? I had a little treat made for us
Leslie: The new house was just about complete. A year and a day since the original had been torn down. Two story A-frame with a wrap-around porch. A blend of cherry and reclaimed woods. The old house living within the new.
Leslie Issott sat upon the steps, elbows to knees, staring out at nothing, deep in thought as he waited for Charles' arrival. The circumstances were as his tone had indicated, reflected in that faraway look in his eyes.
Charles: When Kurt had taken his leave, Charles approached with a gentle wave, his other hand shoved deep into the pocket of his trousers. "Hey. You all set to leave?"
Leslie: For a moment, it seemed as though Leslie hadn't heard him at all. Still staring at nothing. It wasn't that Charles was ignored; it was that Litha was so loud. Singing what she had heard, phasing in and out as she danced in front of her witch. Her voice fading in and reverberating out. He'd never heard her like this before. She seemed to be mimicking what she'd heard.
Leslie took a breath he hasn't realized he'd held and smiled.
"Hello, dear. Yes. Sorry. Yes. How are you? I don't remember asking over the phone."
Charles: Charles was patient, if a touch concern at this lack of a reaction. His mind was kept politely to himself, but the tiniest furrow appeared on his brow. It vanished once Leslie seemed to return to the waking world, replaced by a gentle smile.
"No worries. I'm perfectly well, thanks. Are you all right? Seemed a little distant, for a bit there."
Leslie: "Something about what happened this morning is lingering with her. Guess it is with me, too. Are you sure you're alright with this? Bo Nowicki can be prickly."
Charles: "I'm quite used to prickly," he smiled, extending a hand. He'd leave the statement at that. "I'm perfectly fine. Shall we?"
Leslie: Charles' hand was taken as he stood, pulling the professor into a warm brief hug.
"Ready when you are. They live on the other side of town, so we've got some time."
Charles: He returned the hug, giving the witch's back a gentle pat. "I'm all set. Got everything I need with me." He flashed a small smile and tapped his temple. "Are we walking?"
Leslie: "Oh, no. I parked near the road. Longest walk today is a few meters."
Charles: Charles bobbed his head agreeably. "Lead the way, my friend."
Leslie: The drive was relatively quiet compared to others from the past two years. A rare occasion to not have the radio rattling ribs with the hum of the engine. Charles had fixed permission to fiddle with the radio.
"Have you done this before? With Litha?"
Charles: The telepath was content with the silence, gazing through the window at scenery that never failed to warm him. It really was a gorgeous little town. "Hmm?" he asked, pulled away from distant thoughts. "Oh. No. But it ought to be fine."
Leslie: "If at any point you're uncomfortable, please don't hesitate to back out. We'll think of something else." Something Leslie wouldn't have said had Charles been a born-into witch.
Charles: He rolled his head away from the window to fix his friend with a Look. "You're sounding like me, Les. Stop worrying. Everything will be fine. I'm not backing out of anything. Calm your mind."
Leslie: He couldn't help but smile briefly at that look. "It just feels like I'm pushing you from apprenticeship into the frying pan."
Charles: "If you were asking me to perform a blood ritual or light a pyre with my mind, perhaps. This sort of thing is as natural to me as breathing. Like being a jolly, dimpled giant is for you, I'm sure." He flashed a grin. "Honestly. I'll be fine. Everything will be fine. Relax."
Leslie: "You know what I think?" A hilarious question to ask a telepath. "I think you're obsessed with dimples, and really, your flirting is getting out of hand, beautiful." A snort swiftly followed. No energy to feign truth to his offense.
Charles: He gasped, not unlike a scandalized old woman. "I am not. I just happen to find them rather charming on certain individuals. Is that a crime?" With a soft chuckle, he rolled his head back toward the window. "Pot, Kettle."
Leslie: "Ah, you can lighten any mood, can't you? Let's see if that irresistible charm works on a certain amnesiac."
Charles: "I do try." His mouth twitched faintly and he heaved a deep sigh. "It'd be terribly disappointing to have a poor mark on my record, but I'll give it an honest effort. In any case, I'll help him as best I can."
Leslie: "In case he doesn't say it," because he didn't expect him to, in all likelihood, "thank you for doing this."
Leslie pulled the SUV onto the side of the street by a simple single-story gray-blue house. Unassuming in a picket fence neighborhood. A home that spoke of Brett Parker. Not so much the mage within.
"I'll be introducing his boyfriend - fiancé? husband? - as well. Haven't gotten down that bit of information."
Charles: Charles shrugged. "It's no trouble at all." Gratitude was touching, but it had never been the source of his drive.
He bobbed a nod as they pulled to a stop outside of the neat little house. "There for moral support, I'm assuming. No trouble. Shall we?"
Brett: After the events of the previous night, Brett had expected to get a couple hours of shuteye and be grateful for all eternity. Instead, he had slept well past noon and found himself rolling out of bed dazed and somewhat disoriented, but no less grateful.
That tea packed a punch.
He’d showered and made coffee and soothed himself with normal things, very nearly forgetting what was supposed to happen that day. Until he looked at the cracked window, or walked past it, or thought of Bo. Despite the fireworks last night, there was still work to do and things to figure out.
Neither Leslie nor his guest would get a chance to ring the doorbell before Brett stepped out to greet them.
“M—afternoon,” he said with a sedate smile.
Leslie: Speak of the devil, Leslie thought. That tea did exactly as it was supposed to. Hadn't heard a single stirring as he'd moved throughout the house. He wondered if Bo was still asleep.
A quick straightening of his flannel - had to look presentable for the sheriff. A hand was held in Brett's direction.
"And this will be our host for the evening, Brett Parker. Brett, this is Charles Xavier. A dear friend of mine and someone who can help us."
Charles: Charles very nearly raised an eyebrow at Leslie tidying his appearance, biting down sharply on an unnecessary question. When the door was opened, he offered a polite smile to their host, offering a hand only after Leslie's had been shaken. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parker."
Brett: It was a testament to Guildias that Brett felt safe and comfortable enough to shake the stranger's hand, brief as it was.
"Pleasure's all mine. Please, call me Brett. Or Parker if you'd like."
He stepped aside so his guests could enter, and so an impossibly tiny Chihuahua that was waiting just behind him could get a good sniff of their company.
"Don't mind Woodstock there. Can I get ya'll anything? Water, coffee, tea?"
Leslie: Good start at least. Their not-morning was off on the right foot. The sound of the shower running answered his own question before he could open his mouth.
"Think I'll make myself some tea, actually. Not the one from this morning. Would you like one, Charles?"
Charles: "Brett, then." Charles' smile bloomed into something far warmer at the sight of such a tiny dog. "Hello, there," he greeted, happily submitting to being sniffed and examined.
This time, that dark eyebrow did disappear behind the fringe of his hair, but he raised no questions. "I'd love a cup, thank you."
Brett: There was still enough nervous energy left in Brett for that idea to horrify him. He needed something to do with his hands. "Oh no no no, I can't let you make your own tea. You've done so much already. You're my guests, I'll make it. Please, sit."
Leslie: Leslie smiled at Charles, finding a sliver of levity in Brett's nervous behavior.
"You'd think he's British," he teased, loud enough for his host to hear.
Charles: He chuckled softly, mostly at Leslie's smile, and shook his head. "He's being a good host. Manners make the man, and all that."
Brett: Brett pretended he didn't hear, lest his face turn red. All his attention was given to putting the kettle on and getting his nicest cups from one of the cabinets. He could practically hear his mother in his head telling him that guests always meant using the good dishes.
"What kind of tea would ya'll like?"
Bo/Leslie: Isn't he handsome? Leslie thought, wondering if Charles might catch it. The same category of attraction to Charles' husband. Rough and experienced, calloused fingers paired with an addictive raspy voice. The differences lay in the behavior, those shy eyes and outward flowing kindness. The history which made the sheriff was a mystery he found himself wanting to uncover. Not today, of course.
"Whatever you're having, no sugar. Thank you."
What appeared by the time Brett returned had to be the complete opposite of their first host. Dull platinum blond hair, gently tousled by a hasty towel. The scent of moody woods clashed with ozone. Dressed in a pale tan button down and brown trousers; this was as casual as Bo would tolerate with guests. Years younger than Brett Parker, with eyes green as summer grass. His posture spoke differently; regal and conservative.
Charles was given a once over.
Leslie had yet to introduce their second host. Eyes closing as Litha began the relentless chant from this morning.
Bo cracked his neck and nodded a silent greeting.
Charles: The thought was pointed enough for Charles to catch it, though he hadn't been actively seeking it out. Truthfully, he hadn't spared much thought for this new acquaintance's looks. They hadn't been the type to attract his attention immediately, in the way he'd been snared in the past. His mouth pursed thoughtfully as he considered. 'Yes, I suppose he is,' he conceded silently.
What a strange evening this was shaping up to be. Intuition and long experience told him it was only going to get stranger from here. He thought somewhat longingly of his husband and kids before refocusing on the task and people at hand. Subconsciously, Charles smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the front of his pale blue, summer weight sweater. He looked to Leslie, and when it seemed that no introduction was forthcoming, he offered the silent man a smile. "Hello."
Brett: Even if their house was the size of a palace, Brett would still be able to feel Bo's approach. He turned just as his boyfriend appeared, smiling for all he was worth.
That stoic blond warlock of his would never fail to set him at ease. He was going to miss being able to hear every movement he made when they moved into their new house.
"Charles, this is my fiancé Bo. Bo, this is Leslie's friend Charles. He's come to help."
Bo: Another once over as he finally placed a name with a face. There had been a Suzette, now a Charles. Leslie was just full of friends.
"What are you?" Because he wanted to get to the point, and small talk seemed to cost too much energy to bother.
Charles: Charles blinked. Rude, was the first thought to come to mind, but his own manners would never allow him to voice such a judgement. Perhaps, he acknowledged silently, that was just his blue-blooded sense of propriety ingrained since childhood. In any case, he inhaled deeply, dismissing the offense for Leslie's sake and relinquishing his own desire for pleasantries. Straight to it, then.
"I'm a telepath. A mutation I was born with, rather than a power granted by some additional circumstance or affliction."
Brett: Now Brett did look horrified and turn red. “Botan,” he whispered. “Ikke vær frekk. Han er her for å hjelpe.” It wasn’t that that Norwegian directness caught him off guard, but Charles wasn’t him and it was obvious that it caught him off guard.
“I’m so sorry, Charles. He’s from Norway. Please don’t think the worst of us and leave.”
Bo: "Jeg er ikke uhøflig. Jeg vil ha dette over."
With a swallow, the youngest among them switched tongues. "Don't apologize for me. Are we here to have a nice chat?"
His eyes shut tightly, the same irritation as Leslie, taking a deep breath. The same reverse reverb, words in a jumble of languages and nonsense. Clearer since stepping out of the circle. Relentless and bordering overwhelming.
Charles: Before Charles could respond, Bo had spoken his piece. This was so beyond any of Charles' business, but he gave Brett a kind smile, regardless. He was here on Leslie's behalf, no one else's. It would take more than mere impoliteness to keep him from that end. He was, first and foremost, a man of his word.
If they were dispensing with formalities, Charles could do what he'd come to and be done with it. He nodded once. "Let's start then, shall we? Are there any questions about how I'll need to proceed?"
Brett: Brett wouldn't argue. It would be inappropriate in front of company and besides, Bo was right. He'd been dealing with this for weeks; one night of decent sleep wasn't going to just erase all that irritation. Things still needed addressing.
He focused back on the tea and let them talk.
Bo: His hands rose and fell. He was still tired. Exhausted a better word. He needed some tea and he knew Brett had made him some. There was almost nothing he wanted more than to walk into the next room and leave this, but that voice echoed forward and back, over and over and over and he needed answers. On the edge of this cliff with one foot over. It was too late.
"What are you going to do, exactly? What has Leslie told you is happening?"
Charles: Charles looked to his friend. He didn't like discussing someone as though they weren't in the room. "From what I've gathered, there's something that your avatar Litha can see, that neither of you can. It's causing some sort of disturbance?"
He looked back to Bo, expression impassive but not unkind. This was all very matter-of-fact. Professor Xavier, rather than Charles. "I intend to use my ability to glimpse whatever she's seeing and relay that information to you. I don't foresee it taking much time, but I won't make promises until I know what I'm dealing with."
Bo/Leslie: Charles' unembellished response only served to calm. Visibly obvious for one Brett Parker, the way his shoulders sagged by half an inch. That was what he wanted, and the professor provided a kindness.
"I can't sleep," he confessed, gently. "It comes before sunrise. At first it was... just noises, like a ruckus outside. Closer and closer. Leslie's certain it's this avatar he's explained to me."
"She's repeating something," Leslie finally spoke, pulling his attention the best he could.
"Litha, she's repeating what she hears. She wants to help you. More, I think she wants to help your avatar."
Brett: It was, and seeing Bo relax a little helped Brett do the same. They were getting there, slowly but surely.
Hoping that continued, he poured everyone their tea and let the dog out into the yard, just in case things got a little bit intense again.
"Can you see avatars, Charles?"
Charles: Charles nodded, the faintest smile tugging up one corner of his mouth, at the mention of the witch. "Well, I'd trust Leslie's judgement on these matters. You're the resident expert, Les."
Eager to get underway, Charles accepted the offered cup of tea with a smile, and a quiet "thank you”, taking a polite sip before setting it aside. "I can see Litha. I imagine I could see any of them, if I sought them out. Are we all set to begin?"
Bo/Leslie: "Litha was certainly surprised," Leslie smiled again. Ready to move this forward would be putting it lightly for the Verbena. Bo had been through so much. If they could relieve one thing, one as vital as this.
"Why not just see the one that torments me?" Bo asked.
Charles: "Because you can't see it. If you could, I wouldn't be here. I see Litha through Leslie. His mind. His perception." His fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, Charles following a line of thought he hadn't yet considered. "There's something else I could try, but I have no clue whether it will work and I'd like to speak with Litha before we start with any experimentation."
Bo/Leslie: Bo closed his eyes, taking a breath. He too, had a new consideration. One for Leslie.
"What do they... look like?"
Oh. Leslie sat up. "Depends. I don't mean to be vague. I've heard tell of animals, gods; my friend Edwin said his is Peter Pan's shadow. A lot of the time it's you, as... you know, opposite sex. Litha looks every bit real to me as you in front of me. Sometimes clearer, sometimes faded, just glimpses. It won't... be frightening." Shouldn't be, he should have said.
Bo took another breath. "I'm going... to have a cup of tea."
Brett: Brett silently offered Bo his tea. His favorite.
Fascinating as this conversation was, he had no intention of interrupting. He was sure any questions he had would be answered in the course of the evening, and besides, his were far less important than the ones Bo had. The ones Bo had mattered.
Charles: Charles nodded. Whatever it took to ease the man's mind and smooth things along. He turned to Leslie, wishing to be proactive, and held out a hand. "I think this will be easier for me with skin-to-skin contact, if you don't mind terribly. Is Litha all right with me seeing her, now?"
Leslie: Charles was given a gentle smile, hand taken with a light squeeze. "Need no excuse there, dear," Leslie tease, falling back into familiar little flirts to save himself from the intense situation they found themselves in.
"I think it'll be alright. She's not going to stop what she's doing until this is sorted."
Charles: "Ha." He gave a snort. Charles still had no clue exactly what she was doing, but he supposed now was the time to find out. After a gentle brush against Leslie's mind as a secondary request for permission, he slipped past the barriers, viewing the world from Leslie's eyes.
Leslie: That exploratory brush of Charles' mind - the hatchet! that's right - tempted Leslie to close his eyes. Submit to trusted sensation and allow Charles free roam. But today, his eyes needed to remain open.
Litha stood aware of Charles' presence, accepted invitation by one meant by all. She stood center of the quaint living room. Her ivory tent dress absorbing sunlight pouring through the window as though she existed beyond this reality. Her right hand remained straight, fixed towards the kitchen where their hosts had retreated. Eloquent conversational skill had depreciated into only a few desperate lines. Spoken as a plea to be understood.
"'I am he, and he is mine. He is mine. He is mine.'"
Leslie's dull blue eyes, through Litha, looking back at Charles with unmitigated concern.
Charles: Charles turned, following the line of her gesture. Naturally, he could see nothing. He refocused his attention on the avatar, hoping that she could at least answer basic questions for him, through her chanting. "Can you see Bo's avatar now?"
Litha: Leslie's avatar flicked her hand with insistence. Her chant was but a repeat of what she was hearing, offering what she heard as it continued insistently in the next room.
And then suddenly she moved, phasing forward in and out of existence in little blips before appearing on her knees in front of Charles. Hands like cold air covered the telepath's, bringing her hands to her eyes, she then pointed back to the room. Use me, she tried to say.
Charles: Charles felt almost desperate to help. This part of his dear friend who seemed so distressed by these circumstances. He was startled by her approach, but gave no sign. Instead he nodded, offering his hands for the taking and reaching out with his mind.
It was... odd.
Both physically and mentally, there was nothing for him to grasp on to. This was quite different from being within the landscape of Leslie's mind, where everything was as solid as the ground beneath his feet in this living room. He shook his head, disappointed, but not yet willing to call it quits. He had another idea.
Litha disappeared from view as Charles pulled free from Leslie's mind. He looked to the witch, expression stubborn and intent. "I need to sit."
Bo/Leslie: Leslie nearly offered the couch himself, as though host, before catching himself and stuffing his hands in his pockets. A nice breath should do it.
"Sit wherever you want," said Bo, emerging from the kitchen hands free. The tea had given life to his features, though the subtle tint under his eyes remained. Tea could only offer so much.
"What's happening?"
Charles: He would have taken the floor contently enough, but at Bo's sudden permission, he claimed a spot on the sofa. "I'm communicating with Litha. It's a bit difficult, given the circumstances, so I'm going to try and reach her another way."
Bo/Leslie: Slowly, Leslie circled around to the other side of the couch, taking a seat far enough not to accidentally bump into Charles' arm or thigh.
With Bo present, Leslie's gaze began to shift, following Litha as she drew closer to their host.
Charles: Charles largely ignored the two of them. He was preparing himself for the feat at hand. Astral Projection was not something he did frequently. He was no longer a frightened and unpracticed young telepath, who might lose himself accidentally. As it was, he rarely felt the need to utilize this particular aspect of his gift. Plainly put, he was rather rusty.
He rolled his shoulders, tilting his head from side to side to loosen his muscles. Though he'd remain tethered to his body for the duration, projecting would leave him in what was essentially a deep sleep. The more comfortable he was now, the less jarring it would be when he returned.
He let his head tip back against the sofa and took a deep, focusing breath. A short while later he was rising, his body slumping in its seat as his mind took flight. Bo and Leslie would notice nothing outside of his physical form, but Litha should have been able to see an exact copy of the telepath standing just before his limp body. Whatever he'd been blind to previously would be clear as day, now.
Leslie: Leslie was keeping a close eye on his friend. The magick of mind was fascinating and out of reach. With the exception of two skills, gifted via Charles, he would have been in the dark completely. This was Suzette's secondary expertise. Rarely was he ever so envious.
The room had retained its shape, though not quite its color. Darker, like shade, and hazy. Litha remained near the young mage, as Leslie's gaze had indicated. Oblivious as he watched Charles, confused by what he was seeing. Oblivious in this instance, and completely blind in another. Unaware of the feminine crystalline figure standing directly in front of him. Leaning forward, just shy of touching his forehead. The image, much like Litha's movements, phased in and out, shifting like unsettled waters as her words reverbed through the house, as though within the great depths of a yawning cave.
"Give him back! Give him back! Give him back!"
As the chant shifted, so too did Litha's mimicking, desperation as though her own. When the mantra altered, Leslie shifted in his seat, visibly troubled as Litha became a static figure, glowing like sunshine with stored Quintessence.
Leslie heaved to his feet, began to pace the length of the coffee table. His legs itched with need to move. Fingertips warm. Do something. Do anything. This man, this brother needed saving.
The opalescent personage made no move in regard to this new presence, crying out to her mage as though utterly and completely alone.
Charles: The scene before him was deeply unsettling. Desperation, not unlike grief, and the world around him not-quite-right. Like a dream. Or a nightmare. At least now, he had some idea of what they were dealing with. He could leave it as it was, offering Bo precisely what he'd seen and hoping for the best. But he wanted something more, something direct, beyond desperate cries.
He looked between Litha and the strange figure, not sure who to address. He settled on both at once. To them, he'd be as solid here as he was to their mages on the physical plane. "I'm here to help," he said, pitching his power to be heard over the din and silently hoping that he wouldn't startle them. "I'm going to show Bo what I'm witnessing here. What do you want me to show him? What do you want me to tell him? What do you want him to know?"
Juvel: Frustration identical to her mage. Unnaturally long and slender fingers hovered over Bo's eyes in prayer pose. The striations along her fingers caught the light, gleaming dichroic hints.
"Give him eyes to see. Give him back to me. Let him see. Let him see. Atraah tia zacam de ol!" Through the shrieks, her voice was thick with accent, sharper on the consonants. The second spoken language was not meant for the whip lashings she wielded. Delivered slowly and deliberately.
Charles: Charles could not make a telepath out of someone who did not possess that power, but he intended to do whatever he could to ease the minds of everyone present. “I'll help him. You have my word." He looked to Litha for any additional insight.
Litha: Litha repeated the same gesture as before. Her eyes, his eyes. The same plea as the strange avatar, in Litha's silent manner. Force him to see.
Charles: Charles nodded silently. There was not much else he could gather, here. The return trip had always been easier. In an instant, he snapped back into his body, whole once more. He inhaled sharply, blinking in the light as he took his bearings. Without preamble, he stood on unsteady legs and crossed to Bo.
"I need to show you something." Not a request. Not with the desperation that had surrounded him just moments ago. "It will be easier to convey if I touch your temples."
Bo/Leslie: Leslie sat up slowly, mindful of Charles' body language and eyes, on the lookout for anything concerning. It was Bo that took a step back, wondering what it was he had just witnessed. That was not sleep, nor meditation. And the feeling of being watched by some unknown entity had only worsened since Charles' arrival. His approach encouraged the apprehension churning his stomach, wishing for two contradictory outcomes. As much as he wanted to reach out for Brett, cling to a bit of his shirt for security, he just managed to refrain. His body submitted to a sudden chill and shivered. A curt nod. A deep breath. He accepted Charles' reaching hands.
Brett: If Bo wanted to cling, he could.
Brett had been hanging back until now, observing the proceedings with fascination and no small bit of apprehension. But the second he sensed Bo needed him, he was right there, standing beside and just a little behind him like a silent, stalwart shadow.
He offered his hand. He knew perfectly well that Bo didn't like displaying affection in front of other people but Brett offered it anyway.
Charles: "It's all right. Everything is going to be fine," he promised. Because it did seem that the chaos would subside the moment Bo could see his avatar. She might quiet. Or at least speak more gently.
Slowly, Charles pressed the fingertips of each hand to Bo's temples. He kept in mind Leslie's complaints about 'mind hatchets' and touched the surface of Bo's mind with feather-light care. He would alter nothing, sharing precisely what he'd experienced from the moment he'd left his body with eidetic clarity.
Bo/Leslie: Complaint was putting it harshly. Leslie had grown to enjoy the sensation he affectionately referred to as hatcheting. He didn't have to question if Bo felt the same, watching as the young man snatched Brett's hand from his peripheral, squeezing with all his human strength. Magick no longer terrified as it once had. Reliving what one had not personally experienced, however, served to exacerbate the nausea creeping forth from the pit of his gut to his lungs and throat, burning him from the inside out.
That thing was in front of him. Had been this entire time. She was both horrid and beautiful. Though he could not name her secondary tongue, he understood her words.
This did nothing to cure him, but allowed insight into the madness with which he existed.
"What now?" he asked.
Brett: Brett squeezed back just as hard and waited for something to happen. Was this it? Was this going to be what finally got Bo out from under this torment?
God, he wished he knew what was happening. Magic was almost preferable to this limbo of knowing something was happening but not being able to see any sign of it. But it had to help, right? Something had to.
He blinked. Nothing happened...
"Did you see your avatar?"
Charles: Charles let his hands fall as soon as the events had been recounted. He studied the man's eyes, searching for a spark of understand. Of recognition. Finding none, his posture sagged slightly with a smile. He needed to regroup and reconsider, but he didn't know where to begin. At Bo's question, he looked to Leslie for any suggestions.
Bo/Leslie: "I saw what Charles saw," Bo explained, finally tearing his eyes away from Charles to look at Brett.
Leslie sat back on the couch and sighed. They felt so close. He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees.
"What did you see exactly, Charles?"
Brett: “But…” If Bo saw what Charles had seen, why hadn’t anything happened? Was it not enough? Did Bo have to see his avatar himself for him to be a full-blown warlock again?
Brett refused to sigh or look hopeless. He just squeezed Bo’s hand some more. They would figure this out, as sure as his name was Brett Morgan Parker.
Charles: A lengthy explanation seemed beyond the telepath's capacity, at the moment. He mentally offered Leslie an abridged version of what he'd shown to Bo. "More-or-less," he finished, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Any insight?"
Leslie: Leslie took a breath, caught off guard by the sudden invasion. Then caught off guard again by what he actually saw. He stared off at nothing, both astounded and impressed that Charles had not visibly flinched at the sight of Bo's avatar. She was certainly unique. He'd never seen anyone else's before, but he was certain of that.
"I um... they're both saying that he needs to see. Maybe that's in real time?"
Brett: Brett looked between Charles and Leslie. More mind magic he couldn’t see was happening between them and still nothing was happening.
He was starting to feel prickly and panicky again.
“Isn’t that what Charles just did? Helped Bo see?”
Charles: Charles shook his head, a gesture intended for Brett and Leslie both. "It wasn't enough to see things from my perspective, it seems. But, honestly, Les, unless you know a way I can give him a crash course in an ability that I was born with, I don't see how that's possible. I couldn't so much as glimpse her before I was Projecting."
Leslie: "You're not able to see through Litha?" Both hands went through his hair. "It thought that's what you were doing."
Charles: "She isn't a physical being. Not in the sense that we are. There isn't a mind for me to enter. Or a... brain, if that makes sense. It's why no one else can see her but you, or someone looking through you. Besides, how would that be any different than showing as I did before? He'd still be witnessing from my perspective. There's some sort of blockage."
Leslie: "I mean, showing two perspectives to each other at once. I thought that - that was going to happen. You seeing through my eyes before gave me that idea, and how many people you've told me you can touch at once."
Leslie could feel the tension in the air, surprised to feel it mostly from the sheriff and not the amnesiac mage.
"I understand we're all feeling a certain way right now, but nonetheless this is progress."
Brett: “Begging your pardon, Leslie, but this doesn’t feel like progress.” Despite his mounting frustration, Brett tried to keep his voice as soft and gentle and calm as he could, like he would when speaking to his domitor. It never did him any good to fly off the handle and he wasn’t about to start today.
“I’m positive I don’t entirely understand what’s happening here but I know something is happening, it’s just that that something isn’t really helping my fiancé. I don’t doubt what you can do, Charles, and I appreciate what you’re doing but you see I hope to marry this man soon and I can’t do that if I can’t even get him the help he needs, otherwise I won’t be worth a damn as his husband. Something has to help him. It has to. If either of you know someone, anyone who you think might be able to help, I am begging you to call them. Please.”
Charles: Charles took a breath. He was a patient man, and as entirely unhelpful as he'd found that speech, he understood Brett's frustration. He'd be as worried and stressed for his own husband, in similar circumstances. He looked to Brett with a nod. "I understand. Believe me, I do. We're going to exhaust all options, here, I promise you. This is uncharted territory for all of us, I think."
He looked back to Leslie. "Yes, I can share perspectives. Absolutely. I can share what you can see, and what I can see, but no one but Litha can see his avatar. I can show him Litha, if witnessing an avatar firsthand will be useful. Other than that, I'm open to suggestions."
Leslie/Litha: Leslie sat up with the offhand suggestion, taking it completely seriously. "Wait, yes. Maybe? Hold on." Leslie closed his eyes to think. No, he couldn't see what Litha saw. That wouldn't work.
"Litha," he called, opening his eyes. Strawberry blonde hair peeked from the kitchen, softly whispering the familiar exhausting chant.
"Why don't I see her? Or Suzette's, or Edwin's?"
The chanting slowed, eyes to the ground.
"We're going to help him. We have him. We're restless, I know, but we know."
"They don't belong to you," she whispered. Since Bo had entered the circle, the mantra had remained steady. To hear a true response put a smile on his face. Relieved to hear his other half again. Some shred of sanity returning.
"But could I, see them?"
"It is not your path."
Right, those of - it wasn't the power of mind; it was the power of spirit.
"I think I have it. I think - yeah. You've been very helpful, Charles, but you wouldn't um... happen to know anyone that's an expert with spirits, would you? My porter is out of town." Probably out of realm, but he'd keep that to himself.
Brett: Brett nodded. “Thank you, Charles. Truly. It means a lot that you’re willing to try. I apologize if anything I said was disrespectful.”
Seeing that smile was like seeing a glass of iced tea on a hot day; it was exactly what Brett needed.
Because talk was moving in another direction that was throwing him for loop and he needed something steady to cling to.
Charles: Charles shook his head. "There's nothing to apologize for. I understand that this is a stressful situation to be in."
He watched Leslie pull at threads, genuinely hoping that he'd find something to turn the tide of the evening. His mouth turned down apologetically at the request. "I'm sorry, my friend, but I do not. I truly wish I could have been more help."
Leslie: Leslie's stomach felt the same as Bo's in this moment, but for a different reason completely. He held his breath and considered before asking, "Not even your... husband?"
Charles: Charles blinked. "Oh. Well, perhaps? I'll need to ask what he knows on the subject, but I'd be more than happy to." He was certain that Mason would hear him out. Whether that would translate to actual help remained to be seen. "Shall I give him a ring?"
Bo/Leslie: "I've got no other plans today. I don't know about y'all," said Leslie.
Bo seemed to be in a kind of trance, replaying what he'd seen over and over, as well as recovering from Brett's assertive outburst. Never in his recollection had he said so much in a single setting. Not even for himself. He had to wonder if this was the man before developing a taste for vampiric blood.
"Please do." If Charles only knew how rare that word was coming from Bo's lips.
Brett: “Yes, please,” said Brett, caressing Bo’s hand with his thumb. He was about a second away from getting on his knees and begging. He still very well could if Charles wasn’t able to convince his husband to help.
But he wasn’t going to go down that rabbit hole. He needed to have faith. Faith moved mountains.
Charles: Charles nodded, already fishing his mobile from his pocket and turning toward the door. "Do pardon me," he murmured, stepping away so he could speak privately. He pulled up his husband's contact and pressed send, willing him to pick up quickly.
Mason: Quickly for Mason would be two rings, never more when it came to the sound of Charles' particular chime.
"Ya alright?" the demon greeted.
Charles: Despite the situation, that greeting made him smile. "Perfectly well, love. You know I'm helping out a friend of Leslie's. Well, we've hit a bit of a wall, here. I was wondering if you could help us... help me get past it. How much do you know about spirit magic?"
Mason: "Helpin' out," he echoed incredulously. His skepticism wasn't aimed at Charles, but rather the situation Leslie had placed him in. His concern had been given well enough before his departure. He couldn't shake how he felt about witches. However, magick was universal, and given his profession, no less his species...
"M'pretty well versed."
Charles: "To put it plainly and as briefly as possible, the man can hear but cannot see his own avatar. I can see when I'm Projecting, but I can't share what I've seen until I return to my body, which hasn't been successful. Do you know what can be done?"
Mason: "Fuckin' -" Mason collapsed back in Charles' leather chair, feeling at his forehead before slapping his hand to his thigh, staring up at the ceiling.
"They like their riddles, but they're also very fuckin' annoyin' when they want somethin'. It try n'tell ya anything?"
Charles: "Yes," he answered. He could recall the words perfectly. "'Give him eyes to see. Give him back to me. Let him see. Let him see.' And something else. In a language I didn't recognize. Not just that I couldn't understand it, but I couldn't place it at all. I didn't bother seeking out a translation."
Mason: "Sounds like ya need t'come home. M'headin' that way. I'll find ya. We're gonna finish this."
Charles: "Only after I've done all I possibly can, Mason." And surely Mason knew him well enough to hear the truth in that. "I'm outside of his fiancé’s house. I'm sure I'll feel you the moment you're in town."
Mason: "See ya in a minute."
A point was made to appear center of down. Away from Callum MacGillivray's and perhaps an easier approximation for both parties. He felt for Charles' presence, disappearing and reappearing at the end of Brett Parker's street.
Charles: Charles would meet him on the sidewalk just outside, hands pulling free from his pockets to wrap around Mason's waist. "Thank you for coming."
Mason: Charles' was directed into a quick kiss with a small pinch to his chin. Warmth immediately blanked all which touched his demon. Mason looked towards the house and shook his head. Not at all what he was expecting to find.
"What is it with ya n'witches?"
Charles: "Nothing. I don't know the man. He's a friend of Leslie's, so I agreed to help." Speaking of. "Be nice, please. The fiancé’s nerves are already shot and Bo, he's the witch, looks like a bloody zombie half the time. They need patience, and so do we."
Mason: "Anything else I need t'know 'fore walkin' in?"
Charles: "Just that everyone is on edge. Brett and Bo have no clue who you are, but they know I called my husband. I think that's everything."
Mason: Mason gently brushed his fingers along Charles' temple, knocked on the door to every memory leading up to this moment. He wanted to be home. He wanted Charles home. Every ounce of information vital to their success.
The demon nodded.
"There's method t'the madness. Trust me." That in mind, Mason headed for the door.
Charles: He was welcome, of course. The one person in the world who needn't have requested permission. Charles met him there, slipping a hand into his husband's. He hardly needed to knock on a door he'd just exited, but he did regardless.
Bo/Leslie/Mason: Leslie damn near got to his feet before Bo held out his hand in silent refusal. Brett needed a moment and Leslie was a guest. He could pull himself together. One of them needed to.
The new face, shorter by just the smallest margin, was scrutinized the same as Charles had been.
"Were you waiting around the corner?" he greeted.
Mason stared just a moment before smirking. "Like a dog on a leash."
Brett: Brett gave Bo a careful smile and took a couple of deep breaths. You'd think he was the one that had this incredibly frustrating thing happening to him with the way his emotions were raging. Every time it felt like they were close to a solution, it felt like something else happened.
But he trusted Leslie, and Leslie trusted Charles, and Charles presumably trusted his husband. This would work.
Oh! Well then. That was something to be grateful for.
"Hello, thank you for coming. Please come in, make yourself at home."
Charles: Charles shook his head, but said nothing, stepping into the house at Brett's invitation and offering a smile. "Brett, Bo, this is my husband, Mason. Leslie you've already met, of course."
He looked to that particular witch, and then to his husband. He knew the latter would want to make this as swift as possible. Charles wasn't going to press upon him any more than they already were. "Mason's already been caught up to speed. Where do we go from here?"
Leslie/Mason: Dark whiskey eyes scrutinized the house upon entry. His gaze returned to the blond - the real blond. He realized in comparison Leslie Issott was indeed a ginger. He hated him just a little bit more.
"There's too many fuckin' people in this house." Another pause, hands on hips, and the newest member of the house nodded with a decision. He turned his attention to Leslie.
"D'ya know how t'work with sound?"
The witch sat up again. "Yeah. What do you need?"
"Nothin' escapin' this house. N'I need the rest of ya t'do what I say when I say it. I won't say it again."
Slowly, Leslie got to his feet. "I'll be outside. The backyard."
Brett: Something about the man's--Mason's--voice reminded Brett of both Guildias and his father. It said authority in no uncertain terms, with zero room for argument or refusal. This was not a soft man.
He felt five again.
Until Mason gave him instructions to the contrary, Brett kept his mouth shut and stuck to Bo's side like glue.
Charles: For his part, Charles looked thoroughly unimpressed, he shot his husband a Look, arms folded across his chest. "I'm sure we're all prepared to cooperate fully to get this done."
Bo/Mason: Mason knew better than to undermine Charles' authority at school, he expected the same courtesy here. The look was ignored. Devoting his attention to their issue.
"How long have ya been without your avatar?"
Brett wasn't given a glance. Maintaining the eye contact this man demanded. He knew almost the exact date thanks to his journal. He wasn't going to provide details unless requested.
"Over five years."
So, this was necessary.
"Either we're gonna hear some shit from that thing, or we're gonna hear some shit from your mouth. S'what Issott's gonna fix."
With a sharp sigh, the demon removed his jacket, tossed onto the nearest chair.
"Let's move some of this furniture."
Brett: Move typically meant 'move out of the way', so that was what Brett began to do. Carefully.
Not because he was worried about the furniture--some of it was going to be replaced anyway--but because he didn't want to give himself away. Truth was, he could lift most of the living room furniture over his head with ease. But he couldn't do that today; he was in the company of people he didn't know.
So, if Charles or Mason or even Bo were inclined to offer help, he would let them.
Charles: And Charles was truly ignorant of this knowledge. He might've guessed, given the nature of many of the people he'd met in this town, but he wasn't going to make any assumptions. In silence, he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater, glancing to Brett for a silent go-ahead before shifting the nearest piece toward the outer edge of the room.
Bo/Mason: The last chair was moved to the hallway. End tables placed to the edge of the room. It would have to do.
Mason took to the floor against the wall and patted between his legs.
"C'mere. You're here, the rest of y'all behind the couch. Stand, sit, just stay over there. Charles," he wasn't sure he wanted to make this request, and it would indeed be a request, but he couldn't imagine his husband preferring to do nothing. "Keep an eye on his mind. Calm, anything he needs."
Bo had taken a step forward before stiffening. "He's not going to control me."
"No, not that. Keep ya from implodin' this house."
His mouth dropped before catching. "I wouldn't do that."
"I've seen it. Doesn't mean ya will. Now sit."
Finally, Brett was given a concerning look. With no other protest, he took to the floor between the stranger's legs.
Brett: Brett obediently went behind the couch, choosing whichever end he told himself was closest to Bo. It would be too far anyway.
He gave his fiancé a warm, reassuring smile. “Det er greit. Jeg skal ikke noe sted. Jeg er rett her.”
Charles: Charles followed after their host, standing behind the couch with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He nodded at his husband's request, jaw tightening slightly at Bo's reaction. "Your mind is and will remain your own, but I'll make sure you don't inadvertently kill us all."
Bo/Mason: Bo found himself pulled by the promise of an end. His tongue seized to the roof of his mouth. They couldn't throw these people out. Couldn't wait five minutes more to remain submerged in familiar feted waters. These past five years were a currant, dragging him towards an unknown waterfall, leaving him no choice but to submit. Every curse, lost memory, every degrading torture and entitlement assumed by others had to mean something. His life could no longer continue in this manner.
Mason rolled the sleeves of his shirt, silent and meditative. He didn’t care about this boy. However powerful he would become, he trusted Charles to bed him should things become unstable. This needed to be finished. There was far too much magick in his husband’s presence. He lived dangerously enough as it were.
“Look forward,” he instructed. “Keep your eyes open. I don’t care what ya see, ya keep them open.”
Bo’s jaw was gripped with deliberate slowness. Strapped to his chest by an uncompromising belt for an arm, locking his own against his ribs. The terribly familiar feeling of being trapped became overshadowed by the world before him. The sudden darkness enveloping what was once his living room, yawning out with a great earthly moan, expanding the space around him. The atmosphere, now heavy, weighed greatly on his lungs, forcing a violent exhale. He did not look out upon Brett and Charles’ perspective, but that of the gauntlet, the spirit world the man holding him allowed him to see.
And the creature an inch from his nose, and her eyeless sockets, staring wildly, grasping at his chest with crystal hands, quartz nails digging into flesh.
The mage cried out, startled and overcome. Jaw loose in an O of madness. He gripped onto the demon’s trousers like a child, pushing himself back against the immovable breathing wall behind.
His body abruptly slacked. His struggle surceased into a catatonic state.
The demon remained still, waiting for that first returning breath. And they would wait. That mind was elsewhere entirely. Charles, should he inquire, would find a shell of a man, devoid any trace of consciousness.
“Just wait,” Mason whispered.
Brett: It was taking everything Brett had to stay behind the couch. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't want to go to Bo, to comfort and reassure him. That was all he could do for him, no matter how much he wished he could offer something more.
Real help had to come from other quarters; from Leslie, from Charles, and now from the man sitting with Bo on the floor.
Brett's fingers dug into the back of the couch. What the hell was happening? What was Bo experiencing? Was it hurting him? Why did it have to be something Brett couldn't see?
Why did the things he could see have to scare him to death?
Terror and panic clawed at Brett's chest. Bo wasn't moving. Why wasn't he moving, what happened?
Charles: Charles tensed as all traces of life seemed to leave the man, like a snuffed candle. He trusted his husband, but he could see Brett's obvious terror. He rested a careful hand on the man's shoulder. "He's all right," he whispered, low enough for only the two of them to hear. "Mason knows what he's doing."
Bo/Mason: Each second felt like an eternity. The tension coming from the fiancé was palpable. Trust was placed on Charles to keep him in check. If he jumped over that couch, he was a liability. Everyone needed to brace for what was about to happen. For all of Mason’s reluctance to associate with witches, he knew the difference between being born intact and awakening later in life. As passive as a gentle sigh, or the primordial energy to level a fucking neighborhood. This was a reawakening. He would leave nothing to chance. Holding fast with both arms as they surpassed the two-minute mark. Still without breathing. He would remind them again to wait. Just wait. This man wasn’t going to die.
The first movement came from the nearest end table. A screeching abrupt inch forward, turning the table clockwise. The couch groaned forward. Being heavier, moved only half the length. The sweltering July humidity clinging to their skin became cool and dry. A cold spot within the living room contrasting like a barrier.
The sound first began down the end of the small hallway. An old, inhuman, and unwelcome noise in this reality. So unsure of its place, echoing where it did not belong. A dissonance felt as much as heard, caressing their skin with objectionable affection.
Three minutes. The clamor finally reached the men on the floor. His first hysterical breath returned color to bluing lips. In the same instance, the furniture moved again, pulled like gravity towards the now glowing mage.
“Darsar long as ol geta?” he gasped. “Darsar plosi basgm?”
Bo’s mouth was roughly covered by his growling captor. Skin reddening with burn.
“Don’t – Don’t do that. Don’t fuckin’ do that. Use anything else.”
Bo: It had been days. He could swear it had been days since he’d left. But the room was the same. Where Brett and Charles stood was the same. The look of fear in Brett’s eyes – but that was the least of his concerns at the moment. There was too much primal energy. And the man holding him was a demon.
Slowly, the hand was removed. He needed to concentrate to remember his English. Enochian monopolized much concentration. Not the same as switching from Norwegian to Polish.
“I n-need… my wand. Now.”
Brett: Brett didn't have the presence of mind to respond to Charles, or even acknowledge that he'd spoken. All of his focus was on Bo.
His need to check on his fiancé was second only to his fear of disobeying Mason. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead with the effort to remain still and calm and his hands were starting to hurt from squeezing the couch, but he didn't move. He barely dared blink.
He waited. Waited for color to return to Bo's face. Waited for his chest to move with drawn breath. It was taking too long, the sensation he imagined far too familiar. Bo was going to die and Brett wasn't going to be able to save him.
Such was Brett's concentration that he didn't notice the air changing until the couch moved and took him with it, finally loosening his hold and letting the panic back in. And the noise.
God, that horrible noise. Brett covered his ears and made himself take deep breaths, trying to fight down his panic and focus on Bo at the same time. It was so long, so long and he still wasn't--
Finally. That breath brought a short-lived rush of relief. He was alive. Bo was alive. And he needed him.
Brett sprang into action, all but sprinting to their bedroom. The wand the wand, where was the wand? The last time he'd seen it--there!
He grabbed it and ran back to the living room. Mason was going to have to let him approach now.
Charles: Charles was the picture of serenity. He'd learned to shroud his fear long ago, for the sake of his students. More besides, he knew his husband would keep him out of harm's way, almost certainly forsaking everyone else in the process. The only break in his calm facade came with reddening skin. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't shift. His mind brushed his husband's questioningly.
Brett was off before he'd made a conscious decision. Charles let him go. "What's happening?" he asked, when the three of them were left.
Bo/Mason: "The implosion," Mason explained, keeping his voice intentionally low and calm. He could feel the magick beneath his skin, cool and fluid and restless.
"Toss it," he commanded, casting a glance to Brett with warning. He would have to explain what had happened to his husband after this ordeal. If this went wrong, he would have to do something drastic.
"Do as he says," Bo's words trembled. Reaching out a single hand the demon allowed to escape his clutches.
Brett: Not what he wanted to hear, but Brett obeyed nonetheless, tossing the wand gently. Only because Bo asked. Love for his fiancé trumped the urge to rebel, although if he had his way, Brett would be right there beside him helping him through this.
The panic and fear hadn't dissipated yet.
Bo: The wand was just caught, wielded as Brett would have never before seen. Grasped indelicately as another tool in his arsenal. Both hands were held outward, wrists crossed. The image of a crazed conductor set to silence his stage. The demon leaned himself back, hands ready to snatch should he need to act.
Noises which could only be described as needlelike pierced from the hardwood floor and popcorn ceiling. As his wrists twisted, muttering a Russian spell under his breath, translucent white stalactites and stalagmites pierced the room from above and below, reaching for each other with diamond spears for hands in an effort to pillar. The minerals crunched and groaned their greeting, creating wide column plates like frosted glass resizing and reshaping the room into a fortified house of mirrors.
The pale glow began to dim.
Bo could not prevent the tremble from his arms. Eyes remained focused only by a will long forgotten. What remained of his energy was used to slice the air with his wand. The sound like a whistle cut through his creation. A primeval cough of broken diamonds shattering from the ceiling, snowing as silica dust in great piles on the floor, covering demon and unconscious mage.
Brett: Never, not in his wildest dreams could Brett have imagined something like this could be real. He was watching it happen and still he couldn't believe it. This was so far, far beyond anything he had ever experienced.
He stared in wonder, covering his ears to block out the piercing din. Terror and panic were pushed aside by the amazement of watching glass grow out of the floor and ceiling, by the knowledge that Bo--his Bo--was making it all happen. It was beautiful, it was a miracle, and he was in awe of it.
Until it shattered and rained diamond snow over everything, including his fiancé, prompting him to rush over before he could think to stop himself.
Charles: Charles pressed close to the sofa, unsure of just how far the world was going to splinter. He watched on with rapt attention, eyes wide with fascination, rather than fear. He had dozens of questions, but now wasn't the time to ask them.
Charles looked to Mason as Brett took off for the second time. He was ready to take hold, if his husband deemed it necessary. The last thing anyone needed was for Brett to get himself killed during this process. A man who could shift physical reality in this way could certainly do some real damage if something were to happen to his fiancé.
Bo/Mason: The dust moved like disturbed desert sand as Mason stood. Two heads emerged from beneath. A hand had been cupped over the sleeping mage's mouth, resting now in the demon's arms. The worst was over. The boy had saved them from a violent promise.
"Take him. S'over."
Brett: Brett carefully lifted Bo into his arms, giving Mason a nod of acknowledgement before carrying his warlock to their bedroom and closing the door.
He placed Bo on the bed, took his shoes off, bundled him. It didn't matter that he and the rest of the living room were covered in diamond dust; that could all be cleaned. What mattered was that he was okay, that he was breathing. That he was alive.
Brett had no idea if he would ever know just how close he'd come to losing his fiancé. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
"We've got to stop almost suffocating in this house," he whispered, kissing Bo's forehead.
Charles: Charles released some of the tension riding in his shoulders at his husband's words. A strange evening, indeed. He reached out mentally to Leslie, sure the witch would want to be kept aware of the situation, from wherever he was outside. 'It's done. He's left a bit of a mess, but everyone is safe and whole, I think. I'd stay to help set things to rights, but I'm fairly certain Mason will want to leave immediately.'
He looked to the man with a nod. "Thank you for helping him."
Leslie/Mason: Mason remained against the wall, taking in a breath and assessing the damage with mild interest. Had been so many years since interacting with a witch. Could have been worse. He'd seen worse, and this hardly raised the needle. Charles was safe. That was all that mattered.
"He was speakin' in celestial," he explained, remembering the touch of his husband's mind in the chaos. "That one ain't the same as your giant."
The very same standing behind Charles, in awe of the debris left behind from what he assumed to be a powerful spell.
"What happened?"
Charles: "Ah." That made sense, he supposed. It didn't explain why that was the language that spilled forth, but Charles could admit that his curiosity was purely selfish. "Strange."
He turned to glance at Leslie, his mouth quirking slightly at that stunned expression. "Haven't the foggiest, honestly. There were massive shards coming in from the floor and ceiling. Dreadful amounts of noise. A wand was involved. And when he cleared the damage, it left this mess behind."
Leslie/Mason: Leslie took in each piece of information with small nods, trying to piece together what was explained and what he had overheard. One didn't quite match the other, which left him even more curious. Verbena and Hermetic witches used wands. Celestial language belonged to the Chorus. A blend of study, perhaps, but the final spell shook all other evidence to contrary.
"I think we're in need of a broom," he smiled. "But you're alright? Both of you?"
"Your concern is touching," said the demon.
Charles: Charles would ignore that. "Perfectly fine, thank you." He'd have a look at Mason's burns, later, but he knew the demon healed quickly. Charles had made it through the experience without a scratch.
"My best guess is the kitchen, for a broom. And they'd probably like the furniture back in place." He glanced at his husband. Charles wanted to be at least somewhat useful, this evening.
Mason: 'You are useful,' Mason offered, tone much softer in their privacy. He finally managed a smile, something small just for them as Leslie explored the kitchen for what they needed.
"Gonna take some o'this home with us?" The silica sand was felt between his fingers. Couldn't be much different from what was outside. "Should cover your face if ya insist on helpin'."
Charles: Charles only shook his head. Useful in general, perhaps, but he'd been little help tonight. "Well, I don't have any masks on hand. I could use my shirt, I suppose. What is it? Is it useful, somehow?"
Leslie/Mason: Mason brought the white sand close to examine. "Some kinda sand. Let's not take any chances. I'll bring somethin' from home." He would disappear before any objection.
Leslie returned with the only broom he could find.
"I want so badly to just blow this away, literally, but that was my concern as well. Should probably save my energy in case something else happens."
Charles: Charles' mouth opened, the snapped shut again, with Mason's disappearance. He simply shook his head.
Making note of Leslie carrying a single broom, he shot off a quick text to Mason with a request to bring another. "A little manual labour won't kill us."
Leslie/Mason: "There's a joke to be made there. Afraid I'm out of energy to make it. The horror."
The front door was opened, as it was the closest. He'd start near and work his way in. There were holes in the floor and ceiling now. Upon noticing, he stopped to stare.
Mason reappeared in the kitchen, broom and mask in hands.
Charles: "I'll forgive you for that, this time. It's been a very long evening." Charles followed Leslie's gaze and huffed out a small breath. "Well. That's a bit out of my depth, I'm afraid. I can help with the mess, at least."
At Mason's return, Charles went to collect his tools with a soft 'thank you.' He pulled the mask over his nose and mouth and fitted it snugly. "Did you happen to bring an extra?"
Mason: Mason reached for Charles' mask to help adjust before catching himself. That hand dropped with a frown. "M'gonna steal Leslie's broom, n'he can go check on our hosts."
Charles: His small smile was hidden, but the gentle crinkle of his eyes was very familiar. "Sounds fair." Charles would set to work straight away, working from the outer edges of the room, inward. Risking being discourteous just this once, he'd rummage about for large trash bags to begin filling and setting aside.
Leslie: Not given another choice, Leslie would do as told, handing over the broom and heading down the hallway. No one in the living room seemed concerned over Bo. Whatever had happened, everyone must have come out unscathed for Charles to not be concerned.
Knuckles gently rapped on the door.
"Y'all decent?"
Brett: “We’re decent,” said Brett. “Come on in.”
Leslie would enter to find him kneeling beside Bo’s side of the bed, gently stroking his hair. He himself was unscathed but until Bo woke, he didn’t know if the same could be said for him.
“He passed out after he made glass grow out of the floor and ceiling and shattered it.”
Leslie: "It was glass?" Not exactly something he could do. He could perform a spell adjacent, but not quite. So, that confirmed one area of expertise.
"I got their side of the story - one side - wanna tell me what happened?"
Brett: “It looked like glass. I guess it could have been diamonds or something, it was transparent.”
To the best of his ability, Brett recounted everything that Leslie had missed. Those awful sounds, the furniture moving, Bo passing out the first time and not breathing.
His voice trembled when he recounted that last part.
“I thought I was going to lose him. He went so long without breathing.”
Bo/Leslie: "And he woke up knowing a spell, like that?" He snapped his fingers. "His world's right again. I think he's been on a journey. Found himself, maybe."
Bo rolled over in his sleep, taking Brett's hand and stilling.
"We're straightening up the living room. There's some damage."
Brett: Brett gave Leslie a hopeful look. "You have no idea how much I want you to be right. I hope you are. Not that I have any frame of reference or anything but seems to me like only a fully realized mage can do magic like that."
He smiled at his sleeping love and kissed his forehead.
"I figured. That's okay. The whole house can fall down. I'll take it if it means he's safe and whole again."
Leslie: "Sheriff Parker, I didn't take you for such a romantic. Out there saving babies and warming hearts.
"Listen, y'all stay here and rest. We'll finish cleaning. I'm gonna stick around, if that's alright. Make sure he's really okay when he wakes up."
Brett: He smiled softly. "I can't help it, he brings it out in me."
Brett nodded, relieved. He'd been about to ask Leslie if he could stay just in case and was glad for the offer. "Of course, thank you so much. For everything."
Leslie/Mason: "Absolutely. Do you want me to get you anything?"
The last large mound of sand filled the strained garbage bag. Charles was given a look. "Are ya ready t'go?"
Brett: "I'm fine," said Brett. "But I appreciate the offer. Oh, could you thank Charles and his husband for me? I'd do it myself but I don't wanna leave Bo."
Charles: Charles leaned against his broom and studied the now-clean space. He debated moving the furniture back into place, but with the holes that needed repairing, it seemed perhaps counterproductive. Instead, he gave a nod. "Just let me say goodbye to Leslie."
Leslie/Mason: Mason intended no further efforts beyond simple sweeping. This wasn't his nor his husband's mess to mend.
Leslie emerged from the hallway with relaxed shoulders and far less intensity in his eyes.
"Brett gives gratitude to you both. Bo's still asleep. Real sleep, not - doesn't seem like anything else."
Charles: Charles crossed to him, nodding, and clapped the witch on the shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it. We didn't move the furniture. Figured they'd want to take care of the damage, first. Let me know if they need help with any of that. I have a guy. You take care, all right? We're going to head home."
Leslie: Considering present company, Leslie wouldn't lean in for a proper hug. Instead, covering Charles' hand with his own to squeeze. He loved this man, and he hoped the telepath could feel it.
"I'll let you know. Keep you updated. You both be safe." And he meant it.
Charles: "We will," he promised, giving Leslie a final pat. He could feel that love, appreciated it and returned it. For his husband's sake, he left the affection at that and went to grab his demon's hand.
