#faun and flora | threads

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Recent SETTING: a shelter PARTIES: Conor and Xóchitl SUMMARY: Conor and Xó run into each other at a shelter, are semi surprised to see one another, but chat and plan to hang out again. It’s soft. 

“Xó?” He wasn’t supposed to see her for another week. Not that he had the busiest of schedules or that he didn’t like a schedule (he did), but if someone else wanted to socialize with him (which was not that likely, but it still happened), Conor liked having room left for him to breathe. This being said, her company was pleasant enough that he didn’t feel an urge to pretend he didn’t see her when he ran into her outside of their music sessions. 

This being said, he hadn’t expected to see her here. People had been quite generous for Thanksgiving, and he had no doubt they would spare some time or money for Christmas, but people who had been living in a gymnast for over two months now probably would need food between the two holidays. The faun didn’t precisely need to eat, but he liked to garden, to no one’s surprise, and harvest too. With the fruits and vegetables he had picked up in the woods and in his garden, he’d walked into the food bank expecting to say hi to the few familiar faces he had met here, have a small chat, and then get the fuck out. He was on his way out now, and there was another familiar face there. “What are you doing here?” It seemed to clash a bit with her usual surroundings. 

-

“Conor?” If Xóchitl had been the sort to wear glasses, she was positive that this would’ve been one of those moments where she pulled them down in curiosity, dramatically, or something along those lines. If he were just about anyone else, she would’ve made some remark about him following her, but she seemed to remember something about him being uncomfortable with jokes, and so she refrained. The two of them had plans to meet up in a week (or so), though a part of her had wanted to ask for it to be moved up, and so maybe this was the universe granting a wish of hers for once.

(Though saying for once wasn’t entirely fair, she supposed, given that she did have a tendency to get her way, even if there were still some major parts of her wishes left ungranted and unfulfilled).

“People needed help, I have the time and means to help, so I figured I’d help.” Xóchitl looked at Conor. Not precisely up at him, given that they were the same height, but something about him made her feel like she was looking up – which she appreciated immensely, not because she had any qualms with being taller than men she was around, but just because there was something safe about that. “What are you up to here? I’m guessing it’s not for music because I don’t see your magnificent violin with you…”

-

“Oh, I…” He looked down briefly, if only to offer himself some time to hide the shade of pink coloring his cheeks. Compliments shouldn't have been so complicated to accept. One could hope that after 60 years of playing the violin, magnificent was a fitting word to describe it. Conor just wished it was faux modestie that held him back instead of the sort of anxiety that made one wonder if someone else wasn't just being nice. “I had too many vegetables in the garden for me to eat on my own,” clearly. “I’ve been coming here every two to three days,” a pause. “It’s baffling how much my garden's been giving me this year. I didn't expect such results considering…” his voice died out in consideration of the people who were gathered in the gymnasium until they found a home. 

“What about you?” Clearing his throat, Conor looked down at his apron, dusting off dirt with the edge of his hand before figuring he was better off just taking it off until he got back home. It wasn't like he was going to be doing much more work until tomorrow. “Sorry. You’re offering therapy sessions for those who need to talk?” That was what he imagined at least. 

-

Xóchitl thought she spotted a slight reddening of Conor’s cheeks, and there was something incredibly entrancing about that – entrancing and also heart-warming. Not that she got warm about people who weren’t even technically her friends. Because she was just someone who talked to Conor, sometimes. Not even sometimes, so much, given that they’d spoken none too often.

“Well, that’s good. It’ll make sure people don’t get scurvy or whatever it is that you get if you don’t get vegetables in your diet.” Xóchitl shrugged, “though I am a bit sad that you didn’t think to sell any to me. I promise I would’ve given you a good price for it, but giving it away to those who need it more does make some sort of sense, I suppose.” She grinned. “No – I mean, yes, if they want, but that’s not… why I’m here. I’m just here to help out however I can.”

-

“You don’t need to promise that,” his eyes crinkled as he attempted to smile at her but there were, undeniably, traces of despair in them as he looked at the woman. “Besides, I wouldn’t have accepted a good price when they don’t cost me much to grow,” then, Conor liked to base his prices on what was fair in the 60s and might have accidentally gotten his banker pay off his loans for him through fae magic without even knowing it.  He probably wouldn’t have made the same happy mistake now, but it was only through coming to Wicked’s Rest that he began learning more about his kind, and that he was slowly figuring out that he had no need to be so harsh with himself. As for costing the bank money, he didn’t give a fuck about that, obviously. Capitalism was something he wished to see abolished, and who represented that system more than banks?

“However you can? And how is that?” If it sounded like he doubted she had anything else to offer, he certainly didn’t mean it that way, and so, he didn’t attempt to correct himself. This being said, he wasn’t really aware that his tone suggested that. “I don’t mean to pry, I’m sorry. I probably should…” With an awkward smile, he pointed toward the door. “Dinner, and things.” Right. You could hardly call a cup of tea consumed solely for the taste dinner but as this was not a lie, Conor was glad not to suffer from his words, for once.

-

“Fine, then I don’t promise it, but I do mean it.” Xóchitl frowned at his look of sorrow, worried that somehow she’d caused that. Even though she didn’t think she had, and even if she had, she hadn’t meant to, which logically had to count for something, didn’t it? “That’s very fair of you, though I could always do more than just give you money to show my appreciation.” She raised an eyebrow, unsure of if Conor would get any of the underlying implications there, or if they’d go over his head. She found herself hoping that, at the very least, he wasn’t offended by her commentary.

Xóchitl wondered if he’d meant for what he said to come off like it did. Like she didn’t actually have anything of substance to offer. If it had been almost anybody else, she might’ve made some sort of comment about how she was, if nothing else, hot. Given Conor’s dislike of jokes, she refrained. “I can like, spoon out soup, or fold clothes, or make emergency packs, or whatever.” She couldn’t help herself at his next comment. “Dinner, you say? Conor, are you asking me to dinner? Because the answer is, of course, absolutely yes. It is also yes if you need help organizing for dinner for the people here. Just tell me where I should go.”

-

“What ?” Didn't he just say he wouldn't have accepted money for it? Without a doubt, he was not as skilled with words as Regan or Beau or Cass and Teagan, and basically every single fae he had spoken to or met, but… he wasn't that bad, right? “How would you want to pay me if you’re not offering currency? Would you rather trade ?” His confusion could be read all over his face, and he tried to gain himself some composure by running a hand through perpetually messy dirty blond hair. A kind, apologetic smile came along as if to quietly ask for forgiveness and the florist’s shoulders relaxed briefly (because it was likely he'd be stressed again in a second).

Conor wrinkled his nose. “Do they eat soup every day?” He had not had soup since his teenage days, and that was a long while ago. His mother always insisted on finishing his plate and he absolutely detested every spoonful of the liquid he had to swallow down. Chicken broth, carrot soup, tomato soup, you name it. He detested it. “Nevermind that.” He paused. What about dinner? His stress took a U-turn. He couldn't tell her that he was just telling her about him having dinner, could he ? That would be very rude and he’d always been told not to be rude, especially to people who weren't fucking dickheads, and Conor would have never called Xochitl a dickhead. She was lovely, and he appreciated her company very much. It was better than tolerable after all. So no, he couldn't be a prick even if all his cupboards were mostly full of air and partly full of tea leaves in tin boxes, music sheets that he swore were organized, and a collection of seeds that was actually quite well organized, once again in tin boxes that he took the time to label one Sunday afternoon.

“Organizing for dinner ? Oh no, I'm not… I can't cook.” Because he was both his mother and his grandmother’s little boy in an age where that meant that housework was certainly not for him to do. “I… You must be better at dinner than me.” Rubbing at the back of his head, he offered a sheepish smile. “Huh. What is the usual process here ?” 

-

So the comment had gone over his head, and instead of pushing it, Xóchitl shrugged. “Sorry, you’re right, I must’ve misspoken.” She didn’t want to stress him out, at least not so quickly and in such an unfun sort of way. Directly hitting on him was better, because at least she had the chance to get a good blush out of him. This, right now? Felt uncomfortable and maybe almost bordering on cruel. Which was probably one heck of a leap to make, but she figured it was better to go about things with a hint of caution.

“I doubt they eat it every day, but it’s a good warm food that can easily be made in large quantities, so…” Xóchitl fiddled with one of the rings on her fingers, “I was just guessing. But soup is good, right? Not my favorite, but it does the job. Have you ever had Chilaquiles? Those are very, very good, and you should let me show them to you if you’ve never had them.” Conor was nice. Very different from the sort of person she usually spent time with (Emilio, Jade, Leti, and Emilio being a few prime examples of the sort of person she usually spent time with. People who were more comfortable being out there.) Conor was delightfully awkward, in a way that she would’ve called charming if she thought about it for more than a few minutes.

“I’m also not the best cook, but I do like to eat. I can do some cooking, though, you’re right. I mean, I think the usual way things go is probably… just, normal?” God, why was she such a mess of words. “We could both go and check in, see what they need us for? If you’ll let me buy you either a drink or something to show you my appreciation.” Xóchitl grinned. “Is that alright? It won’t be anything you don’t like.”

__

“That’s alright,” he was aware that sometimes things flew right over his head. Maybe this was what happened here. Either way, he was thankful for her not pointing it out if it was the case.

Whatever it was that she was mentioning to him right now, he had never heard of that. He crinkled one eye. If he tried to repeat that word, he'd most likely stumble. “I’ve never heard of that. It’s a sort of soup?” Folding his apron, he held it beneath his crossed arms, close to his chest. With a sheepish smile, he nodded along to her offer. 

“Do you want to check right now? Or did you want us to do that some other time ?” Because they’d been talking about dinner and now she was mentioning drinks and some extra volunteering for the day. In the end, Conor was not sure where they were headed. He was not so fond of the unexpected but Xochitl was one of these people that made him feel at ease and he didn't feel anxious spending more time with her and going off plan. “I think you already have a good picture of what I like or not,” she was a therapist which had Conor believe that she was some kind of empathic mind reader, succeeding to pinpoint one’s needs without difficulty.

__

“Well, you are very kind to say that,” and even if she was being a little bit extra, Xóchitl did, in fact, genuinely mean it. Conor deserved that, she’d decided at some point, even though the two of them still barely knew each other, technically speaking.

She shook her head. “No, not a soup. It’s sort of… fried corn tortillas. Very good, and look, proof that I’m not only invested in eating soup.” Xóchitl smiled. “I think I can semi-handle making them, so if you ever want to try them out, you know who to ask.” She watched him, his gentle smile, the way that despite being rather incredibly muscular (not that she was especially looking), he seemed incredibly soft, gentle, and good. Far too good for her – but she selfishly wanted his friendship regardless.

“Some other time.” Xóchitl ran her tongue across the roof of her mouth, “for the dinner and drinks. I think we should go and actually help people now, given that that’s the far more immediate need.” Besides, plans to see him again certainly weren’t bad – not one bit at all. Especially since she felt a certain amount of pride in getting him to agree to hang out in a non-music-playing setting.

__

“That does sound better than soup,” Conor agreed with a timid smile. “I don’t have the largest appetite so do keep that in mind whenever you want to invite me over,” that was an understatement. He figured he could have had a meal right now. These people looked like they could use a good dose of excitement or joy, but the faun still wasn’t sure on his to make his feeding process stop without going into a state of panic, and so he typically targeted unpleasant folks or the elderly. It seemed like the most humane, easiest way to feed himself, even if he couldn’t shake off the fact that it was murder and it terrified him.  “I agree. I didn’t really plan to go out elsewhere tonight, so that’s probably best if I stick to my schedule,” even if again, Xotchil didn’t make him feel uncomfortable. He looked forward to meeting up with her, though he already wondered what they would talk about. Usually, it was about the music piece they were working on, or concerts they were looking forward to. Besides, he couldn’t recall the last time he had an actual dinner with someone. It would be fine though, right?

[hikaridana]

"The Deities of Life and Death, Vivatimous and Kifogetz, help maintain the balance of all creatures in all the realms. With or without a breath. Vivatimous is responsible for beginning fresh, new life. The birth of a faun, the sprout of a new tree, the blook of flora. But of course, Life cannot be balanced without Death, and there does his brother come into the picture. Kifogetz is responsible for guiding souls of the Dead to their final resting place after their purpose has been fullfilled, or should he find that a sickly creature has no need to remain on its final thread. However, his job does not stop there. Kifogetz, too, does bring new life. It is only by the death of one does new life sprout, and as a result do lifeforms such as mold, fungi, and other decomposers take place to clean and thrive off of what once was. Death is never finite, for it only births Life anew."

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Yesterday LOCATION: Wicked's Rest State Park PARTIES: Conor & Rhett @ironcladrhett SUMMARY: A walk in the national park turns into a trip down memory lane for some, nightmare alley for others. CONTENT WARNINGS: Sibling death (mention)

In the two months he had been living in Maine, Conor hadn’t really thought about taking a look around town, or beyond. The shop was often busy, and when it wasn’t, he liked to retire in his backyard, which was beginning, day after day, to look like the disorganized, flowery, luscious haven he wished to spend his evenings in. When he didn’t do that, he generally settled with his violin in his bedroom, rehearsing for hours. 

Going out was never really his priority. His garden counted as going out to him. He didn’t need to be with people to do that. His garden was fine. 

He didn’t particularly seek the company of others today either. 

Conor wasn’t much of a hiker, but he figured the state park would have greenery worth the trouble. He hadn’t packed much aside from a bottle of water, and he hadn’t told a soul about where he was going or for how long. It was Sunday, he didn’t need to tell the whole town about what he did on Sundays, right? 

On his way toward a stream, he had to stop to look at the purple and yellow irises growing there. “Well aren’t you a beauty,” he smiled, crouching down to take a closer look. 

—

Spend more time in the woods, his brother had told him. Warned him, more like. There was a reason he was trying to keep Rhett from the lake, and while the warden couldn’t fathom what it could be, he could do what Emilio asked. For a little while, anyway. 

As such, today found him wandering through the state park, his posture relaxed enough that it was almost as if he was just on a stroll and not on the constant lookout for fae or fae-related activity. Still, the scabbard hanging from his hip and the rifle slung over his back told a different story—not that he cared much about appearances. He looked dangerous, and anyone that he encountered that had nothing to fear from him would do well to stay away anyway, because he was in a sour mood after failing to kill that fucking lake nymph. 

A buzz crawled over his skin and he stopped dead, wide eyes scanning the area. His vision might be shit, but his fae-dar was impeccable, especially in a place like this. Crowds of people and monsters were another story. 

Moving stealthily, the warden drew his sword and twisted it in his hand, his breath catching in his throat when he finally saw the source of the claws that scratched at the backs of his eyes. Some… whatever it was, crouched down admiring flowers. Cute. Those purple and yellow buds were about to get a fresh paint job, though.

He crept up behind the figure, careful with the knowledge that it might have some kind of advanced hearing, moving as slow as he could. Crouched down among the ferns, focused fully on his victim to-be, he didn’t notice the crystal poking up from beneath the foliage his palm brushed through, his fingertips dragging along its smooth surface for a brief second or two before moving on to the rough bark of the tree that stood beside him.

When the fae started to move again, Rhett moved faster, closing the distance in about a second and pressing his iron blade to its neck as his hand gripped it by the opposite shoulder. He should have slit its throat then and there, but curiosity got the better of him. “What are ya?” He could only tell a nymph by feeling alone, and this one had a different flavor of irritation. 

—

Conor left the flowers where they belonged. He couldn’t bring these back to his place. They’d die there. Then, if he managed to dig a pond in his backyard, perhaps he could invest in those sorts of plants next year. He’d have to worry about mosquitoes, but he supposed there were easy ways to get rid of them. 

Lost in his train of thoughts, he paid no mind to the sounds in his back, up until it became clear those were footsteps, and coming from someone way too close to him. Now was not the time to freak out, yet, Conor couldn’t stop himself from focusing more than it was comfortable on the sharp, cold yet burning thing pressed to his neck, or the strong hand gripping at his shoulder. He didn’t like strangers touching him. He knew he was tense, and yet any noise that could have helped him get help got caught up in his throat. And why was that knife burning him? 

The stranger spoke. He didn’t sound nice, or from around here. 

Conor didn’t attempt to take a look at him. He didn’t dare move. Still, he had to answer his question. “What do you mean?” His voice quivered as he stammered his way through the short sentence. “I’m just hiking, I’m not gonna do anything.” 

—

“Didn’t ask what yer doin’, idjit. Asked what ya are. Know you’re fae, no point in lyin’ ‘bout it. Wanna know what kind afore I cut yer damn head off. Why don’tcha let that pretty li’l disguise’ah yours drop, eh? Would love tah see what ya really look like.” 

As if to back up this threat, Rhett’s cutlass pressed more firmly into the fae’s neck, his grip moving from the creature’s shoulder to grab a fistful of its unruly hair. 

“Come on… rude to keep a fella waitin’,” Rhett warned a final time, leaning his head down to speak directly into his prey’s ear, just in case he wasn’t being heard. 

—

The hunter did a good job of exposing Conor’s neck, of making him entirely vulnerable. What could he possibly do now, to break free from his strong hold. With a whimper, Conor slowly raised his hand up, before him. He didn’t want to do the other harm, simply to get out of harm’s way.

It would be disappointing to see the end of the path today. He had just began the process of letting his brother back into his life. Disappearing would leave a bitter taste of unfinished business in his younger brother’s mouth, and Conor hated to be the sort to keep on letting him down. He had just introduced himself back to the Bostonian man, all to be murdered weeks later. What a shame. 

“I’m a…” He winced. The other’s lips brushed against his ear lobe, too close, his voice too loud for his sensitive ears. With that stimulation, they turned back to their natural aspect, pointier, goat-like, and it wasn’t long before Conor’s legs took on a more hairy and complicated aspect, his bushy hair parted on his temples, revealing curled horns. “Please, I… I don’t do people harm.” He tried not to wince. That wasn’t quite right, but the other didn’t need to know it.

___

Was a divine damn thing, seeing one of their kind shed the human disguise it used to masquerade in a place it didn’t belong. He pulled back a bit as those ears changed, gaze traveling down the creature’s body as more of it shifted, then back up again to see the horns that’d appeared on its head. 

“Ah.” The usual plea. “Faun.” As far as murderous fae went, faun were a little lower on the totem pole—he could recall a time when he’d have left most of them well enough alone, provided they weren’t hurting anyone. But unfortunately for this faun, those days were gone. 

“No? Y’ain’t never killed no one? Find that hard’tah believe, goat. Easy t’go overboard. Never had an accident, then? Yer the pinnacle of control?” His tone carried a sharp, poisonous edge to it, not unlike the one digging into the faun’s flesh. “Be honest, I know it’s terrible painful to lie. You ever killed anyone?”

—

"You've killed before," Conor countered. No one in their right mind would walk up on someone like that with a knife if they weren't metaphorically screaming bloody murder from a mile away. "Doesn't mean you should die for it, does it?" Conor knew some of his fae pals would disagree. 

He was ashamed of his feats enough as it was. He didn't need the fae police to come and slap him on the hand (or much worse) about it. So yes, Conor's tone was harsh, and the faun was once again cranky. It would be terrible to die having renounced his ideals. It would be strange for it to be any different with that damn blade burning against his neck. 

With a heave of his shoulders, Conor took another calming breath. "I was raised by humans. I don't know the ways of my kin," which was why he had accidents. "I'm so sorry. I don't mean to do people harm," most of the time, he didn't. Karens and Kyles had it coming.

—

“That’s where yer wrong, bucko. I’ve killed, sure. I’ve killed lots. Fae, undead, shifters… don’t make much difference to me, so long as they ain’t human. But fae really key me up like nothin’ else, yanno? All those fuckin’ tricky ways you lot like to talk… sucker some poor human into doin’ whatever you tell ‘em to, into hurtin’ the people they love, all with yer god damn fuckin’ words…” It was getting personal, clearly. “But all that killin’ I’ve done? It does mean I should die for it. In fact, I plan to. Just not today.”

He shoved down on the faun’s shoulder to force it to its knees, sucking in a deep, wavering breath. “Save yer fuckin’ apologies,” he bit out, wondering why his throat felt so tight. “You might not mean to, but ya do. Ya do all kinds’ah fuckin’ harm all the fuckin’ time—” What remained of his vision had grown blurry, and there was a sound in his ear like a mosquito that just wouldn’t leave. “I—” His thoughts had gone foggy and he felt… he felt… oh, no. Not now. His mind abandoned him, separating from his body in a metaphorical sense, leaving him hollow and confused. 

“Gonna kill ya,” he muttered, tightening the grip on his sword, almost like he was trying to remind himself why he was there. “Gonna…” His dark gaze dropped down to the top of the faun’s head and the world around him felt spinny. It felt wrong. 

“Look at me,” came the command, soft but stern. He only waited a half-second before demanding again, louder and more fraught with emotion. “Look at me, goat! Look at me!” His eyes were wide and wild and brimming with tears as the faun finally met his gaze, and a choked sob was barely bitten back as he took in the other’s visage. 

Fuck’s sake, he looked a lot like Desmond. 

It. It looked a lot like Desmond. But it wasn’t. Dez was dead. Dead a long time ago. Not lookin’ up at him from his knees, horned and fuzzy-eared—

“Dez,” he groaned, still holding his sword out in a threatening sort of way, though it was clear that he was… elsewhere. Agony turned to frustration and he tried to shake off whatever was ailing him, but it was no use. God, why did this thing look so much like his brother? 

—

The tricky ways his lot liked to talk? That didn’t speak to him. He hadn’t met many fae, but the few he did meet were kind to him, even Cass, and she had destroyed his front door. Some were scared, hiding, disgusted with themselves, some took being fae as something more than an identity, making it their duty, and some just wanted to live their life. He was a bit of that, although Conor had avoided looking at his reflection over the years. 

His knees hit the ground as he reflected on his situation, how unfair it all was, and how fair it all was. It was unfair to his mother. She’d never know why he stopped writing. To his brother and to him. He expected a response from him, and he wanted to reconnect with him. But deep down, Conor knew that none of this mattered. This man was right. He was a murderer. He didn’t mean to, but more than once, he was unable to stop his feeding process and people had died. Of course it looked like heart attacks, and he was coined as the unlucky witness. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

His eyes fell on the flowers. If he was gonna die, he might as well be looking at something beautiful. The thought brought a sad smile to his face. 

And then that cruel man demanded he looked at him. And that’s when he saw his face, at this awful man calling him a goat. He was not a fucking goat. The faun’s lip quivered and he wrinkled his nose in anger, in disgust. 

“What?!” he spat. Who the fuck was Dez. “Why are you doing this? You don’t need to do this. Please.” 

__

Something was wrong. This wasn’t the usual bout of dissociation, something else was happening and he didn’t know what. He felt furious and tormented in the same breath, like there was some terrible, heavy truth weighing down on him that he’d been hiding for centuries. 

But that was ridiculous. So what, then? Why did he feel like the world was fucking ending? He was just here to kill a goddamn goat. Kill the faun. Focus. Focus. Breathe. 

“I do need to,” he argued, unsure why he was even bothering talking to it. Just cut the head off and be done with it. “Y’don’t understand… I gotta.” Why? Because he’d been raised for it? That hadn’t mattered to him back when Dez was still alive. In fact, he’d often been the one sticking up for fae when his brother wanted to kill them. 

But that was why, wasn’t it? Because his trust had been misplaced, and it had gotten his brother killed. And the one who did it—she’d gotten away. It was her fault. Her fault. The fault of all fae, just like this one. But if he hadn’t made that promise—

Fury decorated with a golden filigree of sorrow wrapped around him like chains and he gasped for breath. He couldn’t do this. The faun was begging for its life and where that would normally delight him, now it made him feel ill. He tried to think about what could have changed. He retraced his steps in his mind, as serpentine as they were and as much as his thoughts wanted to fully disconnect from themselves. None of it made sense.

“Get out of here,” he snarled, unable to combat the feeling of damnation that had taken his whole person in a vice-like grip. Fuck it. Fuck it, he needed to be alone, and killing this thing felt like too much effort for arms that refused to work, to do what his brain tried to tell them. “I said git!” Again, the command was barked louder and only a half-second after the first. Rhett took a step back, his sword thudding to the forest floor as his hands rose to instead tangle themselves into his mane of silver hair. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this, not ever. Not anymore. He didn’t feel shit anymore. He needed to ground himself. Needed to do his steps, run through his routine, until this went away. 

____

"Why? Who told you that?" Conor's eyes would have rather looked anywhere else than at that terrible, terrible man's face, but he could feel a change and maybe this would be his only chance. “I don’t fucking understand, no, but… you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Please.” He felt like every single time he pleaded, the clock just ticked closer toward the inevitable, and yet he couldn’t stop saying that damn word. If that man allowed him, he would say it again.

Around them, things were undisturbed. Perhaps could he find solace in being surrounded by such beauty for his final moments ?

The water was still streaming next to him, and the scent of the flowers still perfumed the ambient air. Soon, there would only be the smell of blood, but the calm would last because all in all, he knew he was insignificant and that the neighborhood would be more disturbed by the absence of a florist than by the absence of the florist. Hermetic to the torments that shook the hunter, the faun was about to leave, but certainly not in such a literal way.

The bad man barked, and Conor didn't immediately understand what that meant. It didn't make any fucking sense, and he stood for a moment, a second at most, staring at him, looking confused as well as offended. What the fuck, he thought.

And yet, it didn't take long for him to do exactly what was asked of him, once again. Conor didn't necessarily have much affection for authority figures, but he preferred not to upset assholes who carried a sword behind their backs. The sound of metal hitting the floor. He remembered covering his ears then, almost mirroring his opponent, but not for long. Before the hunter regained his composure, the faun would be long gone. 

—

It was illogical, what he was doing. There was no reason that beheading the faun should feel so fucking difficult, but it did, and he was telling it to leave before he’d taken care of things. Stupid. Stupid. 

Who told you that? Everyone. Everyone he’d ever known, even though he’d not believed it for the first twenty-some-odd years of his life. They didn’t all have to die, he’d argued. The ones that weren’t hurting anyone on purpose, they didn’t have to die. They needed tools, that was all. Tools to help them control what the universe had given them, to make their own choices. Like he was making his own, despite what he and his brother had been taught growing up. 

That was a time when ‘it’ had been ‘she’, and she had been the love of his life. The one that showed him nothing but beauty and a kind of grace that he lacked, but had aspired to. She was everything, until she took everything. His love, his family, his unborn child. Gone in a second. Gone like his choice to spare any of them, ever.

Except for now. Because there were voices in his head screaming at him to stop, voices he’d never heard before. Phantom hands, not real in any capacity but still able to grasp him as though they were, dragged the warden to his knees where he wept. He wept for some unknown anguish, foreign to him but coursing through his bloodstream like it was his own. 

The faun was gone, but that didn’t stop the feeling. It went on, and on, pulling him to the forest floor where it would keep him for the better part of two days. 

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Early June

LOCATION: Conor’s flower shop

PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Cass @magmahearts

SUMMARY: After bickering online, Cass decides to get a little payback on Conor. she immediately regrets it.

CONTENT WARNINGS: none

continue reading...

The florist sucked. Maybe not as much as the guy with the insurance and the stupid jokes, but still. He’d called Cass stinky, and she wasn’t. She washed off in the lake every day! Just because the stupid florist couldn’t smell the stuff coming from the mines didn’t mean it was Cass’s fault. 

Most of the time, she tried to resist the more… chaotic impulses that came with being fae. But in this particular case? The stupid sucky florist had it coming. She could let loose, just this once. She wouldn’t actually hurt him or anything! Just his dumb flower shop. That was all. 

It was easy enough to find. She still couldn’t figure out why he’d given her the name, but she was glad he had. Cass wasn’t a detective or anything, and she probably would have lost interest in the whole ordeal long before she was able to find the flower shop on her own. But the guy told her where it was, and that was good. For her. Bad for him.

Breaking in was easy. Most locks didn’t stand much of a chance against lava, and this one was no different. But once inside, she hesitated. The flowers were kind of pretty. It felt mean to burn their home just because the guy who owned it sucked. 

A noise from behind her spooked Cass, and she jumped as she turned around. The magma that dripped from her hand and into the vase she stood next to wasn’t intentional… but that didn’t stop it.

-

The light sound of the front door bell could have woken Conor up on its own, but it was the red cat jumping off his bed to rush downstairs that completely got him out of bed. “God fucking damn it,” he mumbled, running his fingers against tired eyes. Reaching for his woolen cardigan, the faun took a look through the window. The street looked quiet. The street lights were out, there was nothing in sight. 

He never was quiet himself, his hooves always a bit too noisy for his taste. And so, he always looked as if he was wearing 1 inch block wooden heels on his shoes. He was rather short, people never questioned it which he was grateful for. 

He heard his cat’s mrrrrp of joy, and his eyebrows furrowed. That usually meant hello, from what he had observed so far. And then, there came the sound of something sizzling. What the hell was going on ? Heading down the stairs, the florist clicked his tongue quietly, hoping that would summon the cat back to his side, and turning the light on in the backroom, picked up a pair of sheers before he dared confront his company. “You need to leave, now,” was his voice always so high pitched?

—

It was a cat! Cass took a moment to stare at the creature in wonder as it approached her, making a tiny little noise that drew a gasp from her lips. She’d only ever spent time around feral cats in the past, and while some of them could be friendly if you were around them long enough, none had ever made this noise. Not upon first meeting, and certainly not to her. She shook what remained of the magma off her hands so she could lean down to touch the cats fur, cooing softly. “Hi there,” she said, rubbing its ears. They were soft. Most of the feral street cats she’d met had been matted, with patched of fur missing. This one wasn’t.

So distracted by the cat, she didn’t register the heavy footsteps until they were accompanied by a voice. Letting out a quiet squeak of surprise, she fell forward towards the voice. Just close enough to feel a fluttering in her stomach, the kind that meant — oh, no. The guy who owned the flower shop was fae? 

The feeling of meeting another fae was one that was supposed to come with euphoria, but for Cass, it always came with a sharp sense of fear. Fae always figured her out right away. They looked at her and they knew, and even if she told herself she didn’t care if Flower Shop Guy liked her, she was terrified of the idea that he might tell other people, too. The cat darted away as Cass’s glamour dropped without her meaning for it to, her heart pounding in her chest. No, no, no. 

—

He held one arm to his chest, his other hand holding onto sheers. There was a certain discomfort underneath his skin, in his chest, whenever fae were around. What kind of fucking fairy infested town was that? Conor came here for answers, not for the local goddamn fairy congress. Answers, he had found none so far. Fae? Quite the handful. What the actual fuck kind of dried shit ass luck was that? “You’re fucking kidding me?” 

Conor wanted her out of his damn shop, whoever she was. Stepping out of the backroom, the faun looked at the flaming figure of the other fae, with, he hated to admit it, fascination. She looked like a will-o'-the-wisp had met a volcano. By her side, on the floor, one of his vases seemed to be filled with molten lava. She really meant every word of her threats, didn’t she? Sure, she must have been unaware that he lived upstairs, but who the fuck just commit arson out of sheer spite ? “What the fuck? What the…” He saw the cat climbing up on the counter and jump onto his shoulders to seek shelter. His heart was racing now in panic, in anger, his face distorted with disgust and disappointment : “You come into my house, terrorize my cat,” who still didn’t have a name, “all because we had a disagreement ? Are you fucking kidding me? You called me stinky because I tell you not to poison yourself with candles. You called me stupid, small brained. And now you wanna burn my fucking livelihood?” The faun didn’t step forward. She seemed to be made of fire, and he wasn’t a fighter. He was loud, he spoke a lot of shit, but at the end of the day, he made bouquets for a fucking living. “Just fuck off,” he shook his head. 

—

The florist didn’t seem particularly excited to see her, which was a sentiment Cass guessed she could understand. She had broken into his shop, after all, had come here with the intention of causing some damage after their less than friendly online encounter. Still, the fact that he was fae and was so unhappy to come across her stung a little. It reminded her too much of her aos si back in Hawaii, of the buzz that came with being around another fae and the way it always went hand in hand with rejection.

He was looking at her and at the vase she’d filled with magma, and her heart was pounding in her chest. She wanted to lie, to say it hadn’t been her who’d done the damage even if it was obvious that that wasn’t true, but she’d never been good at lying or the less than pleasant side effects it carried along with it. “I wasn’t terrorizing your cat,” she said instead, offense clear in her tone. “And I didn’t know this was your house! Who lives where they work? That’s stupid.” Big words coming from a girl who lived in a cave. “You were being mean! And — And you said I was a liar, and I’m not. And I didn’t even mean to get lava in your stupid vases, but now I’m glad I did because you are stinky and your brain is small!”

—

“My apartment is upstairs,” Conor didn't share her outrage. This was just a fact. The shop came with an apartment above and a garden in the back. The only thing he worried about was that someone else would snatch it before he did. Eyes set on the deformed vase, he watched the lava turn black, with a near bored expression on his face. He'd never been too expressive, he knew that. He could get angry, he could raise his voice, but most of the time, things didn't feel enough to gain a reaction.

“I said that if you need to light more than one candle because your place smells, then you should consider opening a window,” these were all facts to him. He wasn’t sure why she took it as an insult, but he supposed she did, because the next thing you know, they were calling one another stinky, criticizing noses and aprons and what not. All because she asked about how many candles one should lit up. One was still the correct answer. “I was not mean, I was factual, and I don’t appreciate you saying that I have a smelly house when I absolutely do not. It’s not my fault your house smells and I was just trying to be helpful, but now you’re pouring lava in my vases and scaring my cat, and honestly scaring me too. You’re in my fucking house in the middle of the night and you’re calling me stinky and small brained and I want you to leave.” He stopped, finally, to take a breath, his eyes wide and fixated on her. 

—

“Well that’s your fault, not mine.” Did the comeback make sense? No. Neither did her outrage, for that matter. He hadn’t even really done anything to her, and certainly nothing worthy of this ire. But he was rude to her, and he was fae, and maybe some small part of her ached when those two things were put together. Maybe some small part of her couldn’t help but be reminded of a childhood full of people who were supposed to love and protect her doing the opposite instead. None of that was this florist’s fault, but he was here and they weren’t so he could hold it for her, anyway.

It felt okay, anyway. The anger that burned in her chest with the same intensity as the magma that had dripped into the vase, the way it warmed her when nothing else ever seemed to. No one ever liked it when Cass got angry back in Hawaii. They always got wide eyed, like they were afraid of something. Like she was wrong for being upset that they all treated her poorly. She’d learned to swallow that anger as a result, to make herself small and easily digestible. And maybe it felt kind of good to let it out instead, even about something stupid. “You said I stink,” she replied, still furious. “And I don’t. I don’t stink! Neither does my house! I don’t even have a house, so how could it stink?” 

It took her a moment, with her own anger, to register that it wasn’t really rage that was driving him. It was almost like he was afraid. And that was the realization that made Cass stop, finally. She took a step back, folded into herself like a house of cards. She’d scared his cat. She’d scared him. That wasn’t something she liked to do, wasn’t what she wanted. An apology stuck to her tongue, unable to escape from behind her teeth. Behind her, the vase cracked, leaving only the lava that had hardened inside it to take its shape instead. Cass felt similar, somehow. 

—

His eyebrows furrowed. Conor knew that he didn't always make a lot of sense but she couldn't blame him for having the audacity to live  where he did. She was the one trespassing with the intent to burn it all to the ground.  

Sure, he shouldn’t have criticized so vehemently her candle habits but he was the sort of person that couldn’t deal with half truths. Candles were dangerous or not dangerous, but there couldn’t be an inbetween. There were a couple subjects he was willing not to be so definitive about, in terms of opinions, but that could be narrowed down to subjects he knew a lot about. 

Whatever it was she was upset about, Conor didn’t feel responsible for it, but that didn’t mean he felt nothing at all, or didn’t notice the shift in her behavior. That’s when he set the cat down on the counter and approached her as quietly as his feet allowed him to. Even with the glamour, hooves would always sound like hooves. What was the point of hiding now anyway? He dropped his own disguise as well, lowering down to his knees to look at her more closely. Her appearance was the strangest thing. They looked nothing alike, but they shared this much: they looked absolutely nothing normal. “I’m a fucking goat, if anyone has to worry about smells…” He sighed, and his gaze was drawn to the vase to her side. He didn’t dare touch it yet, but even then he could see that it was quite the sight. The lava had taken a much darker color now, near obsidian. He didn’t care much for rocks, but he had to admit that it was pretty. “What do you mean you don’t have a house?” That he could relate to. He had run off when he was 14. If he had eventually found work and a roof in a farm, the months he had spent in makeshift shelters… Those clung to him like scale insects did orchids.

—-

He was walking towards her with heavy steps, the sound echoing through the flower shop. Cass barely noticed his approach, having worked herself into a tizzy with her frustration and her anger. It was only when his glamour dropped that she stopped, blinking as she looked at him. She’d never met a faun before, but she’d heard of them. Back in the aos si, she’d been taught about most types of fae despite the fact that few of the adults there wanted anything to do with her at all. She might have been a problem, but she was still fae. That meant she had to know their history, their culture, even if she didn’t particularly want to know any of it. 

He looked different than she’d always imagined fauns might; it was a hard thing to conceptualize in your head without a visual reference, after all. “You don’t really smell much like a goat,” she offered him, voice quieter now. He really didn’t stink. She’d just been upset when she’d claimed he had. Of course, it was hard to tell if anyone stunk with the current state of the town. Maybe he smelled more like a goat when the rest of the town didn’t smell so strongly. 

She flushed a little at his question, averting her eyes with the realization that she’d said a little too much. She had a bad habit of that, of letting her anger get the best of her and exploding in a way that she didn’t always mean. Part of the volcanic modifier of her volcanic oread status, she supposed; things built up until they erupted, and the resulting lava flow was pretty indiscriminate with what it destroyed. “I mean I don’t have a house. There’s not a lot of ways to mean that.” Dancing around the question. Very fae, very wrong. She felt a little guilty for it.

—-

Sitting down on the floor, he didn’t attempt to cross his legs, instead tucking his hands beneath his thighs. Her quiet plea brought a slight grin to his face and he nodded along. He supposed he didn’t smell so bad. She didn’t either, though the town was a different story. His shop was still mostly spared, being filled with all sorts of essences and flowers. “I suppose you don’t need to light up too many candles either,” he countered. 

—

He regretted making comments about that, especially now that she was admitting to not having a place to call home. “So you’re homeless.” It was a statement, not a question. He recognized that sort of shame, even though she tried to dance her way around the facts. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like,” he moved his hands from underneath his legs, crossing them over his chest like a blanket. It wasn’t in his habit to share details about his life, with anyone, but especially with strangers. If he probably could have reached out, given her a pat on the shoulder, Conor was never good at those things, and he just tried to look at her instead.

Part of him wondered, if just like him, she had been forced to leave her home because she looked so different from her parents. “Shit, well now I really feel bad about everything I said,” he admitted with a bitter tone. 

Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. She’d met worse people, anyway. Maybe she’d even met worse goats, though she didn’t think she’d met many goats at all. But he was certainly a lot better than many of the fae she’d spoken to throughout her lifetime. None of the nymphs who’d cast her out would ever go back on something they’d said that hurt her feelings; most of them were far more prone to doubling down on it.

Sniffling a little, she lowered herself down to sit across from him, the warmth of the hardened magma from the broken vase making her feel a little more at home. “I have a cave,” she protested softly, though she knew it wasn’t the same thing. No matter how much she might insist otherwise, a cave wasn’t a home. All her life, she thought the closest she’d ever come to a home was sleeping on the floor of Kuma’s living room, and she’d ruined that. She ruined a lot of things. The broken vase beside her seemed like proof of it. 

She let out a watery laugh as he said he felt bad, shrugging a shoulder. “Me, too,” she admitted. “I’m sorry I scared your cat and broke your vase. And burned the lock on your door. And told a bunch of people you stink.”

—

“A cave?” He took a moment to register what he was hearing. He’d slept under bridges, in haylofts, broken into basements to find some warmth. The Boston Area didn’t have many caves though, lest he wanted to break into Boston Common to find an eventual one. He’d never lived in a cave. That seemed a lot more hostile than the environments he’d found, though Con supposed bridges had to be the worst he’d done. It was a different time though, and people took pity or were more than happy for the cheap working hands. It wasn’t too long before he had a job on a farm, and a room in the attic.

His eyes turned toward the door. She had carved a perfect curve into the glass, where the handle and the lock used to be. “How many people did you tell that to?” Conor could change a vase, or a lock, and the cat seemed to be fine now, but convincing people that his hygiene was as good as theirs ? “We really have a fucking shitty temper, ey?” It was his turn to laugh. Yep. They certainly did. He wasn’t sure they’d properly get along just yet, but maybe they didn’t have to hate one another. 

—

“In the woods,” Cass confirmed. He might not be a nymph, but maybe he’d met enough to understand what it meant. Humans found it strange that she lived where she did, like there was something wrong with it. But fae, for all their faults, should at least get it. Shouldn’t they? It was the only part of being a nymph that Cass felt she was really good at, the only part of being fae that she didn’t feel guilty for. 

Following his gaze to the door, she shifted a little. She felt bad about the lock now; her method of breaking and entering was a little heavier on the breaking than most. There was no way he’d be able to get away without having the door repaired, and Cass certainly couldn’t offer to help him pay for it. “Uh…” She trailed off sheepishly. “I don’t remember. A few.” Pretty much everyone she’d had the chance to. But in her defense, she’d been pretty sure he was stinky. And he didn’t seem particularly angry about it now. Cass was good at telling when people were angry; it was a defense mechanism you picked up quickly when you were a kid living on the streets. “I guess we do,” she sighed. “But at least it’s not just me.” It was kind of comforting, the fact that his temper seemed to be a little worse than hers.

—

“The woods.” Conor didn’t understand why that was supposed to be better. He felt like she was trying to convey that. The cave wasn’t just some cave, it was in the woods. He supposed it was better than the cave being lost in the mountains, or near the sea, in a bog or a hundred feet underground… Perhaps this was all she meant. “Wouldn’t you prefer being in a house? It mustn’t be comfortable, or terribly clean,” not to bring back to the table the matter of people’s smell, but surely living in a cave didn’t offer many opportunities to take a daily shower. He’d never liked showers much. Baths were nicer, but they took too much water and he forced himself to take showers instead. 

“A few? C’mon,” the faun rubbed at his forehead, grimacing as he imagined what a few people could represent. “Heh, no point telling them it’s not true,” Conor didn’t particularly care for what others’ thought of him, though he cared enough not to show anyone what he looked like, usually. “I don’t suppose you can fix my door,” he didn’t even ask. It seemed unlikely that she’d be able to do anything about the mess she had made. Conor wasn’t sure what he was gonna do about that. His insurance company was never going to believe him, and he figured it’d cost less to just replace it. 

—

Her face fell as it became clear that, despite being a goat, Conor didn’t understand the inclination of living in the woods. She tried to hide her disappointment as she looked back to the hardened magma and the broken vase, rolling her eyes a little sullenly. “Oh, yeah. Let me just go to the house store and use my free house coupon.” Even if she wanted a house, she’d never be able to afford one. It was so much easier to just… not want one. It hurt less. “I like the cave. It’s not uncomfortable, and it’s cleaner than some people’s houses. There’s a stream that goes through it, and it has lots of rooms. It’s nice.” And she was able to draw power from it, but she decided to leave that part out. He’d get the wrong idea, somehow.

“You were being mean!” Cass said defensively. “What was I supposed to do?” She’d probably still tell people it wasn’t true, even though he said she didn’t have to. She felt bad about it. She didn’t know any other way to make it up to him. Looking back to the door, she shrugged sheepishly. “I can’t really unburn something, can I?” Fae magic was cool, but not that cool. You couldn’t undo something once it had been done. That was just life.

—

“There is no such thing as a house store. I mean, there is, but it’s not called a house store, and they probably would go bankrupt if there was such a thing as free house coupons,” he pressed his lips together, his eyebrows curling in worry. She knew that, right? No one could be so clueless. He followed her gaze, approaching his hand to the block of lava, carefully. It was still a bit warm. He wondered how long it would be before it was completely cold. “It looks nice, you know,” it had destroyed his door, and his vase, but he couldn’t deny this much. It looked nice. 

“I was not being…” He held his hand against his stomach. Right. Lies. “I’m sorry.” He was. He should not have gotten so intense over her use of candles, but he felt as though the blame was shared here. They both had a pretty damn shitty temper, didn’t they? She had burned through his door to get into his house, and he didn’t think it too awful to call her stinky online. Still, one felt worse than the other to him. “You were not supposed to come here to try and commit arson, that’s for certain,” he pointed out. Getting back up on his feet, the faun returned to his concealed appearance as he pushed the door open, taking a look at it from the pavement. It was a goddamn mess, and now he’d have to sleep in his shop to keep people from entering. Tomorrow, he’d put a wooden plank over it and try to find someone who could replace the door for him. “I really could have done without replacing the damn door. You do know that’ll cost me a lot of money, right?” Probably not. Someone who had nothing clearly couldn’t care less about other people’s property. “That was not okay,” even if she was upset, even if he was mean to her. With a sigh, he stepped back inside. “Don’t you do that ever again,” it was in those moments you could tell he was a lot older than he appeared, and the scolding in his eyes certainly highlighted that.

—-

“That was a joke,” Cass replied, deflating a little. Jokes weren’t nearly as funny when you had to say that they were jokes to make the target audience understand them, and she was a little disappointed that hers hadn’t landed. It was a classic joke! She’d seen a variation of it in a TV show! He should be laughing right now. Glancing back to the block of hardened magma, she hummed. “It always does. People are so scared of it. They miss how pretty it is.” That was the thing about volcanoes; people got so caught up in the destruction of them that they turned them into horror stories. There were disaster movies with volcanic eruptions at the center, tragedies marked by flowing lava. People liked to turn things they didn’t understand into something sinister, but that was rarely ever the case. The volcanoes were there first. It was humans who’d built cities and civilizations around them and then screamed when they did what they were always going to do.

She was a little surprised when he apologized, though maybe she shouldn’t have been. Now that she was here, she could recognize that he was pretty reasonable. He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t calling the police, wasn’t doing a thousand different things that he probably would have been well within his rights to do. Cass shrank into herself just a little, shrugging a shoulder. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she agreed, because it was true. She’d overreacted just a little, so afraid of rejection that she’d gone to an unnecessary extreme. She shifted, following him sheepishly over to the destroyed door. It was definitely not something that could be repaired. “I’m sorry.” How much did a door cost? She couldn’t exactly offer to pay for it, and he probably knew as much; she had just admitted to living in a cave, after all. Shifting her weight between her feet, she fixed her gaze on the ground. “I promise I won’t burn your door again,” she said dutifully. It was the kind of promise that was harmless because she meant it. She had no intention of repeating what she’d done here tonight; Conor was nice. She shouldn’t have done it to begin with. 

___

“Ah.” It must have been the late hour of the night. 

Conor looked away from the younger fae to stare at the block of volcanic stone. “You can’t blame people for that,” he knew people would be scared of him if he showed them what he really looked like. Anything that struck them as abnormal, anything that struck him as abnormal. Conor knew he wasn’t the bravest guy around here but he wasn’t one to let people get hurt either, and Cass looked like his first words to her had wounded her. He didn’t like that. “They don’t know that we exist, and they don’t like novelty,” they sought the comfort of the roads well traveled, and he couldn’t blame them. Conor, just like them, wasn’t brave, and he too preferred to stick to the things he knew : flowers, plants, his violin, his mom, his shop, his cat that he only named  2 months after it showed up on his doorstep, out of fear that it would disappear. 

“Yeah, you really shouldn’t have fucking done that,” he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to keep the door closed now, but he would have to figure something out until the next morning. It was nothing he could solve now. 

She promised not to touch his door ever again and he chose to believe that. She sounded like she meant every word of it. She sounded like she meant every word she had spoken ever since she got in here. A whole lot were not pleasant, but Conor knew a lot of his words, which he also meant, had not been pleasant. They were even now, and he was ready to make a friend.  

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: The 8th of June

LOCATION: Conor’s flower shop

PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Bridie @itzbridiebitch

SUMMARY: Bridie and the voices in her head come to Conor's shop for flowers, pink flowers.

CONTENT WARNINGS: none

Bridie was on edge. 

Having voices in her head was not a normal occurrence. She probably wouldn’t have minded if they had been nice voices. But the voices weren’t nice. They were the opposite of nice. And their sudden appearance was, to put it frankly, stressing her the fuck out. 

So she decided she deserved a treat. 

Walking into the florist shop, she hoped the faun she’d met previously was working. “Hello?” She called in as she opened the door. The voice in her brain had taken to soft muttering, and at her hello it’s volume rose. Bridie flinched, shaking her head. God damn it, please let this interaction be halfway normal. “It’s Bridie… from Tír na nÓg?”

_____

He felt her before he heard her voice, he felt that buzzing, that weird tingle across his skin. He had met a few other fae since they’d first spoken, and although he was now experiencing some levels of regrets regarding how he handled meeting her, Conor wasn’t one to easily apologize, and he was still worried that she would make him anxious with her high levels of energy. He didn’t pick up immediately on her tone, though that wasn’t precisely a surprise. He didn’t really register those details, usually. 

“I remember ya,” he commented, as dryly as their context would demand. 

The florist was tying a piece of raphia around the stems of a flower bouquet, the final touch before he set it in a vase for someone to buy later. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He dreaded what her answer might be. Maybe she decided she no longer would need his help with flowers, considering how everything went. That wouldn’t be pleasant. Maybe she needed more flowers. He’d rather have it that way. 

____

“Oh cool, yay. Happy to be remembered!” Bridie said, sounding almost too chipper. As if by sheer will, she could out-happy the voice’s incessant bad. The chattering faded into silence. Ha. Take that voice. The faun stood taller, letting the worry melt off her as she took a deep breath of the air in the flower shop, letting the sweet smell of flowers carry her worries away. 

“Yeah! Actually there is. I’d like some flowers, and you seemed like the go to guy for that.” She smiled. “I just thought I deserved a treat. It’s not anything huge like last time- I don’t need any huge arrangements or anything. Just something cute. And pink.” Bridie rambled, relishing in the fact that the only voice in her head was hers. 

_____

"I can't see how I could forget meeting you, it was rather unpleasant," he stated. She had, after all, assaulted with the sort of energy generally found in fauns, according to books, at least, and the two fauns he had ever met. That had left him feeling stressed, ambushed and nowhere near eager to meet more of his kind. She was quieter today. He appreciated the change. 

It was a shame it seemed like it wouldn't last.

“Flowers. I suppose I can do that for ya,” he wiped his hands dry on the rag tied to his apron’s belt and gave her a once-over. If he couldn’t really put his finger on what had changed with her, there was a difference between the one he saw last month, and the one standing before him now. “Cute and pink, alright,” that elicited a small smile out of him. “Hot pink, I’m guessing?” She might have sported cotton candy colored curls, her sparkly, bubbly personality screamed vibrant colors to him. “Do you want a bouquet or…” He shifted his weight from one hoove to the other, hesitant. Nah, a bouquet was probably simpler than a flower crown, even if he thought it to be nicer. He didn’t like imposing his thoughts. “Nevermind.” Joining her side, he picked up a bright pink gerbera from a vase and handed it over to her. “That shade?”

____

The fact that she’d earned a smile out of this grump of a goat usually would have elicited a delighted giggle, or at least a matching grin from Bridie. Instead, it was a small stilted smile, as if smiling fully would summon the voices in her head. 

“Hot pink is perfect,” she said, injecting as much happy into her tone as she could. She was happy, and pink, and nothing was wrong. The other faun handed her a bright pink flower. Her fingers were about to close around it, when the voice whispered as though it were right behind her, breathing down her neck. Bridie flinched away, choking on the distressed squeak that tried to fight its way out of her. She coughed clearing her throat, trying to play it off as if it was just a cough. “Yeah that’s perfect,” she said, her tone distracted. “Totally perfect.”

_____

“Amen then, mass has been said,” he declared. You couldn’t call that look on his face quite delight, but it was perhaps the happiest he had looked so far around the other faun. Conor nearly dropped the flower to the floor, when she squeaked and crispated, as if the flower had just burned her fingers. Holding his hand close against his chest, he realized he’d broken the stem and it was his turn to clear his throat. 

“Ahem, you don’t seem entirely convinced, or entirely well,” he pointed out, reaching in his apron for sheers, cutting clean the stem and tossing the damaged end behind his counter. Then, reaching forward carefully, he held it back to her. “You can put that one in your hair,” he offered, picking up a new one already, and busying himself with the different pink filled vases. “Why do you want to buy flowers today?” He asked, curious to know what brought her here. She didn’t come here to torment him, was she?

__

She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. Play it cool, Bridie, you can do it. But the question skittered in her brain. Could she?

“I’m f-“ the word caught in her mouth. She cleared her throat and tried again, tried to convince herself it was true. “I’m fi-“ once again the word was trapped, unable to free itself. She gave a defeated sound, opting for silence instead of the lie. She looked down at the flower he held out. It was a kind gesture. Bridie hesitantly plucked the flower from his hand, tucking it in her hair. If the flower had been the catalyst for the voice, it had decided the flower was acceptable now. 

“I’m tired.” She said as an explanation. It wasn’t a lie. Ha. She thought. “I didn’t really sleep last night.”

____

“You can’t lie either, can you?” Ever since his conversation with Regan, he has started to think about all these things that either felt weird or different. People lied, but Conor never did. He didn’t like it. Still, his sarcasms sometimes earned him a nice stomach ache. 

Seeing her take the flower was a relief. It wasn’t much, sure, but it was nice knowing that he didn’t do anything wrong here. “It looks pretty,” and it did. The vibrancy of those bright pink petals brought even more light to her pastel hair. 

“Busy night at work?” It happened to him sometimes. He could not find sleep. It was often in those restless moments that incidents happened. He’d often feed in those moments, but when he’d come back home, while satiated, he would carry with him a certain motion in his chest that was akin to panic. “You should nap,” he suggested.

___

“Fae don’t lie.” She said simply in response, a frustrated scowl on her face at the words that simply refused to obey. She usually didn’t mind it, having to tell the truth. But she usually didn’t have much to hide, and when she did, she always knew the right way to talk her way around it. This time, however… Bridie didn’t know how to explain her situation without sounding insane. Maybe she was insane. She blinked at the unexpected three words. She paused a moment making certain they hadn’t come from the phantom voice in her mind. “Thank you,” she said hesitantly, raising a hand to touch the flower in her hair. 

“No.” She said bluntly. She couldn’t lie, so what was the point in trying. Maybe she just wouldn’t elaborate. That seemed like a reasonable solution. “I can’t nap.” Bridie had tried. The voice would always show back up when she was on the edge of slumber. “So I’m just. Up for the day.”

____

“Fae don’t lie,” he pursed his lips. Conor didn’t really mind. It was comforting, he supposed, sharing something in common with a whole group of people. Perhaps he’d get along with other fae then. He’d never much liked liars, and people did that all the time. Idly picking shades of fuschia from vases and slowly building the brightest monochrome bouquet he had in a while. It wasn’t the sort of assignment people usually gave him. People didn’t often buy flowers for themselves, which he found unfortunate. People who waited to be offered flowers probably didn’t have them very often. Perhaps he’d get along with Bridie too. Buying flowers for oneself was a nice way to redeem their past encounter. Still, Conor couldn’t forget how anxious he had felt then. 

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he pointed out. It was another thing he had learned recently. He wasn’t sure if fully understood what it all meant, but the thought of someone owing him wasn’t one he cherished. Perhaps the fact that he’d said that with the most bored, jaded tone would let her know about his state of mind. 

“You can’t nap ?” That seemed unlikely. If she had time to shop for flowers, surely she could have taken that time to nap. “What kept you up all night anyway?” Nevermind that it was none of his business, or that her answer could possibly have him blushing, Conor now was staring right at her, with curious eyes. Her state was like a puzzle, and he couldn’t crack it just yet.

_____

She had been so focused on the voice she hadn’t realized her mistake. She knew better than to thank someone. Those were not words to be used lightly, and yet she’d grown so used to hearing humans throw the two words around so thoughtlessly. Maybe they were rubbing off on her. Bridie frowned. That wasn’t something she could worry about right now. 

“You’re right,” Her voice was soft, as she nodded. She needed to get her head firmly back on her shoulders, or else she was going to wind up in more trouble than she already was. “I was-” There was the voice again, at her other ear. She managed to restrain the flinch a bit more this time, but her hands still balled into fists. 

How could Bridie answer that though? It wasn’t a normal answer, and while she couldn’t lie to others she could still lie to herself. By not saying it aloud, maybe she could convince herself she wasn’t going insane. “It was noisy.” She said, taking the easy way around the truth.

_____

He fell silent. Whatever it was with her was more important than his questions, but then, all she said was that it was noisy. He could only relate to that, though he supposed that with the right earplugs, that wasn’t much of an issue. If that was all that had kept her up, then it was quite the anti-climatic way to unfold that mystery. Conor hummed quietly then. If this was it, then he was better off finishing her bouquet. Maybe she’d get some time to nap, if he hurried up.

“I still think you should nap,” was all he added, before he began counting the flowers to get an idea of the price of her bouquet. “You didn’t give me a budget,” another statement, said with the usual bored tone he so often bore on his tongue. “I can make it bigger, I suppose, but smaller, it’ll look a bit sad, like a supermarket bouquet.” Soulless, without charm. 

_____

She almost jumped at the humming. At first she thought it was another voice that had joined the world's worst party in her mind. Then she realized it was Conor. It wasn’t the sort of sound she expected from them. He’d been cantankerous the last time they’d talked, though that could be due in part to her insistence on asking him as many questions as she could. In this setting though, Bridie thought it seemed right. Her eyes flickered distractedly from watching him, to their surroundings.

She let out a soft laugh. “I will try to nap. I don’t know if it’ll be successful.” A feeble attempt at a smile wobbled onto her lips as she looked at the pretty pink flowers. She ought to have been gushing over them. They were lovely. Instead she simply nodded. “Do whatever you think looks best. I just want something nice.” Maybe something nice would make it all better. 

And then there was a new voice in her head. The faun bit back a yelp at the new voice that hissed dark secrets into her mind. “Just, ya know.” Bridie’s voice was strained as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Go nuts.” A poor choice of words. “Whatever you would do for yourself. But pink.”

_____

Securing his hold on her bouquet, Conor let himself get distracted by his potted plants briefly, idly sticking his finger into the soil to check on the humidity. Wiping it clean on his apron, he gave Bridie another look. He wasn’t sure what had happened to her since the last time he’d seen her. She was a lot more quiet. Maybe, now that she knew what he was, it was no longer necessary to be so excited and curious. Maybe this was what she usually was like : sad. “Something nice,” wasn’t it already nice? With a slight frown, he turned the bouquet toward himself, counting the flowers, and checking the pattern he’d build in his palm. She was right. It could have been nicer. Monochrome didn’t leave much room for contrast, so he had to create it with different shapes and tightness of blooms. 

“Nuts like a coconut, gotcha,” with a smile that finally reached the corners of his eyes, Conor began rearranging the flowers in his hand, adding more variety to it with closed and open peonies, carnations, and smaller gerberas. The bouquet was getting a lot more structured, and the florist knew he was doing a good job when he found himself regretting that he wasn’t making that bouquet for himself. “What about now?” 

——-

“Well it is nice,” Bridie said, rubbing at her eyes. She didn’t know where her head was. Well she did. She just didn’t like where her head was. “I just mean you can do a bit more if you want.”

She blinked. Was that a joke? Did the grumpy goat make a joke? It had to be- there was a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. She laughed- a small delighted noise. When he had finished working, it was stunning. She reached out and brushed a finger along the delicate bloom of a peony. A smile ghosted across her expression. “I love it. It’s perfect.”

_______

The sound of her laughter didn’t irritate his ears this time, and Conor decided to count this as progress. “Perfect’s better than nice,” he agreed, picking a piece of twine from his apron to tie it around his fist first, then around the stems. “I’ll wrap it up for you, in pink,” obviously. He first picked up a large sheet of brown kraft, folding it carefully to marry the curve of the bouquet, then to keep his promise, did the same with a bright pink sheet of paper. 

“Anything else I can do for you?” He paused. This wasn’t really what he ought to tell her. Conor looked up from the bouquet, doing last adjustments with the wrapping paper, to pay her a glance. “I suppose I should apologize, for the other day.” Even if he’d found their first encounter unpleasant, he knew that he had a problem with new situations, and having been in the presence of another faun, another fae, after spending his whole life without meeting one… He had not handled it well at all. 

_____

It was a nice touch. The soft smile on her face held firm, even as the voice started to creep back in on the corner of her mind. Pink flowers in pink paper. It was so perfectly Bridie. So perfectly normal for her. It made it easy to pretend that so much wasn’t going wrong at the moment. 

She shook her head. “No, I think that’s everything. Just the bouquet today.” Today, she said, almost to promise herself that whatever was wrong with her, it wouldn’t be the end of her. She had to come back and get more flowers, after all. “How much do I owe you?” Bridie blinked, almost wondering if it was the voice in her head that had apologized. But no, Conor’s mouth had moved in time with the words she heard. “It’s alright.” The words left her easily. “I did ask you a lot of questions. Probably not the best first impression.”

____

He nodded along to the shake of her head. “Okay.” Conor had been counting her flowers as he picked them up, and it didn’t take him more than a breath to give her the precise amount. “It’s $51.65 but 50’s fine,” he didn’t like to count cash at the end of the day and rounding up prices certainly helped with that. 

He was beginning to hope that she hadn’t blinked out of surprise (the bad sort) when she opened her mouth again. “I just… I haven’t seen a lot of other fae before.” He had seen one before her, one he detested. But he had met a few more too since he ran into Bridie, and it didn’t take a lot for Conor to see that yes, some of them were weird, but so was he, and he didn’t feel like that made him a bad person. “I guess I should be glad I’m not the only faun in town,” he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he didn’t know anyone else but her and his father, or that he came here looking for answers. Instead he waited by the counter, his eyes set on the bird of paradise that grew there. 

_____

Bridie fished around in her wallet, pulling out sixty dollars and handing it over. “Just keep the change.” She scooped up the flowers and admired them, eyes shifting across the different shapes and shades in the bouquet. 

She looked at him confused. All the fae she knew grew up with a community. With an aos sí. Fae of all sorts, living together to protect their secrets. Had he grown up alone? Alone, the voice liked that word. Alone, alone, alone, all alone. “I grew up with lots of fae… lots of fauns.” She nodded in agreement. “I’m glad I’m not the only faun in town either.” Not alone, Bridie thought back at the voice. Now I have a friend. “I’ll see you around, Conor.” She fave him a lopsided smile as she walked out the door.

_______

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: a few weeks ago SETTING: conor's house PARTIES: @faunandfl0ra + @kadavernagh SUMMARY: Regan shows up at Conor's house hoping to get help with her underwear. Things get steamy and wet.

The bulky winter coat swished, hopefully for the last time, as Regan shuffled up the stairs of Inflorescence, where Conor resided. Under her arm she carried a bundle of stiff, off white fabric she’d found at a crafts supply store, as well as eight belts, which was probably wildly excessive, and a lighter weight black fabric. but she wasn’t sure how many would be needed. She rapped on Conor’s door with her knuckles, a little urgently, wanting to come in and dump her haul in front of him. Here you go. Fix it, please. When the door opened – a wave of familiar prickles plucking at her skin at Conor’s arrival – her wings quavered, as she realized what else their meeting meant. Showing him. “Hello,” Regan said, having a hard time meeting his eyes. Now she couldn’t get it out of her head, the thought of stripping the coat off and needing to face his judgment, his thoughts. She inhaled a deep breath and walked right past him, into Conor’s home. His taste in decor was as thoughtful as his flower arrangements, though not quite as colorful. She finally looked at him and her shoulders slumped. She set the supplies down on the table. “I appreciate your help with this. I don’t trust anyone else to – I – right, the diagram.” She removed the folded piece of paper from one of the coat’s innumerable pockets, and flattened it out with her hand. “You can see how this is supposed to work. The fabric goes underneath the belts, double layered, and the second fabric goes over everything.”

"Do you want some tea?" Regan seemed under a lot of stress. She had told him not to worry as it was useless but the faun felt as though this was what calling the kettle black was about. He didn't mind helping her out. If anything he was glad she wasn't dealing with everything all alone even if he was not sure of how good his help would be. 

He took a second to study her outfit. That long coat went all the way up to her nose which could have been convenient, had it been the middle of winter. "You weren't joking about that," not that he ever had a doubt. He wasn't much of a jokester either but she took it to the next level. Perhaps she thought jokes were lies too. 

Conor took the piece of paper from her hand, taking a look at it. He wasn't sure exactly of how she was supposed to ever move a single muscle again, with those things strapped around her like that, but she was the one with a medical degree here, and he knew better than to question a doctor. "You're sure you don't wanna try hiding them my way?" He didn't particularly recommend it. The place his mind went whenever he wanted to hide his true form was not a very nice one. 

“No. But if making tea is something that would make you less…” Regan scrunched her face up, not wanting to consider her emotional vocabulary, “...do whatever you would like.” She swayed awkwardly between her feet; her body sensed the inevitable and did not want to be stripped of the protective barrier offered by the coat. The thought made her lungs feel especially hollow. “You should know by now that I’m not someone who jokes.” She zipped down the coat, at least a little, but made sure to keep everything important obscured. Maybe they could do this without him seeing. It seemed a ridiculous thought, but she wanted to entertain it nonetheless.

Regan frowned down at the pile of belts and fabric, a contraption that would need to take form, somehow, so she could wiggle her way into it. “Yes. I’m sure. It won’t work. I understand that it would be the most ideal solution to this problem, but I told you about what was already tried.” But she knew how futile this was likely to be, too, and Conor’s uncertainty did not encourage her. “It seems senseless,” Regan said, not looking at Conor. “They will burn this in Saol Eile. It is an insult to their existence.” She was utterly sure that it would only be a matter of time before Siobhan managed to drag her back there, even if her lungs spilled out the entire way. “But maybe it’ll make it harder for her to find me. The other… banshee. She wouldn’t be able to ask others about a woman in an unseasonable coat.”

While he attempted to figure out what she meant by that, Conor began looking through his cupboards for jasmine tea. “Ah, there it is.” With a triumphant shake of the tin box, the faun stepped away from her. “I know, I would have been surprised if you were joking about that,” he pointed out. Either way, he wished she had been joking. In that heat, it sounded like absolute hell, and now, on top of that, she had to worry about some eccentric woman who wanted to abduct her. 

“You did but it sounded very barbaric. I don’t know about you, but when teachers were mean to me, I usually didn’t learn shit.” He didn’t really like being at school, but his mother was proud when he brought home good grades, and Conor didn’t want to upset her. She had enough on her plate, and he kept being told to make things easier for her. Moira Kiernan didn’t get the chance to go to school for long, and neither did his grandparents. If he had stayed with them, he probably would have been the first one to graduate highschool. That had been his brother’s achievement. 

“I think, if this works, you should invest in a corset. It’ll be safer, and easier to put on in the morning,” he set down two cups of tea on the kitchen table, before picking up one of the stripes of fabrics she brought along. “Look, I don’t know why they want you back, but come on, you can’t possibly consider going back,” and yet he was under the impression that there was something there that she couldn’t run away from, no matter how much she tried. “She’s something, that one. I saw the message she posted. Fucking creep.” He looked over at Regan who seemed uncertain about taking off her coat. Well ain’t that a fucking mood. If he hadn’t been able to conceal his legs or his horns, he'd have been wearing a ridiculous hat and the widest pair of pants he could find, every second of his life. “Would it help if I looked like… well, a faun? Put us on an even ground?”

Regan eyed the tea warily, like it presented a danger. It kind of did. Or the cup did, anyway. The town had chiseled away at her composure too much, and glassware and ceramics suffered for it. As did her pride. She would try not to make Conor’s home a minefield of broken glass, but she couldn’t remember having this much difficulty controlling her voice since her first year in Saol Eile. What was happening to her? “You’re wrong,” she said thoughtfully, “something barbaric can also be necessary, and when something is necessary, it will be learned, whatever the cost.” And yet, she was avoiding teacups like they were lit firecrackers. 

“I wouldn’t know where to get a corset,” Regan admitted, “but I can appreciate the ease of use. How do you know so much about… women’s dress?” She brushed it away. “Doesn’t matter. You and the others I have informed of this do not have a clear grasp of the situation. What I want – if I even did want – does not matter. What I consider does not matter. What I do does not matter.” She glanced over at the belts. “This could buy some time, maybe another couple of weeks for me to tie up loose ends, but it’s not a solution. Not that that’s why I’m here. Getting out of the coat will simply be a relief.” Except for right now, in front of Conor. 

Wait a second. “Message? What message?” Did she even want to know? Did she want to invite more dread, when she should have been feeling none at all? “I – forget it. Forget about all of that. Let’s focus on this.”

She looked down past her nose at the zipper. And did not move to even touch it. Conor’s presence hummed around her, and though it still raised across her skin in a way that couldn’t be anything other than unpleasant, she was acclimating to it. Less receptive was she to remove the coat. Conor seemed to have picked up on it.

The offer took her by surprise. She knew how much Conor hated the… goat-like parts of his anatomy. Regan found them strange and alien herself – impossible, really – but they didn’t make her shrivel with disgust the way she imagined Conor did. “It won’t make me feel better because I’m not feeling any particular way at all.” Something bit down inside of her stomach, and she winced, almost imperceptibly. “But I wouldn’t… mind that.” Whether or not it would make her more likely to actually unzip her coat was another matter.

“I think they sell these in Bost-” He cut himself off. He hadn’t told anyone where he came from, out of fear, perhaps that someone might recognize him. It was silly. Regan wasn’t going to tell the whole world about his whereabouts, he supposed. “In Boston. Or at least they did when I left in 1967. My mother and my grandmother used to wear those. They were still in fashion back then,” and then people started saying that they were bad for your stomach. He’d always heard that a well seasoned corset would never do any harm, like uncomfortable shoes becoming comfortable like slippers after a while. Not that he would know anything about either. He didn’t wear corsets, and shoes were a bit complicated to wear with hooves. 

“I bet. That coat looks warm,” he observed. Yet, she kept it on. 

She seemed upset with the thought of that rude lady communicating with him. Conor agreed that it wasn’t ideal, but felt as though he had avoided revealing anything important to her. “Let’s forget about it then.” This, he could agree with too. 

“You don’t look like you’re feeling great right now,” she hated those wings of hers, from what he gathered, and wished for nothing but to hide them away again. It seemed strange to him, her stubborn need to keep it all under wraps : herself, her feelings, the wings. If he thought about it too much, he knew it was bound to make him sad. Now that she was accepting his offer, however, Conor was starting to face regrets. He didn’t like being seen like this. Owen insisted that it really wasn’t awful at all, but there was a reason he didn’t keep mirrors around the house. With a slight frown, he turned his back on her, as if viewing his legs go from perfectly normal to that would be a better sight from behind. Shoes disappeared to reveal dark hooves, and the blonde hairs on his legs grew thicker, the shape drawn by his bones changing to capri features. As for his thick, curls of blond hair… They would have never managed to fully conceal those horns of his, curling and twisting up in the air. Keeping his nose down, he glanced over to the side, remaining quiet. 

Banshees hid much from the world, but not their appearances. Beyond the wings, they looked a lot like the humans many of them detested. In Saol Eile, Regan had never known a banshee to frequently glamour themselves. Still, she had seen it before, and especially when Cliodhna was trying (and failing) to teach her, she remembered the way she’d stared and trembled as the impossible happened before her eyes. Conor was doing the opposite now – pulling something hidden from the air that few people would ever get to see. His legs stretched out in inhuman angles, horns spiraled from his skull and poked from his hair like mountains through the clouds. And something many people would have found breathless magic in only filled Regan with a thick dread, disguising her fear even to herself.

She held her eyes on Conor’s legs for a long time, too long. But she couldn’t pull them away from those odd angles and the hooves sprouting from the bottom where there should have been normal shoes – she was pretty sure there were shoes there moments ago. She tried to lift her head to meet Conor’s familiar eyes, but the horns caught her gaze instead and she couldn’t fit it where it was intended. Regan’s hands flopped to her sides. They certainly were not going near the zipper. Her tongue felt equally as floppy in her mouth. Somehow, this was no less strange the second time, however expected it was. Regan shifted her weight between her decidedly non-ungulate feet, not breaking eye contact with the space above Conor’s head that was currently occupied by a pair of horns. “Oh, right, you’re…” was all she said, and she felt dumb saying it, and even more like a fool when the sound of shattering glass sounded from the delicate pair of post-teacups, now a mess of fragments and hot liquid running across the table. 

Conor looked at her with wide eyes. Regan had seen those things before, when they had first met. It had been brief, but she knew about these because she had seen them, and because he had told her what he was. And yet, she stared at him. He wasn’t sure if she felt curious, disgusted or scared. From the way her hands dropped onto her sides, he would have supposed that she was left speechless, but was quick to assess that considering how abnormal he looked, some horror must have slipped in here too. 

“Regan… Do you want me to go back to normal? I think this is too much,” he would have loved her to say yes but the faun knew that being around someone as weird as she apparently was (underneath that coat) could perhaps help, and he was willing to suffer a little while longer if only it could help her. “This is a fucking nightmare, I know,” he motioned to his horns and then to his hooves, kneeling to pick up the bits of teacups from the ground and leaving her side to get a sponge from the sink. “So, whatever it is you’re hiding, even if it’s bad, well… We’re on the same boat, I suppose.” 

Oh, gallbladder, he thought she – Regan shook her head, aghast. “No, you’re – it isn’t too much.” It was, probably. But her insistence had an edge of defensiveness to it that she chose to interpret as determination. Her shock slowly settled and righteousness took its place. “Do not imply that I can’t handle something.” I’ve seen goats before, she almost said, but thought better of it when she saw the bright uncertainty in Conor’s eyes; he had made himself vulnerable and it frightened him. The least she could do was not force him to expose his throat as well as his legs. “You don’t need to change. You’re fine.”

She looked down at the hooves one more time – just clomping on Conor’s regular floorboards like a barnyard animal had been let into his home – and tried to keep focus on his eyes this time. Not the horns. She swirled around her target and eventually struck it. A lump balled in Regan’s throat and she swallowed it back audibly. “I’m sorry about the teacups.” She managed to dislodge herself to help sweep up the glass – something she was unfortunately quite practiced at. “And my – the way I – I should never – tá mé níos fearr ná mo ghníomhartha. My grandmother would roll in her grave. Not that she is dead. But she has a grave and enjoys spending time in there.” Conor was looking at her almost expectantly now. Whatever she was hiding in there, he said. Her wings flitted uncomfortably against the coat as if they’d been perceived, which was nothing new. Such a shame her hands were too busy cleaning up the glass to even drift near the zipper. “I suppose,” Regan said a bit flippantly, taking but not taking his meaning, “say, do you see a farrier?”

"Alright," Conor tried to shake off the worry in his eyes. Who was he to question her perception of things ? Still, he knew he was not the only one in the room struggling with their true appearance. Maybe he was the only one here with a problem with his looks however. With a slight nod, he picked up a rag to clean up the teacup debris, a small smile etching on his lips at the sound of Irish. He hadn't heard that in a while. His grandparents spoke it a lot around the house, but they had been gone for a long while now. "Is that… Do you also have a grave?" He pictured an old lady rolling in her grave like a child would in snow or a dog in the grass and couldn't decide if that was comical or disturbing.

"Alright, let me finish cleaning up. It's just dumb tea cups." A pause. "And you're gonna end up with a bad cut, doing that with your bare hands," he didn't mean to scold her but you didn't turn 70 without acquiring some of that cranky yet protective energy you only found in elders. Besides, he could also tell this was another means to stall the inevitable and while he hadn't lost one bit of patience, he was curious. What could she be hiding that was so terrible?

“No grave for me, yet. The others in Saol Eile had truly beautiful ones, though, often selected with great anticipation. Some decide on one centuries in advance. Others, well… when you know your own death is coming, it allows for such preparation. The cemetery, Dualgas Deiridh, is special.” Regan hesitated, knowing that the act of missing something was a sentimental fault befitting of humans, but not banshees. And yet. When she closed her eyes, she smelled the wet earth and heard the hooded crows calling to the dead. “I will eagerly return to it. Perhaps I’ll be buried there. It would be fitting.” After all, hadn’t she died there? Not her, not now; but someone bearing her name had.

Regan’s hands had seen far worse; they were marred by years of studious devotion and – at times – punishment. This would be nothing new. But she also did not find it worth it to argue, and withdrew her hands from the shattered pieces so Conor could sweep them away. That freed them to migrate, shakily, to the zipper of her coat. It felt as though she were about to disrobe, wearing nothing underneath. No, worse. But as she looked at the pile of books and fabric on the table, thought about the constriction around her body and what it represented, something like shame filled her. It was bad enough that she’d never got the hang of a glamour. But this was a prison that seemed, in some ways, worse than a winter coat. And it certainly was no solution. Conor had known this instinctively, hadn’t he? He was willing to help but had voiced his reservations.

Regan took a deep breath, then looked at Conor, her eyes getting caught on his legs only for a flicker this time. She couldn’t exactly say she was used to it, but it was growing less alarming. She picked up one of the thick belts and squished the leather in her fist. “This will not help me.” She announced. And not just because she didn’t want Conor seeing or touching her wings. Well, maybe a little that. “Don’t think I suddenly believe myself to be capable of learning how to do… what you did. But the only thing worse than returning to Saol Eile with that necklace would be returning in that contraption.” She was also increasingly sure that Siobhan would find her either way; or something even more likely – Regan would end up going to her. “I haven’t exhausted my resources yet. You may keep the materials. Make a corset, or something. You seem to enjoy them.” 

“You know, it is very strange, the way you were raised, but I suppose that’s just a different culture than mine,” not really. They both had a strong Irish heritage, didn’t they? And Conor couldn’t understand the obsession with death. It was such a terrible, heartbreaking thing, and they celebrated it as if it was something sacred. All he knew about religious beliefs was that it seemed to be used as an excuse to keep a lot of dumb bullshit going, and his knowledge extended easily to death worship cults. “I just hope you do things for yourself and not in the name of some tradition that you didn’t choose to abide to,” because there seemed to be a certain sense of duty that came along with bansheehood that he simply did not understand, and that he had trouble to see as anything but imposed and suffered. 

She seemed to grow less hesitant, for just a couple moments, and though the faun, of all people, could only relate to the pain that came along with being seen, Conor was growing a bit impatient. There was something mysterious about all this. “I told you that this wasn’t a solution,” and from his tone rose hints of jaded despair. Why did she have to be so stubborn about this? She must have known from the start that tying a bunch of belts wouldn’t solve her issue, not really? “You really want to go back there? You left for a reason,” running a hand through thick locks of hair, Conor scratched at the base of his right horn, seemingly puzzled by the change of heart, and the equally frustrating stubbornness with which she treated the question of Saol Eile. 

“The fuck am I gonna do with a corset?” His grandmother was a seamstress, and he was a lot better with a sewing machine than most, but although it was not the point, he was pretty sure a corset was above his skill level. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re not gonna be strapping yourself up like that but I…” He trailed off and visible confusion appeared on his face. “And I don’t enjoy corsets. My mom certainly complained enough about having to wear them.”

There it was again, that word want, so easily spoken by everyone but her, it seemed. It was a selfish word, and had Regan stayed in Saol Eile like she was supposed to, there wouldn’t be any semblance of self left. As it stood, there was enough – a scraped-together ego fighting against its own existence – but enough for something inside of her to flicker in response. To waver. Regan was silent for too long of a moment. “I left for my brother. He thought he still recognized me, but he was wrong. I think he’s learning that now.” She could tell by Reilly’s less frequent visits, the way he no longer needed her to urge him out the door, the occasional mention of Portland or Augusta, greener pastures for him that were more promising than the blighted backyard he had here with her. It would make leaving easier for both of them, so she saw it as a blessing, even if it sometimes felt like a dagger sliding between her ribs.

“Whatever you do with them. Keep it, wear it, expand the wares your stores offers and sell it.” She glanced down at the pile one last time and her certainty solidified. It was no solution, and would both encourage and remind her of her failings. “I won’t look at it anymore.” Conor, though, she would. And now, for whatever reason, her gaze didn’t linger on his horns or his legs. She wasn’t sure if she would see him again, but she was seeing him now. Her face grew solemn but the corner of her mouth twitched upward, almost imperceptibly. “Bye, Conor. Go raibh bás maith agat. When I think of you, I will remember your kindness and envision a peaceful death in your future.”

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Today LOCATION: Conor’s flower shop PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Owen @apaininyourneck SUMMARY: Conor’s most annoying customer has a new name. /nofaenonsense CONTENT WARNINGS: none

As tempting as it was to head straight home and blow off some steam after a whole afternoon spent dealing with nerds dressed in medieval gear, Owen was almost out of smokes. He had been one dumb question away from stabbing one of the young men just to get them out of the damn store but as Chet generally was, mutilating his loyal yet horribly depressing regulars would probably lose Owen the job. As he walked the streets of Downtown, a tingle of a shop bell dragged his attention to a store front he hadn’t cared to notice before. Or maybe it was new. He didn’t exactly keep up with the turn over on local florists but after a recent conversation online, the slayer found himself crossing the street to check out the store. 

A glance through the window found a single customer inside and, lo and behold, a single employee wearing an apron with plenty of pockets. Wicked’s Rest wasn’t too small, the odds of there being two male apron wearing florists weren’t none, but Owen intended to find out. If only because he had nothing better to do and if he couldn’t mess with customers when he was the one working, at least he could be an annoying customer to someone else. 

Strolling into the store, he busied himself with looking over the flowers, wondering what the hell compelled people to spend money on these. The closest he’d come to buying flowers was his father buying a bouquet on mother’s day and writing Owen’s name on the gift tag. 

_

“Good evening” he raised his nose from the counter, a piece of twine wrapped between his fingers as he tied a neatly folded sheet of kraft paper around the wildflower bouquet in front of him. Returning his attention toward his current customer, Conor picked up a sticker that read get well soon from beneath the counter, and a matching card for them to write on. “You can use one of my pens,” he pointed toward a sunflower patterned cup and picked up his notebook from the side of the counter and his calculator. 

“Plus 3, plus 2, plus 3.25, …” Mumbling under his breath, he added up the flowers he picked out for her. She explained to him earlier that this was for her brother who had broken his leg hiking in the woods. Or maybe she said he got attacked by a wolf. He hadn’t been paying too much attention. Why did people do that? He didn’t care for their life story. “Alright, 40 dollars and 25 cents. Barely above your budget,” he could have stayed under, but the bouquet would have lacked a little something. She was beaming, he offered a light smile in return. There weren’t many things that made him feel that way, but he loved recognition for certain. 

She left a moment later. Wiping down his workspace, the florist tilted his head up to look for the other person in the room. “Can I help you?” 

—

The only other customer left, leaving Owen alone in the store with the florist, whose name was sadly still a mystery. A few moments passed until the slayer was finally addressed. Letting go of the flower stem he’d been fiddling with, he turned to the man, finally sizing him up properly and for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Faint splotches of dirt coated his hands and apron, tattoos visible on his arm and snaking up under his shirt sleeves, a very generic expression on his face. Customer service mode most likely turned to the max, provided that this was the easily annoyed florist with the colorful vocabulary from online. “Sure hope so,” Owen replied, grinning wide. 

“Looking for something for a friend. Something that says…” Owen strolled towards another set up of flowers, fingers running over a few of the petals as he put on an expression of deep thought. “Just admit you like me and please remove that giant stick from your ass.” Whether or not this was the correct person or not, Owen didn’t much care. Even if this turned out to just be some random florist with a penchant for aprons with plentiful pockets, he wasn’t unattractive so some teasing wouldn’t hurt. 

—

And there it was again. Why did people need a reason to buy flowers? “Just admit you like me and remove the giant stick from your ass,” he probably meant a proverbial one. For once, Conor had to stop and wonder what the message was behind such a prompt. You didn't build the same bouquet for someone you hated and someone you liked. You generally didn't buy the former bouquets but he could get behind sending someone a bouquet that read fuck you. Not literally of course. That would be tacky.

"Alright. Well, we would want some geranium for that," he pursed his lips to the side. Yellow was the color of betrayal, so that could be a good angle. It was his favorite color, so Conor would have been personally delighted with such a bouquet. "Foxgloves. Some orange lillies," Conor scratched on the tip of his nose with one of his knuckles. His eyes finally fell toward the other's hands. Could he fucking stop touching everything. "Let's keep our hands off the flowers, shall we?" He didn't smile this time, and instead took a few steps to stand on the same side of the counter as his client. "What's your budget for your… friend?" 

—-

There was only a short pause at the request before the man seemed to simply take the suggestion in stride, starting to pick out flowers. Owen watched the look of concentration deepen on the other man’s face as he started picking up various things, naming them as he went and honestly, he could have been making up the names for all Owen knew. If he was the type to buy flowers, at least whatever the man was mixing together looked a hell of a lot nicer than the generic bouquets that filled every store in February. His intrigue in the man’s thought process was cut short by what was essentially scolding and Owen’s lips jerked into a crooked smile, hands raising in a dramatic display of innocence. “My bad,” he replied without a hint of regret.

“Ah, spare no expense. And let’s go with ‘soon to be friend’,” Owen replied, even though he had a feeling the florist couldn’t give two shits, “since he’s still on the fence but I’m sure he’ll come around.” With the opportunity provided since the man now stood next to Owen, he bumped his shoulder into the other’s with an obnoxious smile. Owen strolled away, fingers dragging along the edges of pots and counters, pointedly touching everything except the flowers. “You know, I think he’s a bit sour because I made fun of his apron. Even though it has, like, a bunch of pockets for holding stuff.” His back was facing the man as he spoke, wondering if it would ever sink in. 

—-

“Spare no expense,” Conor mumbled the words to himself. It was one bouquet. Even if he made it as large as possible, Conor could already tell that it wouldn’t go over a hundred dollars. Anything over that price tag would look ridiculous, and good luck finding a vase that complimented such a dense mass of flowers. Absolutely not. The clarification regarding the man’s oh-so-complicated relationship with his stuck up non friend flew right over his head. He did not care. 

He glanced up at the other, then down at his shoulder. Whatever meaning there was behind the other’s gesture, Conor couldn’t have been more confused about it. His eyebrows arched up in wonder, but the other was walking around the shop, this time making it a point of putting his fingers everywhere but on his flowers. His hand hovered over candytufts for a moment, while he considered the other’s words. That was stupid. “You shouldn’t have done that. Aprons should have more pockets than they usually do,” he commented, then motioned toward his own. “Mine was custom made. I keep losing my pair of scissors, my favorite sheers…” He let his voice die down. “It’s a life savior, really.”

—-

So apparently this man was much more easily riled up online than in person. At least while on the job. Or maybe he was just dumb as bricks, not a stretch considering the status of his computer knowledge. There he went off again, explaining to Owen just how amazing aprons were. To a man that would rather have quit the decently cushy job at The Wormhole than be forced to wear an apron if the choice had been presented. “Wow, custom made, huh?” Owen turned back to the florist and the ever growing bouquet. Wondering if he should just let things lie now and walk out - leave the man to put back the flowers. When had he ever let things lie, though?

“Yeah… poor fucker’s Irish, too. Probably shouldn’t be picking on him for the apron kink since he doesn’t have much else going for him. Bastard can’t even use Google translate,” Owen sighed, finally seizing his incessant touching of most things in the store in order to cross his arms over his chest. Staring pointedly at the florist, he wondered if the guy would continue to stand up for himself in the third person or finally get the hint. Judging from how this conversation had been going, the slayer’s bets were currently on the first option. 

__

“Looks good to you?” Conor asked, stopping in his tracks to present a bouquet that was already quite generously sized. “I could add more to it, but I think it’ll look better with a bit of foliage thrown into the mix,” and while he sold flowers for a living, he preferred harmony over money, happy customers tended to come back, not those that felt like they were scammed. 

He was glad to see the other take such interest into his aprons. Most people wouldn’t have felt this way. With a rare smile, he nodded along. “Maybe you could apologize to him. I think that once you’ve tried these, you can’t go back.” Putting things in your pockets was fun, but Conor was blessed with legs that could only wear loose trousers or kilts. He most often opted for the latter, though he had an ever growing collection of large legged pants, some dating back to the 60s.

“You think you’re fucking funny, don’t you?” His gaze fell to the bouquet in his hand. Well he could just wrap it and wait for someone to buy it tomorrow, considering it was closing time soon. With a sigh, he grabbed a piece of twine in his apron, wrapping it where his fist met the stems. “You’re a fucking prick. A big, sizable, fucking dickhead,” he tied a knot, then with a glare, went to pick up a vase from underneath the counter. “Well you’ve had your laugh. Haha, téigh ag gnéas le logáil isteach... Cad... Fucking,” he groaned. “Whatever the fuck happened to going for drinks? Did ya chicken out?”

—

There it was. The flash of recognition was delightful, especially combined with the genuine annoyance. “I have my moments,” Owen mused, following the gaze to the nice bunch of flowers being wrapped up. Accompanied by some very impressive cursing that only made the slayer’s smile wider. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve already established that I annoy you, nothing new there,” he waved him off. Sauntering up towards the counter, he side eyed the vase and pulled it towards himself before the florist had a chance to put the flowers away. 

“Nah, no chickening out, just wanted to see this apron for myself before I drink you under the table.” Owen let go of the vase for a moment to dig into his pockets, pulling out his wallet. “Come on, unclench your butt and tell me what I owe you.”

__

“Fuck off, you’re fucking un… not… You’re not funny,” he finally said, matter of factly, each of his words tainted with a special kind of disappointment. He didn't like a waste of time, and there was this guy, doing just that. Conor could have been working on closing the store now, but instead he had to be the butt of this guy's joke. Fan-fuckin-tastic. 

He was about to tell him to get the fuck out of his air when the annoyance pulled the bouquet back to himself. He wasn't gonna buy it, was he? 

Conor crossed his arms over his chest, expecting some sort of turn of situation that would make him once again the subject of a private one man show. Instead, he offered to pay, and the faun had no other choice than to tell the truth. He wouldn't be getting another stomach ache for this asshole. "And you couldn't just ask me ? You had to be fucking dramatic about it?" He tried to remember the subject of the bouquet. Something about sticks up one's arse and admitting to liking him. Right. "You're not as charming as you think you are," he flatly stated, then turning his back on him to tidy up his workstation, he said. "Sixty-two dollars and seventy five cents," he'd leave the other to do the math on a proper tip.

—

There were so many emotions flashing across the other man’s face that it was almost hard to keep track. Pure, unfiltered annoyance had been very obvious when the guy had thought Owen wasn’t going to finalize the purchase. It would have been funny to have the bouquet made for nothing but that made the odds of the aforementioned drinks seem very slim so the slayer held back. If he annoyed the guy too much now, there was no way to get to know him better. See if he was worth keeping around to mildly annoy every once in a while. And thankfully, the anger seemed to fade slightly when Owen asked to pay. 

“Bringing the drama is the curse I’m forced to live with,” he sighed, starting to count out bills and watching the other’s very tense back. “And I’m actually more charming than I give myself credit for,” Owen added, placing seventy dollars on the counter and reaching for a blank note and a pen while the florist’s back was turned. He quickly scribbled down a message onto the note and stuck it into the flowers, moving wordlessly for the door and only turning once one foot was already on the pavement outside. “Don’t wait too long to call. I know where you work.” And with that, he left, resuming his previous mission of buying cigarettes with a grin on his face. 

—

The other’s words were greeted with an eye roll. Given the context, it was perhaps a good thing only Conor’s wall of shears could see the look upon his face. Wiping the last pair of shears clean with a chlorophyll stained rag, he placed it back with the others and turned to look at Owen, who was walking out of the store without Conor’s bouquet. While he attempted to recall the last time he was ever given a present, the faun rubbed at the back of his neck in embarrassment. Maybe he should have been a bit nicer with Owen. A voice at the back of his head was opposed to that thought : he didn’t like aprons, he was dramatic and he wanted to see Conor piss drunk all to prove what? That he was superior at drinking? Conor didn’t like that, because he didn’t like losing, he very much liked his apron, and he didn’t like drama. When did anyone ever have a good time being dramatic? 

“You’re really not,” he retorted, turning around at last to watch him leave the store. At long last. The faun sighed. “Alright. Bye,” he couldn’t have sounded colder had he tried, yet, as he picked up the note from the bouquet, a warmth came to tint his cheeks Armeria maritima ‘Bloodstone’ pink. 

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Today LOCATION: Short and Stout, Owen’s PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Owen @apaininyourneck SUMMARY: Owen and Conor settle the debate on who can outdrink the other. It doesn't go... as badly as one would have expected? CONTENT WARNINGS: alcohol abuse, suggestive content

A part of him had been surprised that the grumpy florist had accepted the invite, challenge, whatever it was - for drinks. Owen had definitely annoyed people into never speaking to him again, which was rarely a problem. If they couldn’t handle him at a fraction of his worst, what was the point in even trying to keep them around? Not that there was ever much effort put into keeping anyone around, people came and went as they pleased and there were always plenty of others to take their place. It seemed that this Conor was up for the challenge though. 

For the first time in… well, possibly forever, Owen did not order a drink as he waited for his foul mouthed companion to arrive. They had a very scientific test to perform as it pertained to alcohol tolerance and Owen hated to lose more than he hated sipping on a damn soda. Finally though, the messy hair of head appeared in the crowd. Waving him over, shit eating grin already in place, Owen twirled the straw in his glass as Conor took a seat. “Aww, our first real date. I don’t know about you but I think we should definitely say fuck it to the three date rule.”

—

“One second in, and you’re already a fucking prick,” with a scowl, the faun took off his cardigan. It wasn’t even that chilly out there, he was just confident that they wouldn’t be coming out of this bar until it was already late at night. If you asked him, they should have settled this issue in his backyard, with one bottle of vodka, one of whisky, and call it a damn fucking day, but he wasn’t entirely sure about letting that guy into his private space yet, and the bar seemed like a neutral ground. 

“You always take your dates on drinking contests?” Not that he was an expert. Conor’s dating life ended the day his legs turned into these hairy hooved limbs, more or less and the few romantic experiences he had all had involved some level of drinking, because he was too anxious for flirting sober, and too terrified to approach anyone while going through a self conscious crisis regarding his true appearance. Perhaps Owen had a point. “You could have bought me new flowers for the occasion,” he commented, with his usual dryness. Raising his hand toward the waiter, he motioned the guy to order for them both. “Losers first,” he quipped. 

—

Owen gave a nonchalant shrug, the perfect picture of innocence, taking in his companion’s outfit. Apparently he didn’t just dress like a young grandfather at work, this was his entire wardrobe. Owen wasn’t sure he’d spent time with someone wearing a cardigan since the last time he’d gone to a family event with all of his great uncles. It was almost adorable, the amount of cussing and anger wrapped up in soft materials and flower tattoos. 

“Only when they claim they can outdrink me,” he answered honestly since this was far from his first drinking challenge. Aside from protecting his pride, they were also good for getting whoever he was with ridiculously drunk and Owen figured that was the best way to get the florist to drop his guard. Even though he had already referred to himself as a “date” in this scenario. 

“Hey, if I recall the previous flowers are thriving. But I’m sure I can come up with some other way to mark the occasion.” With a wink, he turned to the waiter, ordering them some IPAs to start off. They could have gone straight to the strong stuff but as long as Conor didn’t get too annoyed and left early, they had the whole evening to get absolutely pissed. “So why flowers? Family business or something?” Owen asked once the waiter had gone, figuring that asking about the man’s hobby was bound to loosen him up at least a little bit. 

—

Conor sighed, and flatly replied : “You could just ask people out.” That sounded like a lot less hassle, but coming from someone who didn’t introduce himself until he had the chance to dramatically reveal to Conor that the true gift was friendship all along, hasslefree mustn’t have been a priority. Owen seemed pro hassle, yes. Conor didn’t get it. 

“Of course they are, I know what I’m doing,” there was this jaded air again. Leaning onto his hand, he watched the other order the most bitter beer on tap. It was probably a matter of taste : he smiled against his curled fingers, his eyes rolling at the sight of that wink. “Why flowers?” He wasn’t sure why precisely he had a passion for them. He always had liked manual labor, and if he hadn’t picked that field, he’d have been a hairdresser, a cabinetmaker, a painter, a potter… As long as he got to use his hands. He could have been a baker or a cook, but he didn’t really need to eat normal food, and most of the time, he simply forgot to feed himself normally. “We had a garden when I was a kid. I come from the working class, everyone worked with their hands, you know?” His grandfather worked on fishing boats, his grandmother was a seamstress. As for his mother, she spent most of her life working in a beauty salon, as a hairdresser. She would probably have had something to say about her son’s hair now. He generally kept it up in a bun these days. He figured that if his glamour slipped, the thicker the hair, the easier to conceal his horns. “What about you? You never told me what you do for a living.” He hadn’t shared a lot. Owen was a whole mystery so far.

—

Grinning wide and leaning back in his chair, Owen shook his head. “Way less fun.” What made the other man tick was still a mystery. Here he sat, seemingly annoyed by everything the slayer said and did, yet he had agreed to this date and didn’t seem close to leaving. Whether it was some form of masochism or if Conor literally always just looked like someone had shit in his cereal, Owen couldn’t yet tell. Either way, he wasn’t bored yet and the florist was nice to look at - already, Owen could imagine how the unruly hair would feel between his fingers. Was sure that he could turn that sour mood if given the chance. All in good time. God, patience was the worst fucking virtue of them all. 

Conor could smile though, even if every smile seemed more involuntary than for any purpose of letting other people know how he felt. It had been the right call to get the man talking about himself - people rarely hated that - as Owen saw his date ponder and explain, almost seeming to forget how annoyed he was with this whole ordeal. Relating to the part about working with your hands was easy. Going some academic route had never been an option for Owen, his path chosen for him before he was even born. He’d never given much thought to what he might be doing for work if he hadn’t just picked jobs that paid decently enough, only to fund his real purpose. Now was definitely not the time to ponder it, even if Conor was turning the question on him. 

“You mean besides being incredibly charming and beating people at drinking contests?” he quipped back, drinks arriving at the table as if summoned by the mention of their silly bet. “Speaking of, we never decided on what the winner gets.” Grabbing the cold glass for a very welcome first sip, Owen watched his companion over the rim of the glass. He’d dodged the question about his job, not because Conor couldn’t know but because him not knowing would be agitating and Owen definitely enjoyed seeing the man squirm. 

“Since I picked the first round, you get to pick your reward in the unlikely scenario you outdrink me.”

__

“...” He opened his mouth, as if to say something. Whatever confidence animated Owen, Conor had never been blessed with it, for a good reason. He was always clumsy, always shorter than his friends. He didn’t see much of an appeal in the way he looked now, stuck somewhere between a farm animal and a pasty Irishman. “It sure isn’t the kind of occupation everyone can pride themselves with,” a pause, “although I feel like you’re lying on your resume right now,” the flow of words, served with one of his many deadpan moments, wasn’t interrupted for a long while : “You didn’t answer my question, asshat.” 

He might not have had an eye for details, he couldn’t have possibly missed that. It wasn’t, by any means, a good dodge. Lying rarely was. 

Bringing the glass to his lips, Conor found himself wondering what the other could have done for a living. He didn’t seem like the type who would be happy with an office job. A lot of people worked at the mine, but there were also people working for the city. He could see him working maintenance, or as a mechanic perhaps. Wherever it was he worked, it allowed him to spend money on stupid things, like flowers for a man he apparently didn’t like all that much. “Do we really need a prize for the winner? Isn’t it enough to humiliate you?” He took a sip before he gave the other a look, at last. Owen might have been a lot more confident with himself, Conor was wondering if perhaps that couldn’t be his downfall. 

“I don’t know man. I’d settle with your admission that you drink like a primary school pupil,” that seemed like enough. He wondered if the other would settle for this as well. 

—--

“Oh, come on, darling. I never lie,” Owen cooed back, having another drink and making sure his glass always contained less than Conor’s. No way was he letting the other temper the speed in which they drank. This small talk wasn’t excruciating but being sober while they chatted was. “Perceptive. I work at The Wormhole, pretty shit place but pays decently and doesn’t care if you drink on the job as long as you can still switch the kegs out. And I do shifts at Fable Blades. Weapon store. Both practical and antiques.” 

Green eyes watched carefully as Conor considered their wager, smug grin widening at the florist’s optimism. A conclusion was finally reached and the slayer scoffed, slumping back in his seat. A perfect picture of petulance. “Seriously? Not that you’re going to win but you could have at least gone for something a bit more interesting.” More of his beer vanished, Conor kept in suspense as Owen pondered his own idea for a prize. The glass was finally placed back on the table and he smirked, leaning in. 

“I was going to suggest you let me take you home if I win, but in the spirit of friendship I’ll go easy on you.” Long legs moved under the table, knee finding Conor’s with ease. “So I’ll settle for a kiss.” Then just like that, before objections could be made or legs jerked away, Owen was settled back in his seat and waving over the bartender. “Tequila. Something nice. Let’s say… four a piece to start us off.”

—-

The pet name elicited yet another frown from Conor. He hadn't been called a darling since he last saw his grand mother. However charming Owen thought he was, he briefly took the traits of a wrinkly short Irish lady in Conor's thoughts.

"The Wormhole. Sounds like a spot for the elite," never mind for the stomach ache. He'd always keep his wits on. Finishing his drink about a minute or two after Owen, Conor lifted his hand at the bartender, replacing the IPA's bitterness with a bottle of sour beer. "So you drink and sell weapons. That's not one bit concerning," he didn't mean to sound like a kill buzz, and so he gave the other a rare smile.

Blue met green for a moment. Of course the other would be disappointed but Conor was learning to be more careful with his words. You never knew when you would bind someone to a standard they couldn't upkeep. "What can I say? I like simple things." He did. Owen didn't look like the picture of sophistication either, but he could have had him fooled the whole time, right? Perhaps he judged him too fast.

"Take me home?" That was awfully nice. Conor supposed that if they were drunk enough, it was the safest thing to do. "That's…" the other's knees grazing against his made him pause. He looked him in the eyes again, but it was what followed that gave his cheeks their tint. He didn't want to go home to make sure he was safe, did he? "What? Why?" His eyebrows furrowed and the faun leaned back, brushing it off as the other ordered them a new round of drinks. "Sure, tequila's alright, I guess." He shook his head. Why the fuck did he want to kiss him? He looked at him again : "Owen that's not a good idea. I'm not… yeah no."

—

Chuckling, Owen was filled with accomplishment at the sight of yet another smile. And only one drink down. As long as Conor wasn’t an angry drunk, this was boding well. “I mean, when you put it like that…”

God, for someone who could have given Owen’s very colorful grandfather a run for his money when it came to cursing, Conor really was innocent. It wasn’t always a vibe the slayer was in the mood for but on occasion, it was definitely fun to hint and tease and be rewarded with the shade of red that was now covering his date’s face. Always more of a challenge, too, rather than the people that could match his flirting or gave him shit for it. Not that he didn’t enjoy those as well. 

“What do you mean why? Trust me, I wouldn’t be hanging out with you if you were hard to look at.” An almost compliment but it was true. Owen didn’t really have a type, per say, but rather, a knack for picking out the qualities he liked. In this instance; the tattooed arms and strong hands, the scruffy hair, the sharp jaw that seemed to hold years of pent up tension. Not to mention the attitude, though that seemed hidden underneath a fuck ton of hesitancy now. 

He reached across the table for Conor’s drink, stealing a sip as the other tried to talk Owen out of the idea. Something that was notoriously hard to do. “What’s the problem? I thought you were confident about winning.” With a shrug, he returned the glass, staring at the other with challenge shining in his eyes. 

___

"Like facts? Weapons and drinks aren't the best combo. Those are facts." Conor ran a hand against his face. Yeah, okay. Chit chat was nice and all but he came here to win, not to be intimidated by the other's bullshit. People lied, even if he couldn't.

"What do I fucking mean why?" His pasty complexion didn't do him any favor, not when it was coupled with hair only a shade or two darker, but that wasn't what troubled Conor. He knew what he actually looked like. His human facade looked alright, but what hid beneath was monstrous. An hybrid, a chimera, built with parts from a caprine animal. 

Owen didn't want someone like that. Conor would have rather been alone than with someone who would scream upon seeing him. 

"Fuck off, you know what I fucking mean, you sack of shit." It was easier, being defensive, or even offensive. He knew how to push people away. 

"I am confident about that. I'll fucking win, but whatever it is you want from me, I can't do that." He could. Owen was rather attractive and he didn't seem like the type to get spooked by much, but this, this had to be beyond that line. "Just fucking forget it, alright. I didn't came here to be your bloody date, I came here to kick your ass," finishing off what was left of his glass, Conor eyed the bartender who was entirely apathetic to the mess starting to unfold here. He liked those sorts of bartenders, the ones who knew what they worked with : idiots.

—

So this was an interesting turn of events. Owen could have sworn that he had pegged Conor correctly as someone who might be down for some fooling around, with the right bit of motivation. There was no doubt in the slayer’s mind that the other felt some form of attraction but apparently, where that attraction would lead had been overestimated. Fine, at least he would win this bet, prize or not. “Alright. Let’s see you try it, short stuff,” Owen goaded, giving the hesitant bartender a nod to bring over the damn shots already. 

As it turned out, three shots a piece were a rather soft start for the two drinking companions. Owen ordered more of the same, followed by an order from Conor that the slayer drank without much questioning as to what it was and at some point, the words ‘just surprise us’ had left Owen’s mouth. He’d lost count of the drinks, not that he made it a habit of counting, but his focus was still mostly on whether or not he was keeping up with the florist. 

“So I know you’re here to prove a point but like… why the fuck are you here, though?” Owen blurted out, slouched back in his chair, the hand holding his newest drink gesturing towards Conor and sloshing some liquid onto the table in the process. “Fan helvete…” Glazed eyes turned back to Conor, brain halting a moment to remember what he’d been saying. “You’re obviously annoyed by me and apparently not trying to fuck me, so what? Just to prove you can drink more? Which you’re failing at, by the way.” A daring comment made for someone who was currently slurring his words, accent slipping out and coordination of his limbs long gone. 

—

"Why the fuck am I here, huh?" Conor rubbed at his face, pressing into the skin harder, if only to become aware of his senses again. That failed. Instead of that, the faun guffawed, leaning forward to get a hand on his drink again. "I told ya. I wanna prove your lanky ass wrong," he figured they'd probably not get along and it would be two birds with one stone, but Owen was really nowhere near as bad as he presumed. He was not precisely terrible to look at. Conor just liked to make his own life terribly complicated.

He wiped his chin with his hand. It wasn't good news for him, this sloppiness. It wasn't good news that he hadn't noticed or cared to notice that the other wasn't doing much better. 

His hand sticky with alcohol and sugar, the faun grimaced. "You ain't that annoying," he conceded. A bit pushy, sure. Conor, at least, didn't really struggle as much with confidence as he normally would. And so he leaned forward, his weight resting against the edge of the table, to give the other a proper look. "Is your smile. You smile annoying." If that even made any sense. His tongue felt a bit heavier in his month, Bostonian accentuations stronger. He wouldn't have been surprised if they told him the next morning that all his gibberish had been Irish all along. "I don't think ya wanna do that. Me, I think you're alright," but the moment people saw what he was like was usually when they tried to bail. Conor now knew why making them promise not to tell seemed to suffice, but that didn't make things a lot easier.

—

The unexpected compliment, or the closest to a compliment he could have expected from Conor, brought a very lopsided grin to Owen’s face. “Aha! Jag visste det,” he gloated, words incomprehensible to the florist but the tone of his voice most likely very easy to understand. Then Conor was leaning in, seemingly making an effort to just look at the slayer, who of course mimicked the movement, never one to shy away from an invasion of personal space. 

“At least I do smile,” he retorted, hand moving up with surprising precision, plucking loose a lock of curly hair that had at some point gotten stuck on the other’s cheek. “Shame, too. Got a nice smile.” Knuckles brushed against skin as Owen drew back his hand and finished off his drink. The point of this evening had gotten mildly lost along the way, drowned out by casual conversation and more than a few insults tossed back and forth and somehow, he wasn’t having a terrible time. 

“And no one tells me what I do and don’t want,” Owen argued, interrupted by the bartender appearing at their table. Or maybe he’d been standing there for a while, waiting to get attention. Who was to say? 

“Time to move, boys. Last call was twenty minutes ago. I suggest you go sober up.” The bartender left immediately, not leaving any room for objections and Owen glanced at the clock. Had it really been that long? Probably, considering they were way past losing count of their drinks. With an annoyed scoff, he grabbed his jacket, long since discarded and leaving him in just the dark T-shirt. “Sober up,” Owen muttered, getting to his feet and, of course, stumbling. “I am perfectly sober,” he announced loudly, flipping off the very annoyed bartender before offering his hand to Conor. “C’mon. Apartment’s not far off and there’s enough booze there to settle this.”

___

“Oh fuck off,”it was hard to state just how disinhibited the alcohol had made the faun. Conor found some comfort in the numbing of his many, too many, too chaotic thoughts. It was quieter in his head now, and he found he didn’t hate being around Owen right now. He hadn’t drunk this much in a while, and he wondered if he’d still like Owen the same when he woke up with a serious hangover. Thank fucking God he didn’t work tomorrow. 

He shook his head. “I do smile. You’re just not good at making it happen,” he retorted. Mostly because he always wondered if the taller man was serious or joking. He didn’t seem to take many things seriously. Conor, who took things very seriously, was confused about that, even if it mattered a little bit less now. He just wished they’d left their glasses on the table, to count out how many drinks they each had downed tonight. 

The bartender, who had been cleaning up after them the whole evening, urged them to leave and sober up. 

He didn’t discuss it at all. Poor guy just wanted to head the fuck back home. He left a tip on the table and picked up his cardigan from the back of his chair. It was too warm now, but they’d be outside soon, right? It was late at night, it was bound to be cold. “Well shit,” he fell into a fit of laughter as he caught his balance against the table. “I’m fine,” nope. Still, he took the other’s hand. “You sure you don’t wanna try mine? I have a very impressive tea collection,” beside the point? Yes. He doubted he’d get the kettle to work in his current state anyhow. Conor sighed. “We start counting at your place?” That made the most sense right now. 

He had been right to put his cardigan back on. It was chilly out here. But Owen had been correct when he said his place wasn’t that far. Things always seemed further away when you had no idea where they were, but it really hadn’t been so bad. Conor was just pleased to get himself a seat again. 

There wasn’t much in Owen’s apartment, he noticed. The walls, the shelves… It was as though the other had just moved in. Perhaps he didn’t like clutter. The faun didn’t precisely like clutter either, but he liked collecting dried flower bouquets, botanical illustrations and music sheets. He had a system for the latter. It wasn’t a good system, but he could tell exactly where each of them were stored, or so he said, and that was all that counted. 

—--

Thank the fucking lords, they hadn’t ended up at Conor’s place for some ‘impressive’ tea. Not to mention it would save Owen the trouble of getting home later since the other man was still insistent that they seemed to have reached the limit for physical contact allowed. Whatever, at least then it would be Conor’s problem getting home. The short walk back had been somewhat sobering but not enough to keep the pair from mostly stumbling up the stairs to the apartment. 

Once inside, Owen quickly discarded the jacket to the floor, vaguely gesturing towards the couch before Conor wobbled his way to the floor. Two glasses and a bottle of… something, the label was a bit hard to read right at this very moment, were brought over before the slayer slumped next to Conor. “Right,” he sighed, pouring amber liquid into the two glasses and a little bit on the table. “Ready to surrender yet?” 

It was a bit hard to keep his gaze steady on the other man’s eyes but a distant part of his brain recognized that Conor’s eyes definitely looked bleary, too. And, maybe not entirely by accident, he was leaning in a bit close, enough to catch the faint smell of flowers and dirt hiding under the scent of alcohol. 

__

"Oh no," he shook his head, but though it didn't improve his state of dizziness, it managed to trigger his laughter once again. His cheek warm against his hand, Conor reached out for the glass, spilling some of its content on his fingers as he did. The faun was not really the most patient, and his abrupt movements caused clumsiness even in a sober state. He would have liked being more delicate than that but as far as he could recall, he'd always been this way, abrupt, with perpetually busy hands. "You are not getting away with this," he'd regret it, he knew that, but that didn't keep him from finishing his glass in one swig. 

"Dúirt mé -" He cut himself off. "You're fucking stubborn," nestled against the cushions, Conor held his empty glass against his sternum. He tried to keep his gaze on Owen. It seemed impossible, more than usual. He picked up on details. Blurry details. Faint scars. Green eyes. Speckles of hazel. Why was he so close? Why was Conor? He scoffed. He couldn't kiss him. Owen hadn't won, had he? He wanted to, didn't he ? With a sigh, he pressed his forehead against Owen's, as gently as his faun condition and his drunken state could. 

—

A very drunken chuckle escaped Owen when the other downed the whole glass - a waste of what the slayer assumed was pretty decent alcohol - and then he followed suit. It didn’t burn anymore, going down with ease. Seemingly not the only one slipping back into native tongue, Conor started an insult before finishing it in a comprehensible language, but it was weak considering how creative the florist could get. If there was ever a sign that the other man was drunk…

It took a moment to register, the sticky warmth of a forehead pressing against his own, warm and booze laced breaths mixing together. That was as much of an invitation as Owen needed, hands sliding into hair with practiced movements despite the considerable inebriation, mouth meeting the other’s. The familiarity of a drunken kiss delayed the realization by a moment - he had finally gotten to dig his fingers into that mess of a hair, only to find something that didn’t quite belong. 

Horns. Something that should have made him startle, jump back and demand questions but for one, Owen had a pretty good idea of what he was dealing with. Secondly, he was drunk off his fucking ass. So despite fingers running over goddamn horns (again? Seriously?), the legs were still human and he could work with that. There had only been the briefest of pauses as his booze soaked brain worked through this all before the kiss simply deepened. 

__

“You didn’t fucking win.” Conor’s hands curled tight around the back of his neck. To his blurry mind, anything he’d say now would make the other run away. He didn’t want him to run away. But he didn’t want him thinking he won. Those sticky sugar coated lips, those were good for sarcasm, and smirks. Conor remembered wanting to slap him for it. For both those things. 

But the irritating fucker was charming, and he was too drunk to pretend he didn’t see it. “And I still think you’re an asshole,” he scoffed, inching closer to kiss him back. 

His face felt warm. The urgency with which the other dug into his hair, the proximity, the scent of his breath, taste of his lips, his tongue. He felt warm. That wasn’t a bad feeling. 

Owen’s fingers going up, following the curve of his horns. Heh. That was to be expected. But then, the bartender barely interrupted himself and it was Conor who nearly lost his balance as he tore himself away. “This is usually when folks scream and make a bloo-blah scene.” Don’t expect literature from him, not now. “I mean, we know you’ve got shit tastes,” he scoffed, lazily pressing his palm against the other’s chest, slipping it against his side. “So do I.” 

—-

It could have gone either way - a full blown tantrum was to be expected since Conor had explicitly been against kissing. Or he’d assumed that Owen didn’t want to but apparently, the same couldn’t be said for the florist, who returned the kiss with just as much vigor and a few mumbled insults. So what if this was another faun? Not like it would be the first time and it was pretty obvious that Conor was not using any of his weird magic. Doubtful that he would be inducing euphoria in anyone considering the constant grumpy state. 

And then Conor was pulling away, pushing against his chest and dissolving what could have been a very nice end to their drunken evening. Owen’s head cocked to the side, trying to piece together what was the problem. He was… supposed to freak out about the horns? Maybe that was the regular human thing to do now that he gave it some thought. “Please, you’re not the first faun I’ve met,” he explained, words surprisingly soft in his drunken state, pupils blown and focused. Eager hands still trailed where they could reach, over thighs and exposed neck. 

“Not the first I’ve fucked, either.” Not very eloquent but that would be expecting too much considering the room was still spinning a bit. “Don’t worry about it.”

—-

“Well excuse me,” surprised by his own offense, Conor did something he didn’t do very often then. He laughed. It began with a scoff, before tumbling into full laughter. Rubbing at his face, he fell back onto the couch. “Sorry,” with another snort, he finally looked up with wide, unguarded eyes at what he assumed would be a profoundly confused northman. “Don’t worry about it,” he mocked the other’s words, with what he assumed to be a terrible imitation of him. He was bad at those, he knew that. “Have you fucking seen me?” Worry might as well have been his middle name. Would have been nice to worry for a second. And he found that right now, he didn’t fucking care what would come next. 

Laying down was nice. It did him good, grounded him.  He reached down for the hands on his thighs, bodies colliding while he urged Owen to join him there. Collided was the word. There wasn’t a lot of softness to those gestures of his. Conor was clumsy, he always moved with urgency, even now, as he clenched his fingers in his hair or forced his lips apart to pick up where they’d left off. 

—-

For someone who had made a point to brag about their impressive alcohol tolerance, Conor was wasted. Not that Owen minded the drunken laughter - it boded better than anger or the other abruptly leaving. Despite the giggling, the hint of self hatred that had been laced throughout the evening came back full force. Owen wasn’t perfectly connecting the dots and even if he had been, far be it from him to try and inspire self love in someone else. What he could do, however, and was fairly good at in his own opinion, was making sure that Conor knew just how much he did see him. 

The clumsy invitation to continue was welcome, eager and drunken hands goading Owen on. Not that the slayer’s movements were any more delicate, hands tugging at fabric and hair, mouth leaving marks across skin and over tattoos. Until the sound of Conor’s breath deepening caught his attention, the previously drunken grabbing turning into soft strokes until the other’s hands stilled. Owen pulled back, blinking blearily at the shirtless man on his couch who, yup, was asleep. Or passed out, more accurately.

With a very frustrated sigh, Owen slumped back on the couch, glaring at the peacefully sleeping faun. What a fucking cruel twist. Grumbling under his breath, he at least had the decency to throw a spare blanket to the other man before finally succumbing to the draw of boozy sleep himself, on top of the bed covers with boots still on his feet. 

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Backdated, somewhere in late summer  LOCATION: Inflorescence PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Inge @nightmaretist SUMMARY: Conor and Inge work on making some seed bombs to increase biodiversity in town and chat about a variety of things, from ventures into art to how the Youths ™️ speak these days. A soft start to a friendship. CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

It was near closing time when she arrived, her bag clinking with the sound of glass bottles as she got in the store. A wave of green and bright colors burst around Inge as she glanced around, her lips curving appreciatively. Sure, as an artist her color pallet was darker and a lot more desaturated, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t like a burst of color in real life. That of plants especially was welcomed, her apartment filled with dark and lighter greens. When she’d move, she’d get rid of most of the plants save a few, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t always down to add another to the collection.

As she perused Inflorescence’s wares, she considered the online conversation she’d had with the shops owner and their mischievous plans. There wasn’t a lot besides art Inge was passionate about, but since the nineties – when she’d stopped eating meat – she had grown a lot of heart for the environment. If she was to inhabit this world forever, she’d rather not see her home country sink and everything go to ruination because of the greed of a rich few. Which wasn’t to say she was passionate enough to make their lives hell, as art still took a precedent over all other things — but she had once tried very hard to try and find Jeff Bezos’ house from the plane.

At the sound of footsteps her head popped up, falling on the man she’d spoken to online. Conor did, at least, look like his profile picture. Inge waved, fingers tickling the air. “Hiya. We spoke online? I’m here for the seed bombs.” She lifted her bag, which made a clinking sound once again. “And I made good on my promise.”

—

“Sorry, I was working in the back,” Conor took off his gardening gloves, shoving them into his apron to approach her and shake her hand. “Ah, yes. I remember,” he glanced down at his wrist. Where had he put down his watch again? Patting at his apron, he found it there. It was five minutes before closing time. He doubted anyone would show up in that time lapse, still, he didn’t feel like it would be fair to close early. 

“I’ll get everything ready,” his eyebrows furrowed. “You wanna work here or outside?” he motioned toward the door he came from, his fingers slipping through his hair as he attempted unsuccessfully to tame it. “Considering the time of the year, we’ll be doing aquilegia, campanula, coreopsis, delphinium, myosotis, penstemon and pansy seeds,” that’s what made the most sense to him, at least. “Though if it doesn’t rain at all until September, I doubt we’ll get much out of these,” his nose wrinkled at the thought, and he gave Inge a look. “Still worth a try, though.” A smile etched itself on his lips. That would hardly be the worst he had done for the good ol’ planet. 

___

She shook her head at his apology, rejecting it on sight. “No need to apologize. I’m a little early.” When Inge’s cold flesh met Conor’s warm, she hoped there was no part of him that cared to notice. “Good to meet you in real life, Conor. You’ve got a nice shop here. I’ll have to get something for my place.” 

Her hands traveled, fingers rubbing the rubbery leaves of a plant. Maybe these were the only living things she could be trusted to take care of. She wanted no more children, the gap Vera had left too significant to even consider it, and there were no pets that tolerated her. Plants, however, were easy enough for an immortal. Besides, with plenty of care they could grow and live with her. “Just let me know if you need any help. And I’d prefer to work inside, please.” The sun was hard on her eyes and skin on these summer days, and Inge had already walked here the regular way. “It will rain. This is Maine. They named it so to make it rhyme.” She grinned at him, winking. “And otherwise we’ll just have to rebelliously water them.”

___

She ran a bit cold, but it wasn't what troubled Conor the most, nor was it the clear lack of a heartbeat. He'd seen it before. 

He tried to conceal his puzzlement, eyes fixating on the floor briefly as he attempted to try and make sense of it, of this feeling of unease he had had as she had approached him, like something crawling underneath his skin. Conor tried to relax his stance. They'd spoken online, Inge seemed nice then. Even better, she seemed great. It was one of those times he didn't want to trust his gut feeling.

"Alright, I just hope you're not allergic to cats," he mentioned, in passing. The animal wasn't around now, probably too busy hunting mice in the backyard or far beyond his fences. "Taoiseach will probably be back later though," with a shrug, he took out a tray, setting down a couple of large plastic bowls, powdered clay, and a couple more things for them to get started. He picked up another apron beneath the counter. He never used it, it was here in case his current one ended up ruined or too dirty for the day, but Conor for all he was clumsy, was clever enough to get an apron that was dark green.

"Alright, put this on, and then we can get started." 

___ 

Godver, this guy had a cat? Inge let out a breath of air, frowned a little. “I am a bit allergic, yes. We’ll figure it out when we get to it, hm?” There was no cat around as of yet, and so she had no interest in forcing the two of them outside where the summer sun was sure to tire her out. Maybe they should have set this appointment after sundown.

As Conor continued wha he was doing, she produced two bottles and opened them by using a third, extending one to him as he held out the apron. That was hung around her neck and tied behind her back with ease. Inge took a sip and looked at the other expectedly, eyebrows raising.

She didn’t want to admit to it, but it was nice to have a goal for the summer. To do something that could be considered a contribution in another way than art was. Selflessness hardly fit her, but she liked projects. Whimsical spontaneousness. A little act of eco-rebellion was exciting. “Let’s do this. Tell me what to do, chief.”

—

"Ah. Well, I'll just have him go upstairs then, it's alright," he brushed it off. She said she was only a little bit allergic, so it couldn't possibly be that bad. "Don't worry, he won't be back for a bit. It's not his hour yet," funny how cats managed to have a schedule despite being asleep most of the day. Conor wondered if that was what the cat did out there, just sleeping somewhere cozy only to return back home for food and pets.

She'd brought drinks along, which he found rather considerate. He took the beer she gave him with a polite nod, having thrown thanks to the bin and replaced them with more fae friendly phrases. 

"Alright, so. It's quite simple. We're gonna be mixing up one cup of soil, one of clay and one of water for each pack of seed. As you can see, I have prepared a bunch of them so," they'd have to make a sizable batch. "Lots of work ahead of us, but hey, we're in good company, with excellent food," he motioned toward her beers. "Should be fine."

—

That was a point in his favor, she decided. “I appreciate it. Cats are cute, but I just … don’t respond to them very well. Biologically speaking.” Technically true, though it was more accurate to say that the cats didn’t respond well to her. Annoying and dull, she thought it, the way animals were afraid of mares. She liked them in dreams, though. People dreamt of their cats a ton. “What kinda cat do you have, though?”

With her apron tightened and instructions being delivered, Inge found herself smiling despite herself. This was going to be fun. She took a sip from her beer and put it away for now, grabbing a measuring cup.

“Doable.” Good thing she didn’t get tired and didn’t need sleep, she figured. Left plenty of time for activities like these. “And hear, hear!” Lips spread wider as she dug into the soil, getting ready to mix it with clay and seeds. “When should we drop them, then? This does need a sequel, I think.” Inge glanced at him. “We can’t keep our efforts limited to just one night.”

___

“That’s a shame. Cats are great companions,” her misfortune earned her a sympathetic smile.  “He’s a red cat, his coat is fluffy, full of long hairs, you know?” Overall, he’d have described the little animal as regal. 

While she was getting ready, Conor headed to the front of the shop to turn the We’re Open sign around and pull onto the curtain. Even with that sign, he knew for a fact people would try to get in if they saw him on the other side of the front windows. How perfectly normal. 

“Doable? Music to my ears,” his smile broadened. It was nice to have met someone who took issues such as biodiversity so seriously. Picking up a bucket behind his counter, he set it there and turned around to pour water into a jug. “Go on, add everything in, we’ll stir and then we’ll make bombs the size of a golf ball. They’d put them on a tray and leave them to dry in the sun tomorrow. “Oh this won’t be enough to get the city back on tracks,” he agreed. “We could meet once a week if you want, change seeds depending on the season. 

—

Sure, cats were great companions, except when your sheer existence had them flying in curtains or attempting to claw you open. Inge had had a cat when she’d been a girl and she’d loved the thing, despite it’s grumpy nature. But four decades of immortality had put her off the creatures. “He sounds like a beauty,” she said, which wasn’t entirely insincere. Pretty cat. Nice to look at. That’s it.

As she started mixing everything, the familiar feeling of solids mixing underneath her hands made her smile vaguely. Inge worked with clay with regularity after all, molding it into shapes meant to terrify and inspire. (To her, those words were often synonyms.) 

It was good work, easy work. She glanced up at Conor. “Indeed. And maybe do more than just seed bombs. I’ve always wanted to do some lobbying.” She had done lobbying. Back in the 00s and the 90s. She’d gone onto the streets, had huddled together with like minded people, Sanne on her side. Wicked’s Rest was not the epicenter of the world and thus not the place where most change could be made, but wouldn’t it be fun to try and shake things up? “Those lawns must change. The common needs to change, too, while we’re at it.”

__

“He is. I’m not sure why he decided that this was his home though,” he wasn’t Conor’s cat. Or well, he was now. He had even checked with the vet to get him IDed. It was his cat, officially so. 

Watching her work with her hands, he noticed that she wasn’t shy about it, or afraid to make a mess. She wasn’t making a mess, which had to be the most impressive part. Conor might have worked with plants for a long time, he was always making a mess, moving too abruptly, too urgently. He’d have preferred being agile, careful, but that wasn’t him. “That’s not your first time doing this?” 

He looked at her, and her words made him smile. “I would love that. I haven’t been doing activism in a bit, but I’d be up for it,” now the objective wasn’t to make an enemy out of the city council, but Conor agreed that the town could have done a lot more for biodiversity, starting with the god awful common. Grass and a bunch of trees. Boring. “How much are you willing to bet people would like it better covered in wildflowers?” 

—

“So he’s like a stray that just decided to settle here? Adopt don’t shop, huh? Or, I guess he adopted you in that case.” She would like a pet, sometimes. A pair of large hounds would suit her well, or a siamese cat. But alas, Inge only had her birds in the dreams she gave others.

His observant comment was pleasing, and she looked up as she nodded. “No. I work with clay a lot. I’m a sculptor.” And how her works had transformed! There had been that line of bowls and vases when she’d just started taking things more seriously, glazing them in furiously bright colors. Now, Inge was sculpting birds, molding wings and scary beaks, hundreds of them.

“Quite a lot of money, honestly. People must come here for the nature, and then right in the middle of town there’s just that large piece of green grass. Dull! We humans want to frolick in the flowers.” With we humans she did mean herself, in this case. Desires like these were very human after all. “We need to get more people on board. And we do need a name for our initiative. Should get one of the youths to do social media for us, even.”

__

“I suppose he did adopt me,” he agreed with a small smile. The cat stubbornly showed up in his flat every day, not even asking for food, but rather offering up mice and a set of unlucky birds Conor had buried in the backyard. He now had a plate of food in the backroom of his shop, and his watering can had become a drinking source of choice for the red haired feline. 

That made a lot of sense, he thought. “Oh, you’re an artist !” The realization seemed to please the faun, who hadn’t smiled so bright in a while. “That’s great. I’d love to see those sculptures of yours sometimes,” he beamed. It wasn’t often that he smiled, no, but the subject of arts always brought out the warmth in him. 

“The worst part is, they must spent even more than that maintaining it in that condition,” because he might have hated what that entailed, he didn’t hate the look of it all that much. It lacked verticality, sure, but it didn’t lack skills. A great lawn was hard to achieve and Conor admired people who could achieve that perfectly even coverage, but it was too damaging to bugs and biodiversity in general for him to sit and applaud those green surfaces. “I’m willing to bet there’s a bunch of young people who would feel invested. The new generation is a lot more aware of these issues, right?” 

—

“Cats are known to do that,” she said, though the words were empty. Cats only chose Inge to hiss at or scratch, with little interest for scritches of her manicured nails. She was just glad the creature wasn’t here, because she definitely didn’t want to insult Conor by telling him his cat was an annoying creature with bad judgment. (All animals had bad judgment, for not liking mares.)

She smiled at his next words, of course, her ego something that was always clamoring for some more applause. “You could always come by my studio sometime. I have an online portfolio, but the real thing …” She shrugged. “It’s better. Ah, like the plants, you know? Better in real life. Do you make art yourself, or anything of the sorts?” 

Inge nodded, “Of course they do. Such perfection takes effort, even if it looks absolutely dull. Perfection often is, if you ask me — why would we want such boring symmetry in our nature, anyway?” She tutted. “Absolutely, they’re the ones who will have to inhabit the world down the line.” Along with her, of course, and her unaging body. Inge cared for the planet because she intended to live on it forevermore. “It shouldn’t be hard to recruit, but we need something snippy. The seed bombs will definitely be a good way to get people’s attention, too! Who doesn’t like wildflowers?” Well, plenty of people, but fuck them.

__

“Art? Like painting or sculpting? No,”  he wrinkled his nose. Conor didn’t have much of a culture regarding those things. Visual arts were nice to look at, he supposed, but he didn’t get much of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he lacked the codes required to understand it. “I mean, I play music, but I don’t really make the partitions. I play them,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “But anyhow, I would love to have a look at it. Let me know when’s a good time to stop by.” Because he agreed that plants weren’t the most interesting in photographs and he was intrigued now.

Nodding along, Conor picked up a handful of the mixture and tried to roll it into a ball between his palms. “I’m gonna add a bit of water and then I think we’re gonna be good to start the fun,” fastidious, repetitive, “part of this.” At least they’d be doing something good here. Saving the town from being dull, one flower at a time. “I spoke to this guy the other day who seemed interested. He didn’t sound young. As in, I understood everything I was saying. Young people are…” He cut himself off. He didn’t look much older than 35 and he supposed she didn’t need to figure out just yet that he wasn’t entirely normal, or that he was plain weird. “Anyway… I don’t care if people don’t like wildflowers if I’m honest. I’m mostly doing it for insects and biodiversity in general,” with a shrug, he poured the water in, and left it to her to stir and make the first seed bomb.

—

She was still glad he did something that was artistically inclined, “But that’s wonderful, too! What instruments do you play?” She went for plural, because she hoped for the best. Inge wasn’t much of a musician herself (she could not carry a tune, for one), but she was a big enjoyer of music. There had been plenty of concerts she’d snuck into over the years, after all, and her record collection was quite vast. “I’ll let you know! And if you’re ever down, I’d be thrilled to hear you play whatever music you’re fond of playing.”

The fun part would be going out on the streets and pulling off some kind of creative process, but rolling up seed bombs was far from a boring way to spend one's time. “Sounds perfect,” she said. She considered what the other was saying — he looked her age, perhaps a tad younger. Inge didn’t want to think too much of it. “Oh, I get it. I feel removed from the younger generations at times too.” Which were most generations, at this point, and it wasn’t like Inge felt particularly connected to her fellow boomers, either. “Ha, agreed. If they like them that’s sweet, but it’s not for us.” She started stirring once the water had been poured, only stopping when she figured everything was mixed well enough. She took some of the mixture and started rolling it into a ball. “So, you’re like an old soul, then?”

__

“Oh, I play the violin,” and he could dabble with a viola and a cello (he’d never tried the bass) but that wouldn't have counted as being able to properly play those. “I’ve played it since I was six years old,” old enough to hold a fiddle with his chin alone and let his mother pass onto him all she knew about it. Up until he left the house in a hurry in the midst of his teenagehood and selfishly took along with him his instrument as a rare souvenir of people he’d never see again. He regretted only taking one picture of his mother along with him. Not even them together, just a portrait of her. Yes, Conor had a lot of regrets regarding his early life, but not any bigger than having ruined his chance of seeing his mother grow old and letting her see him grow. She had his brother, and his father in law, she was not alone. That was his consolation.

“Well then I'll just bring my violin along. One way to break two windows with one stone.” Because he’d never liked how cruel the original expression was.

“Yeah… the younger generations are … well they are a lot of good things, but I often wonder if they're not just trying to make us confused on purpose with their lingo. Nothing quite like that to make me feel like a bozo,” he shook his head, and dug his hand into the container, aligning on a plastic platter the seed bombs he made. An old soul. The expression made him pause. It felt a bit pretentious at first but he couldn't precisely deny it without lying and suffering for it. “I suppose I am. Me, and my violin, my flowers, my cardigans and my baseball games,” he realized he could have just been someone's grandfather with those sorts of interests. Owen didn't hold back on the old man nicknames for sure, which wasn't very nice, but it wasn't a lie either and Conor figured that was a joke anyway. 

—

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” It was. Inge loved a good violin in all kinds of music, thought its versatility and dramatics were the perfect ingredients to a good song. “I wish I’d learned to play an instrument at that age.” But with one dead and four alive kids and too little money, there had been little space for creative pursuits at home. Maybe that was why she had ventured into drawing: that only took a pencil and some paper, or even her writing slate back at school. None of those drawings had survived, she figured, or maybe they were rotting in some storage box of her deceased parents. It was more likely that her siblings had thrown it out, though. “A great idea. Don’t actually break my windows, though.”

She tried to stay with the times, which she succeeded in in some regards — but when it came to the lingo, even Inge was often quite lost. “Ah, don’t let them make you feel inferior! That’s how they win. Besides, plenty of their lingo makes absolutely no sense.” She was amused by his answers, figured he really was an old soul – either figuratively or literally. She continued to roll balls. “My students, they make me feel ancient. Every week it seems they’ve introduced new words to their vocabulary.” She chuckled. “I do like to think I’m hip. And flowers, violin-playing and cardigans are perfectly fine.” Albeit a bit boring. “But I guess there’s always gonna be a new generation to shake things up, huh? Can’t really complain about that.”

__

The faun tilted his head down and smiled. “It’s not too late to learn, you know.” He paused. “What would you have liked to play?” His eyes darted toward her and he brushed his hands together above the mixing bowl. “I won't, I pro-” his lips pursed into a line and he cleared his throat. “I prefer not to upset you.”

It was unlikely that he would have ever broken one of her windows but he didn't want to find out what would happen if he accidentally did.

“Oh no, not inferior,” feeling that way didn't make much sense to Conor. You couldn't grade people or organize them by worth. That was unethical and rude. The only place where he accepted and understood hierarchy was within orchestras. He’d been in one and he knew how these things worked. He supposed it made sense in the army too, or in institutions, but out there? Absolutely not. “Maybe you should just hit them with archaic or obscure words. You seem like the sort to have extensive vocabulary,” the commentary was neither meant as a compliment or a complaint. It just was how he felt about her. She seemed clever. Anyone who taught had to be.

“It’s fine. I don't care much for being hip,” as long as his bouquet stayed up to date, he was more than glad to keep on making more. “Generations should work together for things to properly shake. There's not much weight in a divided mass,” he noted, setting down the last seed ball of another row. 

—

It probably wasn’t too late to learn, especially not in her immortal state of being. But it was frustrating to not be good at something when she was skilled in other areas. “I would really like a bunch of synthesizers and master them all. Or the piano … or the cello …” She thought for a moment. “Bass.” Inge squinted slightly at the way he cut off his own sentence, not sure if it implied anything. “I appreciate that very much.”

She shrugged, “Bozo sounded inferior,” she pointed out, but it didn’t matter much to her. “But if that’s not how you fell, all the power to ya.” At his compliment (at least, that’s how she decided to take it), Inge let out a sound of amusement. “That would be one way to go about it, yes. I don’t know if I do, but I have always had a bit of a knack for languages. I enjoy learning them, in and out. The bad and the ugly, you know?” 

She laughed in agreement, “Neither do I. It’s much better to be yourself, however cliche that is to say. I think I’m plenty for my age, anyway.” In this case she was speaking of her actual age, of course — the one where she was nearly 78 years old. Not the thirty-something years she appeared to be. “Exactly. This pitting boomers against the current youths is not helping anyone. We’ve been shouting about the environment needing improvement for decades.” Inge hoped that sounded like she was talking about humanity in general. “Every generation has those who don’t care, though — but ever generation has those who do, and we should move together. So, more youths in our group are needed, yes?” As if they weren’t both relatively young-appearing themselves.

_

“I could teach you the cello,” he glanced her way. “Don't tell anyone I said this, but it is like playing with a big violin,” with a couple differences.  He found it easier, perhaps because by the time he first touched a cello, he had already mastered using a violin. There was also the fact that you needed to be seated to play it, and had a better view and control of what you were doing, at least during the first few years of learning. Bass worked the same so he didn't bother repeating himself. Instead he smiled and went back to their hard work. 

He supposed Bozo wasn't such a kind word to hear these days but back in the 60s when he was a little boy, he’d found the expression more amusing than anything else. With a shrug, he let her know it was alright. “Yeah? I’d be the opposite I guess. I ain't got a fucking clue on how to write half the shit my family taught me about Irish. I can speak it, but I can't write it.” Come to think of it, he wasn't sure whether his grandparents or his mother ever did.  “I suppose I never saw the point in learning. Or learning any other language,” which might have appeared like close mindedness. And maybe it was. Conor hadn't been to school for that long and that might have killed some of his curiosity. That, and realizing monsters were real, because both things occured at the same moment.

“I don't know about cliches but the status quo never really ever was my thing,” which wasn't to say that he was a marginalized person in society (though he once had been) : Conor had missed being around people even if some of them were dickheads. “I know. Back in the 90s people were already commenting on that shit,” he brushed his hands together above the bowl again, and turned around to rinse them over the sink. “Do you want a cup of tea? I’d offer coffee but it’s terrible.” Pause. “ When I make it. You’re allowed to like coffee.” He grimaced. “Anyway. Tea?” He figured that might be nice to have on hand while discussing the terrifying fate of their planet.

—

“Now that’s an idea. I must admit I don’t have a great sense of rhythm, though. Can’t be good at every area of art, huh?” Inge laughed despite herself, not that bothered with her inability to hold a note. She had at least managed to find a good way to move her body on music, and that was what mattered most. “I’ll keep your secret though. And maybe I can teach you some things about my trade.” 

She tried to withhold judgment against his disinterest in learning languages. Different worlds, she reminded herself. “Fair enough. English isn’t my native tongue to begin with, and I traveled a lot around Europe, so there was always a push for me to speak the language of the country I was in.” It was crucial to at least know the basics: some flirtation, how to order a cab and the directions to the museum. “But you know, English is widely used. I understand not really bothering.” 

Inge nodded and let out a chuckle, “Nor was it mine.” A woman who left her husband in the 70s, who shared a home and life with a woman after her divorce, who was dead but still roamed this earth. She had once minded being an anomaly, but her days in Wanneperveen had long passed. “Even earlier than that, mind you.” She rolled a final ball, patting it lovingly as she put it down. It would do great things. “Tea sounds good. I don’t tend to drink caffeine this late, it keeps me up.” How delightfully human that sounded! As if it was caffeine that kept her from sleeping. “This is nice, Conor. I think we’ll do great things together.”

__ 

“I suppose not. I’ve never really given drawing much thought but I reckon I’d be terrible at it,” he was however quite a gifted dancer, or so he had been told. It was a shame he refused to indulge into the activity. Too much excitement could easily lead to a feeding accident, also referred to as mass murder. Once was too many times for a lifetime. It happened over 40 years ago but Conor couldn’t shake it off of his mind.

He believed that he most likely never would. 

The papers at the time spoke of a cultist event, unexplainable deaths. Conor didn’t linger around and at the time sworn off feeding himself like this. Believe it or not, this made it even worse. 

“Meanwhile I’ve never left New England states,” he commented. That didn’t exactly push someone to try and learn another language. “So you can easily understand why I never really bothered,” the occasion never prevented itself, and Conor might have had a life span that allowed him to learn a lot more things than the regular person, most of it had been dedicated to learning all he could about crops, flowers, the violin, and the Red Sox. 

“I’ll fix us a cup of rooibos then,” he offered with a slight smile, and catching a towel to dry his hands, motioned her to follow behind. “I have great hopes for our collaboration,” he agreed. 

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Tír na nÓg PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra  and Bridie @itzbridiebitch SUMMARY:  Conor hand delivers flowers to Bridie’s club, but she seems more excited about him being here than about his work. It soon turns into a game of 20Q which he somehow manages to lose at. CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of suicide

“You’re the florist?” 

Conor stared at the other person. Most of his interactions with others made him question if life was some sort of episode of Happy Days where they removed the cameras and forgot to add the laughter track. An armful of flowers and foliage before him, he was silent for a moment longer before answering the pointless question posed to him. “Yes, I’m the florist.” His tone matched how uninspired he felt in this instant, and as he shuffled to the venue, his old worn out leather shoes scuffing the floor, tried to ignore that unpleasant feeling he’d get anytime other faes were around. It wasn’t even unpleasant, but he didn’t like it.

The feeling dissipated, and his shoulders relaxed, while he returned to the van to get his hands on the crates of flowers he’d brought along. This was quite a big event and he’d have to deliver.

_____

Bridie would take any reason to throw a party. Of course, every night at her little slice of Wicked’s Rest was a party, but it got boring sometimes. The same faces, same music, same drink orders. When the monotony of it got to be too much, that was when she decided to hold an event. In the past, she’d held simple ones. On Wednesdays We Wear Pink (anyone who showed up in pink got half priced drinks) and Margaritaville (all beach drinks half off of you showed up in beach-themed attire) were some of her favorites. But a song had stood out to her recently. A song from some old musical about King Arthur. The Lusty Month of May, it was called. And it gave Bridie an idea. 

Getting a pole in the middle of her club hadn’t been too difficult. Not when she pawned the task off on the bouncer. “You’re just so much stronger than me,” she’d said, batting her eyelashes. Bridie had covered every inch of the place with brightly colored ribbons and streamers. It was a certifiable May Day festival. All she needed now was…

The new kid (what was his name again? Brady? Brandon? Brett?) appeared before her. “Some guy saying he’s the florist is here?” Brad said, shifting from foot to foot as though he wanted to get away before Bridie gave him something else to do. Noting the movement, she dumped a heap of streamers into his arms. “Get these attached to the pole.” She instructed as she turned to go find the flowers. “Thanks Bill!” the faun called in a sing song voice as she skipped off. 

Bridie walked outside and saw a van with heaps of brightly colored blossoms stuffed inside. She let out a delighted squeal as she made her way over. “Hi, I think we spoke over the phone. Those are fabulous! I love it, this is going to be totally amazing!” 

_________

And there was the owner, or maybe the one in charge of events, who knew? Conor knew he’d have to make an effort. It wasn’t in his habit to pretend. He always felt like a liar when he did, and lying always made him so terribly uncomfortable that he preferred to entirely avoid it. Even pretending to smile was demanding a lot, and he always ended up looking like he was trying to smile, rather than like someone genuinely warm and sunshine-like. 

“We did. I recognize your voice,” she sounded even happier in person. The thought caused him to frown, internally. His blank slate of a face stared at her while she fantasized about how amazingly fabulous and fantastic it was all going to be. In the meantime, Conor wondered how painful being shot in the face would be, compared to all that positive energy. He had just arrived here and he was already exhausted with the bright sunny attitude of that woman. Well, there was that, and this feeling he got around other fae. 

Perhaps this explained that. 

“I need to get to it, it’s a lot of work,” he eluded her compliments, and grimacing a smile at her, moved away with his crate in hands. 

_______

The work the florist had done really was fantastic. All pinks and blues and yellows- pops of bright color positively everywhere. It was going to look incredible. Bridie tried not to grimace at the mention of work, and her smile matched his own attempt at one. “Yeaaah…” she drew the word out, staring at it for a moment. God she needed to find another person to do stuff for her. Setting up for parties: boring. Partying at the party: fun! “I’ll get Bennett-Blake-Benjamin to come lend us a hand. He should totally be done with the streamers by now.” It had been what, two minutes? Two minutes was enough time to attach streamers to a pole, wasn’t it?

She was so distracted by the gorgeous flowers and the prospect of awful terrible work, she almost missed it. But once Bridie noticed the buzzy sensation that zipped over her skin, it was hard to ignore. That inimitable tingling sensation of being in the presence of fae. Her eyes narrowed and her grin quadrupled in size. “Ohmigod,” the three words rushed out in one hushed jumble. She decided to test something. If Mister Flower Power Grumpy Guts was fae, he’d know how this particular little game worked. 

Bridie followed closely after him, not bothering to pick up a crate. The tingles persisted, and she figured it was worth a shot. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught it- can I have your name?” 

______

"Bennett Blake Benjamin?" Conor wasn't one to humor anyone but that sure sounded intriguing. His eyes scanned over her face while he tried to decide whether she was taking the piss out of him here or serious about the guy's name. 

Certainly, if she smiled like this, she must have been joking. It wasn't funny and he was happy to have an excuse to stride away from her. 

It was a shame she seemed to have one to follow behind. 

"You didn't catch my name ? It's on the invoice I sent you the other day," because people always seemed to be shocked with how much he charged for something they could grow in their garden. Right, like these people who struggled to keep their boring lawn clean would be able to make anything interesting grow. 

"My name's Conor," he made it a point not to ask for hers, not that he remembered it, but because he simply didn't care. He didn't remember names on the long term anyway so why bother. "I'll need a ladder or a step stool to install the flower arches," he commented, returning to the van to get the other crate.

_________

Bridie groaned . “His name was something boring and I cannot for the life of me remember what the hell it was. Brandon? Brendon? Bartholomew?” She huffed in annoyance, shaking her head. “It would have been so much easier if it had been a cool name. That might have to be my new prerequisite for hiring people. Must have a cool name, or else they will be assigned one upon employment.” She looked pleased with herself for how utterly professional that last sentence had sounded. Maybe she was getting better at this whole business thing.

“Well I can’t catch what isn’t thrown.” Her grin grew wider, if that was at all possible. She was beginning to look like a demented version of that smiling cat from that children’s story… what was it? Albert in Nowhereland? No, that wasn’t right. She supposed she should have known about the invoice. It was probably sitting in her email with the other one hundred-and-something unopened emails, or the stack of mail that was collecting dust on the corner of her desk. She’d get to it eventually. Probably. Maybe. Someday. One day.

And just like that, her smile deflated like a popped balloon. Well boo. It was no fun if he didn’t ask to have hers. Bridie decided he could keep his name. She didn’t think she looked like a Conor anyway. And maybe that bit about him having sent it over already negated the deal. “Well, you can call me Bridie.” She offered. Her face scrunched up, trying to figure him out. She knew the tingles weren’t from any of her employees, and he was presently the only variable. Bridie continued following Conor as he headed back to the van, shouting over her shoulder as she went “Barnaby! Go grab a step stool!”

Once they were outside, her eyes narrowed. Why wasn’t he saying anything. She was definitely fae, so he should be picking up on it…”Why didn’t you ask if you could have mine?” Bridie asked.

_______________

“I see,” maybe she has the same issue he did with faces, but with names. "Bartholomew, I think you would have remembered." It was hideous. It was fit for the idiot who greeted him, he supposed, but the name was special enough you could remember it. Conor thought a few seconds more about it, before letting his eyes stray toward the crate in his hands. "You want to hire people because they have cool names?" The joke flew above his head and he furrowed his eyebrows. "I don't have a cool name, but I'll do a good job," because he was a lot better at this than he was at getting jokes, clearly.

"I didn't throw anything," he agreed, although he wasn't sure what it was they were talking about here. Oh, right. She didn't catch his name. He gave her a sympathetic smile, a grimace to the observer and was incredibly relieved when she stopped smiling herself. He wasn’t a funny person, and he didn’t want to share playful banter with her even if he was starting to spiral and wonder if this wasn’t what she expected from him, from one fae to another. Fucking faeries, I swear to God. “Bridie?” He scoffed. Of course.

Barnaby? And Conor thought he was rude. He glanced over at her, stacking chicken wire on the dolly next to his tools, then putting the second flower crate on top. “Why?” His brows furrowed while he stared down at the plants. Why was she asking him this? It surely wasn’t the first time someone showed a lack of interest in her name. “I don’t need your name to do my job, do I?” And now she was wasting his time. He pushed on the hand truck, heading back inside without further explanations.

___________

“Oh, I know it’s not Bartholomew.” Bridie chirped, a wide grin on her face. “I figure eventually I will get it right, and the look of shock and joy at hearing his actual name on Bertrand’s face will be amazing and totally worth having called for ‘Bartholomew’.”

“Well, I mean, having a cool name helps.” Her name was cool. It was sing songy, and fun, and you wouldn’t forget a name like Bridie. Paired with her amazing personality, her name would never leave people’s minds once they’d partied with her. Billy-bob, however… “No one wants to party with someone who has a lame ass name. Or worse, an old person name. Could you imagine shaking your ass in a club with Gertrude, Harriet, and Old Man Jenkins? I don’t think so. Those names sound like they’d sooner bust their hip than bust a move.”

Bridie’s disgruntled expression grew into a certifiable scowl. Why was he pretending he didn’t know what she was? She blinked, watching him push his little hand truck away, before darting ahead of him and standing directly in his path. “Why are you acting like you don’t know?”

_________

Her explanation was quite exhausting to listen to as it made absolutely no damn sense. Be courteous he thought to himself, as he listened to her brag about how cool her name was. Names were just names. You didn't even pick them, most of the time. There really was no reason to brag about how cool one's name was. He certainly didn't think his name was worth bragging about. He liked it but it was just a name. This being said, he did hate the name Bartholomew because it half sounded like a cat tried to come up with a plausible human name and failed.

"Your name makes me think of the song bye bye birdie," he commented. It wasn't a song he liked. The singer's voice was shrill and you couldn't exactly call it a bop either. "Conor could fit an old man," he added. He knew that, because his great-grandfather was called Conor. Bless his soul. He had a girl called Harriet in his class, back in 3rd grade. He kept that to himself.

She gave him the dirty eye. He didn't pay much care to it, until she strode to come stand in his way. "You're in the way," there was something lazy about the way he said it. He could have rolled around her, yet here he stood, looking at her. "Like I don't know what?" He knew what she meant. You're one of us, she'd say. He didn't like the implication. Most fae he met didn't care for killing humans. His mom was human. His brother too. That wasn't fair.

_______

The faun’s face crinkled. “Um, only you say it wrong.” She squiggled a finger through the air, as if signing her name. “B-r-i-d-i-e. Emphasis on that first ‘i’. Like a bride. Then add an e. See? Bridie.” She drew her name out, over enunciating it as if that would somehow help her get her point across. “And I’ve met just as many college frat bros named Conor as there probably are old geezers named Conor.” 

“Yeah, I know I am, that’s kind of the whole point.” Bridie crossed her arms impatiently, eyes narrowing as she stomped a platform shoe that sounded suspiciously like a hoof into the pavement beneath her foot. “Listen babes, I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night.” She looked him up and down, taking in the sight. “So what’s the sitch? What are you? We’re the only two out here, so it’s gotta be you.”

__________

"I say it wrong?" Maybe he hadn't paid enough attention the first time around. Like he said, he didn't care to remember her name. "It still sounds a lot like birdie," he persisted. Conor didn't mind if young or old people wore his name. Like he said, it was just a name. "Then it fits everyone. Like your name. When you're old, an old lady will be called Bridie." What did it matter? Old people were great. They were his age. The old man who lived across from the flower shop and he were getting along well already. 

He glanced down as she hit the floor with her shoe. That sound wasn't new to his ears. That peculiar note, he'd heard it before. "I'm not a babe," crossing his arms, he leaned his weight on the handles of his hand truck and looked at her with an ever so bored look on his face. Quickly, his eyes were darting away. "I'm just the fucking flower guy," he didn't mean to swear. He didn't seem too worried about his slip of words however. "I don't know what the fuck you mean," ow. Why did he lie? He winced quietly, a clenching in his stomach forcing him to take a deep breath. "Can you let me through?"

__________

“Yeah, it’s not birdie. Do I look like a bird to you?” Bridie gestured to herself. “Note the lack of wings. I don’t do feathers. It’s not a good look on me.” She curled her lip in disdain. “No. Old person energy is like… a state of mind, or whatever. I will never be an old lady. I don’t have it in me. I’m not gonna be sitting at home making granny squares or baking cookies. I’m gonna go sky diving.” 

Bridie grinned. “Oooh, so he does play word games! Good, good, good.” He looked bored, and that made this all the more entertaining for Bridie. What would it take for him to get annoyed enough to give in? Or even better, what would get him to loosen the hell up adn have some fun? “No can do, babycakes. You still haven’t said the password. Especially since lying isn’t gonna be fun for either of us.” She pouted dramatically, before batting her eyelashes. “Come on, you know it would be way more fun if you told me.”

________

"You don't look like a bird, no," but that wasn't what he said, was it? Conor followed her hand with his eye. When she described her featherless state, he didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to discuss something that wasn’t there, was he? 

Of course, he disagreed with her. Old person energy? What was that? “If you’re old, you’re old. You can like skydiving, you’ll still be old. That’s factual,” why would someone want to skydive was above him. He didn’t get it. It sounded atrocious. Conor would have rather stayed at home. He often preferred to stay at home, he didn’t like new things. “Cookies sound better if you ask me. I’d rather eat and bake cookies.”

He frowned, and that only seemed to enhance the disinterest . Why was she smiling? What did he do? Word games? He did like word games, sometimes. “I’m not babyca-” He sighed. Lying wasn’t going to be fun for either of them. They were the same. He didn’t like that. Covered his eyes with the heel of his hands, he mumbled some insult in Irish beneath his breath. He didn’t know much Irish, but those had been fucking easy to remember. “You think this is fun?” What the actual fuck. “Fuck off, this isn’t fucking fun, it’s a bloody nightmare is what it is.”

________

Bridie paused, frowning. “I…” she was confused. Why did he seem upset. The fae were a community- sure they were all different. All needed different things. But in Bridie’s experience, she’d never dealt with someone like this. “Well, yeah, of course I think it’s fun.” Her voice was softer now. Like a scolded child who wasn’t sure what they’d done wrong. 

“What do you mean a nightmare? I don’t trade in scary things. Not unless someone else gets a kick out of it, and then it’s fair game if I think it’s fun… wait do you mean me? Do you mean I am a nightmare?”

_________

Well at least she wasn’t yapping about how fun everything was, skydiving, calling people the wrong name until you remember the right one, being a folklore monster… “I don’t mean you.” Conor didn’t know her. Sure, she was irritating him so far but he tried not to be unfair to people. He was rude, but he wasn’t unfair. At least, he thought so. “I mean me,” his eyebrows furrowed. Tilting his chin up, the faun started to glance up at the sky, if only not to have to look at her at all. He knew she’d look at him now. “You seem to be perfectly happy being whatever it is you are. Good for you,” he didn’t get it. How could you possibly be satisfied living that sort of life? Maybe she was a different kind of fae. He knew it wasn’t just fauns. “I really need to get back to work, Bridie.” 

______

 Her frown deepened. “You’re not a nightmare.” Bridie crossed her arms. “You’re cranky as anything, but you’re not a nightmare.” Bridie took a step closer, desperately trying to put the puzzle together. 

Then it occurred to her that there was an easy way to answer her question. It wasn’t nice, exactly. Lies weren’t something they traded in, so yes or no questions complicated thing’s immensely. And Bridie wasn’t about to wander back inside without an answer. “Yes or no: are you fae?” She asked. “Answer my questions and I will let you go back to work. You have my word.” She held out her hand. It was a small deal. A trivial one really. But she made sure to say questions instead of just a single question. She was figuring this thing out. 

______

“You don’t fucking know me,” his tone usually oscillated between flat and irritated. It was nothing like this. His voice was tainted from those words being something he’d thought about too many times. People didn’t know him, and when they did, they didn’t like it. How could it have been any other way? Who would want to know a bloody goat man. Conor glanced back down, at her feet. He didn’t want her to step closer. 

Her question made him turn his back on her for a second. The fucking witty motherfuck’ She knew he would have no way out. “That’s not nice,” he commented. It was terribly black and white of him to say, but some things weren’t more complicated than that. “Fuck,” Conor exclaimed himself. “Yeah,” while he spat it out, he made it a point to look anywhere but in her direction. “Now you let me go back to work,” he shook his head, all too unaware of the weight of her words

_______________

“Of course I don’t, that’s why I’m asking you questions to get to know you.” Bridie sighed dramatically. “Duh. That’s how meeting new people works.” She noticed him look down at her feet, glamoured to look like sky high pink platform heels. Grinning, she took one tiny step closer.

“I never said I was nice, honey.” Bridie clapped her hands together, delighted. She waited, staring at him with wide eyes for the answer she knew was coming. At the confirmation, the faun let out a squeal, bouncing back and forth on her feet. “I knew it!” She crowed. “Annnd, no. Because you agreed to questions. Plural. Implying more than one. So what kind of fae are you?”

________

“Of course,” Conor pursed his lips until they looked like a line. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually talk to people long enough to make conversation.” She moved forward, again, but he didn’t move. If she got too close, he would step away, but he didn’t want to appear as easily scared. 

“Good, because you’d be lying then,” Conor decided then that he really preferred her ten seconds ago, when she looked miserable. Decidedly so. “Do you have to be so loud all the time?” Pressing his fingertips against his eyelids, the faun sighed. What was that about? So what if he agreed to questions? “We didn’t shake on it,” he took his hands off his eyes and gave her a smile. “But then I suppose that makes two questions. I’m a faun, now kindly fuck off,” he didn’t smile often, and there was nothing warm about the one he had on his face. 

________

There was a moment where Bridie was stood preternaturally still.

Wide eyes got wider, and an overjoyed expression broke out across her face like a firework exploding. 

“Oh my god!!!” She squealed, launching herself at the other faun in a hug. “Oh my god, I haven’t seen another faun in so long! How long have you been in town? Are there others like us? How many other fae do you know? What do you look like without the glamour? Do you want to hang out with me?” 

It was a barrage of questions as the young faun bounced up and down in excitement. She simply couldn’t help herself.

______

He froze. What was she doing. Was she going to ever let go? What was going on? 

He barely registered what she was saying, focused as he was on whatever it was he was supposed to be doing with his hands. Conor currently held them up in the air, like he was getting arrested. The look on his face matched that sentiment : bewildered, wide eyed and really wishing he was some other place. “I answered two questions. I need to get back to work now,” his tone remained unchanged, however. “Please? Can you let go? I…” Fucksake. He closed his eyes for a second, shutting them tightly while he tried not to think about all her questions. This was just his luck, wasn’t it? Just his fucking damn bloody luck. 

______

Bridie frowned. This was not what she was used to. Then again, she’d grown up surrounded by fae she’d known and not random faun’s she’d only met moments prior. Maybe this just wasn’t his idea of fun. She relinquished her hold on him, taking a few steps back. 

“Right, you did.” She said sheepishly. “I just got excited, is all.” A shoe that sounded more like a hoof scuffed the pavement as she swung it back and forth. Finally, she stepped out of his way, holding out an arm for him to proceed. “If you ever do want someone to hang out with, just hit me up, okay? There’s another club downtown- The Mushroom Circle. It’s a little more… Comfortable. To hang out at.”

______

Conor frowned. The scowl didn’t go away as she stepped away, as if permanently carved into his face. He remained still for a few more seconds, as he listened to her. He knew she wasn’t a bad person. Bad people didn’t want others to be happy. “It’s fine,” he mumbled. 

“You want to hang out with me?” That didn’t make sense. She just met him, and even if she and he were alike, if she was anything like his father, she’d just let him down. Conor knew he let down people too. He never meant to, but maybe fauns were like that. “I like mushrooms,” he finally added. “I’ve been trying to make terrariums for mushrooms, but I need to figure out the humidity to make sure they don’t thrive too much, but also don’t die, and there’s also the right pH in the soil. It’s a bit complex, I don’t know if I’ll eventually manage, but I have good hopes. Plants usually end up listening to me,” he glanced at her. She was bored, wasn’t she? “I don’t know if I can go to that place. I don’t hang out with people,” he hummed to himself and took a hold of the handles again. “I have work. I… yeah.” 

__________

She nodded. “Well, yeah.” she hadn’t made many far friends since being in town. She’d been so caught up with getting her little once stop shop of euphoria up and running, and she desperately missed the community she’d had back home. Bridie pawed a heeled shoe into the ground. 

She looked a bit confused as he continued on about mushrooms. She knew… well basically nothing about growing plants, much less mushrooms. So humidity and pH meant literally nothing to her. But mushrooms could be snacks- maybe he grew food in addition to flowers. “The Mushroom Circle is a bar- but maybe they’d want an actual faerie ring… could be fun.”  She frowned a little at his excuse, her mind already spinning for a workaround. “Okay… where’s your shop?”

_______

“Yeah?” The faun fell silent. What were the odds that this ended poorly? Statistically high. Most of his relationships ended poorly, if not all. The only stable thing in his life right now was the letters he sent his mother every month, the ones he received every month.

"Maybe. Maybe," he didn't have to get his hopes up. He just had to keep his hopes on the floor. She spoke of faerie ring and he just looked away. He had no idea what that was. Conor knew that he didn't like many things about his species. He fed off people, he looked like an animal hybrid, he could kill people, he had killed people. Was this going to be another disappointment? Most likely. Fun. That word, again. "I'll get the decorations inside. You'll get my address with the invoice," reaching into his apron, he handed out an envelope to her. "You can stop by. I'm sorry, I just… I'm not great at this whole thing." With a light frown, the faun nodded his head at her in an attempt at being somewhat polite or apologetic. 

_______

“Yeah.” She confirmed with a smile. Yeah, she did want a friend. Yeah he was grumpy, but he was the first faun she’d seen in a while. 

“Okay, I’ll take maybe.” It wasn’t a deal. She wouldn’t ask for a deal, no matter how badly she wanted to. She’d already played this little game too long, and he didn’t seem fond of it.  “I’ll let you finish your work- if you need anything, let me know. I’ll get Billius to help you finish.” Bridie turned to go inside to tend to whatever needed to be done. “It was nice to meet you, Conor.” the young faun grinned before walking back inside. He might not have been great with this sort of thing, but making friends fell squarely in Bridie’s wheelhouse. She had this under conntrol. Whether or not Conor realized it, he had gained a new friend that day.

______

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: A couple weeks ago LOCATION: inflorescence PARTIES: Conor & Karen SUMMARY: Conor tries to explain to a stubborn woman that he doesn't have the roses she's searching for. He's no jedi but he knows how to get rid of a nuisance. CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a

“There’s no need to raise your voice,” you fucking moron. The words remained stuck in his throat. Keeping it inside certainly couldn’t count as lying, but it hurt him anyway not to tell that woman his truths. 

She had walked in already 10 minutes ago, with the hopes, the dreams, that he made a bouquet of pitch black roses for her. He didn’t like roses. People always wanted roses. He didn’t like monochrome, monotype bouquets either. Nothing about the bouquets already made and sitting on shelves made one think that this was the place for those. He preferred to work with locally grown flowers, with seasonal flowers too. Black roses were technically possible to find, in the middle of summer, in Turkey. He had told her this. He had told her this four, maybe five times already. 

 Still, she persisted. 

“You’re lying,” she finally spat. The faun sighed, his shoulders dropping as he stared at a piece of lint on her shoulder. Her outfit was otherwise spotless, curated to look flawless. The urge to pick at it was repressed, and he picked up a pen from the cup on the counter, making it turn on the edge of his middle finger. “I’m lying?” He replied, his expression remaining the same, jaded one he sported most days. “I sell flowers for a living, I won’t make a lot of money if I lie to -” She cut him off then, shouting LIES, LIES, LIES. He didn’t like when people did that. Why did people do that ? “I saw my friend’s Facebook story,” she spat, pointing her finger in his direction. Again, why did people do that ? “She had a dozen black roses delivered to her, and she tagged your shop in the post.” Though he understood only half of the words she said, something about her story didn’t sit right with the faun, who would have been aware if his shop had a Facebook page. 

“I want my fucking flowers,” her voice kept on getting more shrill. He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyeballs, in an attempt to contain himself. He didn’t see her get the pen cup on the counter and throw it on the floor. He just heard it fall and shatter, the pens scatter around, and the sound of her voice as she shouted : “Look at me and give me my FUCKIN-” he should have seen this one coming. “Shut the fuck up,” he didn’t scream often, he cherished his quiet too much. Conor’s eyes locked with hers for the first time. She opened her mouth to say something, but like a fish, wasn’t able to produce a sound. If he’d known a bit more about his species, he would have known that the havoc she was causing was the perfect ground for chaotic energy like the one he exuded naturally. When was the last time he had fed anyway? “Why don’t we go look at the flowers in the back?” She nodded her head with enthusiasm. This was disgusting. To think that some fae did it all for fun. Taping a paper on the front door Back in 10 minutes, it read, Conor walked after her, picking up his violin’s case from the backroom. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t forget to give her back her voice once he was done.