His smile was soft, caught by Sky's willingness to play along. He'd lived an interesting life, he had always known. Harassed by brownies at a young age, befriending fae in his twenties, and rashly co-existing with vampires; familiars were becoming his favorite.
Certainly, they weren't all overfilled cups of goodness. There were lonely, heartless warlocks, too.
"I dunno how long Brett has on this earth. I haven't looked. I'm sure you know, or at least have an idea. You feel like a play-it-by-ear kinda guy. You both do. Just wondering what that's gonna look like."
“I cannot claim to know where his destiny might lead him. There are so many potential paths to take that even guessing seems pointless. And that’s as it should be.” The present was what truly mattered.
Sky smiled. “What I do know is that whichever path he happens to take and however long one or both of us happens to be on this earth, I’ll be by his side. Such is the fate of a familiar; to be bound to their master until the death of one or the other.”
Shards, Part II || Charleson & Leslie || July, 2023
Mason/Leslie: The wall between their minds was thin at best, but still present. Charles had been given a glimpse, but deserved peace. Just this half, this terrible half would be hidden, not his entirety. Years of open telepathy had practiced Mason's skill in dividing himself for this very reason. It was all for Charles, and it was better than barring the connection completely.
Leslie had taken to text between entertaining children and washing the piling mess in the kitchen. There was always something to do, but he was trying. Sending updates with dinner, dessert, what he was doing and what he planned to do. Little innocent details to keep Tristan in the loop, waiting for Charles to return downstairs.
Charles: For a moment, he'd carved out a sliver of peace. Nightmares still threatened at the fringes of his mind, but with the familiar heat and scent of his husband so close, Charles managed to slip into a doze.
Light though it was, his sleep was blessedly dreamless. He might have made it through the night, if the drugs he'd taken had not worn off. He shifted, and pain lanced up his side, spurring from sleep. He let out a ragged gasp and sat up.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," he whispered, fearing he might have disturbed Mason's rest.
Mason: Mason remained in a state of twilight, eyes closed, breathing deep and steady. All for one man. His chest belonged to him. His arm around his husband's shoulders, kept safe, if not for reality creeping in.
"Baby, don't do that." He pressed a kiss into his temple and sighed.
"Either I'm gettin' ya medicine or I'm findin' that witch." He was simply too tired to bother with a name.
Charles: "I just didn't mean to wake you." If he'd already done so, there was really no need to whisper. Still, he kept his voice low. The peace was fragile.
"Let's not bother Leslie." He'd done so much already, and as dearly as Charles loved him, that bone mending had been... difficult. Better to let his ribs heal the old-fashioned way.
"I'll call for Hank to bring something. Please stay." For Mason's sake, as much as his own.
Mason: Mason cracked his eyes open, breathing deep and slow but having nowhere for his disapproval to go. He didn't want to hear his husband scream again, but whatever horrors the witch gave, peace followed.
But the part of his mind open to his beloved knew that path was now closed.
"Hurry back."
Charles: He wasn't going anywhere. Not really. He shifted gingerly to the edge of the bed, masking a wince and a groan as he moved. No sense in causing undue worry. Mason hadn't slept for nearly long enough.
His mind brushed Hank's cautiously at first, but the beast of a mutant was just as on edge as everyone else he loved, it seemed. A silent request, one that was answered in the affirmative. He waited from his perch on the mattress until the soft knock sounded.
He inhaled deeply as he rose. It was the only sound he'd allow himself, even as he shuffled his way to the door. He opened it just a crack, thanking Hank in low tones before shutting it with a click.
He wanted to wash down the little white pill with a glass of scotch. But that was a terrible idea, and the thought of walking all the way to his study put it fully to rest. He swallowed it dry and eased back onto the mattress.
Mason: Mason was sitting up with his back to the headboard by the time Charles returned. Hands on his thighs, waiting patiently to invite him back to the warmth of his chest. He would lay however he was required for the telepath to rest.
Apologizing was a waste of words at this point. The obvious was there out in the open. I should have been there. I should have found you sooner. I should have done more. But logic was soap, and guilt ink on his skin.
"Want me t'lay back?"
Charles: "You're supposed to be asleep." Not a scolding. There simply wasn't enough heat behind it. He was too tired, and Mason was a beacon in the dark, despite his position.
"Please," he agreed, inching slowly and carefully toward that warmth.
Mason: Then back he would go. As flat as Charles desired. Little different than fluffing a pillow. Much as Lawrence had tended to him hours ago, his arm was open, and warm around his shoulders. Same love language, same soul.
"Leslie's lookin' for Kurt," he mumbled.
Charles: He sank against him. It was nearly as soothing as sinking into a hot bath. Only thing better would be a bath together. It was an appealing thought, but he was just so drained.
"Yeah? Does he need to go home?" It would make sense. Tristan must have been worried sick. Guilt tugged at him to consider it. He needed to find some way to thank his little rescue team, and those closest to them. Something to think about later. Too much for his head to wrap around, now.
Mason: His mouth opened, letting an exhale escape between his lips. He wanted - no, he wouldn't. Saying what he had felt would only sour the carefully constructed atmosphere.
"He's found him. Rec room." He turned his head, burying his nose in dark tresses.
"He'll be up to say goodbye in a minute."
Charles: "All right." Charles had no intention to move. His bad manners would have to be forgiven. He pressed his lips to Mason's chest.
"What is it?" Because of course he hadn't missed that. "What's on your mind? Talk to me."
Mason: "It's not for me t'say, now is it?" It wasn't his thoughts, but the very subject now making his way upstairs.
Charles: Charles would wait for Leslie's knock as well, but he'd make no effort to leave the bed, only sit up enough to look at the door.
"Come in."
Leslie: The door opened with a crack. Strawberry blond hair sticking through, a blond five o'clock shadow finally making an appearance.
"Hey."
Charles: "Hey." He managed a small smile, for Leslie's benefit. He must have been as tired as any of them. "Heading home?"
Leslie: "Yeah. Couldn't go without saying goodbye. You need anything?"
Charles: "Not at all. Thank you so much, Les. For absolutely everything. Go home and get some rest. Apologize to Tristan for me?"
Mason/Leslie: "Only one who needs to apologize is me. Don't start - "
"We're workin' on it. Go home."
At least there they could agree. With a wave of his hand, the door closed behind him with a click.
Charles: He'd had his mouth open to offer a retort when he was interrupted. He was still too tired to scold, but it was a near thing.
"Bye! I'll ring you tomorrow."
He fell back against Mason's chest with a huff and a wince. Never mind. He could scold a little bit.
"You should have let me finish. He dropped everything for us. He shouldn't feel the least bit guilty."
Mason: "Mhm." This was a non-argument simply because Mason had his eyes closed, his muscles relaxed, and his head - he was attempting to empty it. It wasn't an argument because he didn't care about the witch enough to defend him. He just wanted Charles to rest.
"Ya want Gina brought here?"
Charles: Now he definitely didn't have the energy to scold any more. He pressed his cheek to that warm chest and sighed.
"I... why? I'm not opposed, or anything. I just don't know why she'd want to be here."
Mason: "'Cause Lawr won't shut the hell up about her, n'it'll be my turn, next."
It was an uncomfortable subject to broach, be it now or next week, but Lawrence held a prediction in his grasp, and Mason had an inkling of its accuracy.
Best to know now, so Lawrence could prepare his family for visits.
Charles: That felt... unfair. Gina was a lovely woman, but she hadn't been taken. Hadn't been... still too fresh. Too much. He couldn't fathom Mason being out of reach for an hour, let alone days at a time. He could feel his pulse begin to race at the thought, ridiculous tears burning his eyes. What was wrong with him?
He shut his eyes before they could fall and took a steadying breath. "I'm... That's fine. She can come. I don't... It's fine."
Mason: That was all they needed. All Mason was willing to tolerate. He couldn't squeeze his husband as tightly as he'd prefer, but he could cradle him. For now, until he was strong enough to sleep on his chest without wincing, as he was meant to.
"It's fine. It's fine," soothed the demon.
Charles: Even with that gentle soothing, it took a while for his breathing to slow, and his heart to follow. His hands eventually stopped their trembling. He still felt like weeping, but he suppressed the urge. If he started, he didn't think he'd be able to stop. Hadn't he cried enough in the morgue?
Oh. Not the place he needed to revisit. He forced it away. Forced away everything but the steady rise and fall of his husband's chest.
"I'm sorry."
Mason: He could tell him again to stop. He didn't need an apology. He didn't want one, and Charles didn't deserve the guilt. But, there were times, he knew, when you just needed to say it. The catharsis outweighed the logic.
The record player across the room came to life. Chopin. Nocturnes. The record scratched to life. He kissed his husband's hair.
"Quiet."
Charles: There really weren't words to describe the depth of his love. It could only be felt.
The music soothed his frayed nerves. Blocked out the worst of the dark thoughts.
He did cry, then. A raw purge of everything he'd held onto since waking. His tears were blessedly silent. They might have gone unnoticed, if not for the sheer volume of them, and the way they shook his battered frame.
He wept until there was nothing left but Mason, and the gentle music. He was completely spent. He could probably sleep for three days.
Leslie had no experience cooking for anyone pregnant, but he assumed something light wouldn't do any harm. Especially with how she was feeling. Some breakfast in bed, complete with orange juice.
In the meantime, he would tend to her garden, write various spells from his grimiore, and excuse himself for an hour-long phone call with Tristan. The next day, Torsten barred the witch from the kitchen, already impatient for him to leave.
So, Leslie made himself at home at the foot of her bed, ready to once more go over the ritual.
Although Bronwyn ate whenever food was put in front of her and drank whenever liquid was offered to her, she wasn’t fully present. When she wasn’t staring at the little root she’d yet to let go of, she was staring off into space, her mind a million miles away.
Ava couldn’t tell if she was processing her situation or already grieving again, but looking at Bronwyn made their ritual--and the spell she’d need to come up with afterward--all the more imperative. She couldn’t allow Bronwyn to wither away.
Bronwyn tried to smile at Leslie while Avalbane cleared her plates away. “I’m sorry about Torsten. He’s...protective.” She adjusted her covers. “The milk should be here soon. Is the dish okay?”
She nodded to the bowl on her bedside table. It was shallow and white with flowers painted on the china. Something pretty and happy.
"I feel inspired by him and I barely know him." He would have liked to believe himself equal in that light, but he knew that wasn't the case. He could certainly try, and most days he did. Other days, he was bitter, and aching for some familiar misery.
He doubted Olek ever felt that way. Not once. Not ever. Whatever had troubled him, he didn't know how he could smile so easily on that stage. He had taken an old man's request for Etta James. His eyes had closed, leaning into the mic as he sang with a part of his soul only seen on a stage. Maybe that was his sorrow.
"What's your future look like?" Leslie mused. Olek was in no position to answer, so that left Sky.
“Strength such as his is to be respected.” No one like Olek existed by simple accident of birth. Kind, resilient people were forged by either hardship or rebellion and honed by their environment and the care of those around them.
Being soft and gentle was a complicated thing, requiring far more effort than being ruthless and cruel.
“My future?” Sky turned to smile at Leslie. “The question you ask is vast. How far would you like me to look ahead for the answer? A day? A year?”
"You say that, but I've known him longer as a cat. Maybe if his tail swished I could tell you something."
As Sky predicted, no one had any clue what Olek had just put himself through. He smiled at the crowd, placing both hands on the microphone stand, announcing he would take requests from the audience, if the band knew the beats, of course.
Sky hummed thoughtfully. “Fair enough.” He too chose to be in his animal form more often than not, especially around strangers. Of course, he tended to adjust his habits to his whoever happened to be his master at the time.
Brett enjoyed the company and affection that were afforded to him by Sky’s human form, so that was the form Sky tended to stay in. Olek was his own being, with his own preferences and his own secrets.
“Like nothing ever happened,” he mused softly, watching his friend. “I suspect he’ll only share the thoughts that haunt him with Mr. Bo, if at all. Though I’ve known him for only a short while, I can say that he does not linger in the darkness for long. He favors the light.”
He stared at the drops of condensation as they slipped down the frosted glass, timing their descent onto the paper coaster. The memory curse he had inflicted on himself worked perfectly until it didn’t. Rather than shredding and discarding undesirable occurrences, his curse only served to tuck them away. Swept under a rug until the accumulation was tripped over with oblivious feet.
He had never forgotten Enoch Neumann, but he had forgotten the pain attached to him and the face of the source. But a trip, his name, and the face in all its detail returned, like a photograph before his eyes.
Olek leaned back against the booth, hand pressed firmly to his stomach. Nausea as foreign and rare as intoxication.
“Mm. I’m going to sing, now.”
Leslie remained rigid, fingers laced tightly against his head as he watched, waited. Only when Olek stood did he breathe slowly, hands dropping to his lap.
“Ever... seen him like that?”
Sky said nothing more, watching his friend get to his feet and return to the stage waiting for him. He no longer appeared to be in any fit state to sing, but something told the fox that only he and Leslie would notice.
The patrons in the club would remain oblivious, believing what they were presented, not thinking to question deeper. Such was the way of the world.
Sky shook his head. “I haven’t. Have you? You’ve known him much longer than I have. The advantage of familiarity is yours.”
Olek squeezed his glass of water with both hands. Slowly looking up, his eyes bore through Sky, peering beyond him to an uncomfortable place. When coming to, his gaze shifted from the witch to the familiar, glazed and cold.
"Felix Rune?"
Leslie glanced at Sky. "That's the one."
Sky’s only reaction to Olek’s sudden and intense scrutiny was the most infinitesimal tilt of his head. He met the cat’s gaze, letting his curiosity push him past the urge to look away and lock up his thoughts. Something was happening here. Something had shifted in his friend at the mention of this mage for reasons that Sky was not privy to.
Yet.
The fox’s gaze remained fixed on Olek even when the cat finally looked away, considering him over the rim of his glass. Their conversation on the way home promised to be interesting.
“Have you ever met him?” he heard himself ask the cat.
"Well, you'll fit right in with the older folks. The ones who really like their time dilations and swapping stories with spirits. The Euthanatos I was telling you about, Rune, trying to rope him in, too. Don't see that one happening."
“Yes, the one who hates familiars.” It didn’t surprise Sky that this Rune didn’t enjoy communing with spirits. It was often a tricky business.
