#im the ceo of namedropping 7 new characters and of 'the thing about ___'

[sunnytumbies]

look at the stars (look how they shine for you)

So...what we have here is another plot fic, one that wound up having a relatively small stretch of kink. I planned to have more fiendish scenes, but it would’ve just been unnatural and forced, and this chapter is primarily meant to set up some background info about the subplots of this story and to reveal some stuff about Quincy/Cal’s past that will make writing kink drabbles and side fics a lot easier (aka I won’t have to cartwheel around stuff that hasn’t been revealed in plot yet!) That said, we’ve got a good 1044 words of fiendery! 

Suffice to say, the next thing I post will be a fully-fiendish side fic, I promise. No hard feelings if you don’t read this due to the low kink to plot ratio, but I hope someone out there enjoys it! 

Title comes from “Yellow” by Coldplay (I know, I know)  Word count: 10,508

Warning! This fic includes violence, transphobia, graphic descriptions of wounds, depression, anxiety, and mentions of a suicide attempt (fleeting and not elaborated on). Please stay safe should you choose to read! 

2005  

Virginia Pembrook is damn good at her job, even when her hands shake. She’s seen people burned to death in fires, gunshot wounds to temples, seen bodies that were left for weeks before they were found, smeared Vicks VapoRub under her nose and carried on like nobody’s business. She is, objectively speaking, a badass.  

Virginia is damn good at her job, but this is Mary Kline she’s looking at, and a month ago she was swapping pie recipes with Virginia, planning their group Thanksgiving. She’s having trouble looking down at her and not seeing that kid, too damn young to have lost his mother this way. Truth be told, there is upsettingly little left to identify. Fires are like that. 

But she volunteered for this, because Henry Kline insisted on the autopsy (which, despite her pleas, Virginia was not permitted to perform, and God if the thought of someone cutting Mary open like she’s any other cadaver that comes through their lab doesn’t cause her pain, sharp and aching and difficult to describe), because he similarly insisted on the toxicology screen that has taken an agonizing month to come back, dragging out the funeral and putting that kid through hell, not giving him the damn closure he needs.

She exhales. She was not permitted to perform the original autopsy, but she can do this, at least. She can review the toxicology screen, can sign off on the report, can finally give Cal the closure he’s desperate for, why won’t Mommy come back, Ginny? Why is Daddy so sad?

She can do that, at least. 

She’s been at it for an hour and a half when she sees them: two small, perfectly round marks just shy of what would have been Mary’s jugular. She grows cold, all of a sudden--they look like bullet holes, albeit of a particularly small caliber, or maybe some sort of puncture wound, nearly small enough to escape her notice. Nearly. 

The thing is that Mary died in a fire. 

That’s what it says on the report, at least, in Dr. Stephens’ unusually neat handwriting. There is no note of any puncture mark, of any wound other than post-mortem damage from the blaze. Virginia takes a deep, steadying breath. Dr. Stephens is not a careless man. Ballistics aren’t even Virginia’s area. Perhaps the marks are simply burn blisters, she reasons, but finds herself fighting prickles of unease, like part of her has registered something she hasn’t yet consciously realized. 

She’s being ridiculous, she tells herself, trying to shake off her sense of foreboding; she’s simply overly-emotional because this case is far too close to her. She’ll check the toxicology report and go from there. 

It isn’t until she reads over the report that Virginia’s hands begin to tremble. 

It is, for the most part, unsurprising. No ethanol in Mary’s system, no amphetamines, no drugs; Virginia can’t help but feel a flicker of morbid amusement when she flips to the positive findings section, which lists nicotine and caffeine--of course those would be present in Mary’s system, Mary who could never take a damn break--and then Virginia is frowning in confusion as she reaches the last finding: 

Compound: Uncategorized barbiturate Result: positive Units: mcg/mL Matrix source: 001 - Peripheral blood 

Virginia has seen many toxicology screens in her day, far too many. She has never, ever seen an uncategorized result, and regardless, why would Mary test positive for anesthesia, particularly running through her veins? Mary died in a—

Mary died in a fire. Because she didn’t--couldn’t--get out of the house. 

All at once, Virginia is  hyper-aware of the sensation that she’s being watched, of the gruesome expression Mary’s face is pulled into underneath the sheet, of the flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of death permeating her nostrils. Suddenly and undeniably, she is terrified, and she drops her tape recorder with a clatter (she’d forgotten she was even holding it, what with how she has been taking dictations all evening), letting the toxicology report fall with it. 

Tomorrow, she decides. She is clearly in no state to handle any of this now. Tomorrow she’ll come back and reevaluate, when she’s had enough sleep;  maybe she’ll call the reporting chemist to inquire as to why he approved such a baffling report. Maybe it’s an error--she’s tired, that’s all. Overwrought. It’s a relief to sink into the comforting embrace of logic, of jargon. She’ll research. She’ll find an explanation that makes sense. 

Still painfully aware of the feeling that she is not alone, Virginia opts to endure the inevitable flak she’ll receive for leaving the report and the tape recorder where they’ve fallen, rushing to gather her things and flick off the lights. She’s almost made it to her car when she’s stopped by a cold, hard hand gripping her wrist. 

She has time to yelp in surprise before another cold hand clamps over her mouth like a vice, a cloying scent filling her nostrils.  “Mary Kline died in a fire,” says a voice, low and furious and far too close to her ear, and her head is yanked to the side, to a pair of blood-red irises making intent, startling eye contact. She’s shaking, she thinks, and dimly she is registering terror, fight-or-flight, urgency, but she is transfixed by those eyes, dizzied by the scent filling her senses, cloying her lungs. She can’t scream, can’t think, but struggles to remember why that matters. “There is nothing strange on the tox screen,” she hears that voice say, feels her head nodding like a thing that doesn’t belong to her. 

“Nothing strange,” she murmurs behind the hand, her tense muscles slackening as the fight drains out of her. Her mind is cloudy.  

“That’s right. Mary Kline died in a fire. Say it back to me, would you, sweetheart?”  

“Mary Kline died in a fire,” she parrots back obediently, confused. Why is she having to repeat a truth so obvious? “Nothing strange in the report.”  

“Good.” The hand releases her wrist, pulls away from her mouth to let her breath fresh air. “That’s good, Dr. Pembrook.”  

“Good,” Virginia murmurs absently, or someone else murmurs through her lips. She can’t be sure, but can’t find it within herself to care very much. 

 Later on, Virginia will find it strange that she can’t remember anything between leaving work and driving home, that there’s a chunk of missing time there, but she’ll put it off to exhaustion. She’ll think nothing of the strange, musky herbal smell that has been trailing her all day, putting it off to a mixture of her rosemary-scented shampoo and the grime of working a few days in a row. She’ll chastise herself for leaving a sloppy work station the night before, picking up her tape recorder with a frown--she didn’t notice it falling out of her lab coat pocket, but it wouldn’t be the first time it had happened. She casts a brief glance over the toxicology report, simply affirming that it’s signed--she’s surprised that her signature is so neat, given what a rush she was clearly in at the time--and finally, finally signs off on the death certificate with a morose shake of her head. 

“It was smoke inhalation,” she’ll lie without knowing it to a still-grieving Henry Kline, a hand on his shoulder. “She wouldn’t have felt a thing. I’m so sorry, Henry.” 

“It didn’t hurt?” Henry manages, lifting his head to meet Virginia’s sympathetic gaze with watery eyes. 

“Not at all,” Virginia soothes. “It would have been like falling asleep.” 

Now

Quincy is moving into the apartment anytime after 2 per Cal’s text message, but it is Tuesday, meaning that he is expected to make it to an 11am lunch with Graves. His alarm, as per usual, is scheduled to go off with enough time for him to spend an hour or so wallowing in bed before he really has to get up and get ready. 

Quincy does not like mornings.   

This is why he does a double take when he stretches and glances at his clock to see that it's only a few minutes after eight--a good hour before his alarm--and even more perplexingly, that he's looking forward to getting ready. He's standing in front of his full-length mirror deciding between two sweaters (one mustard yellow, one navy blue dotted with white stars) before he realizes that he's only considering the yellow one because Cal had so much trouble looking away from him the last time he wore yellow. He frowns and yanks on a collared denim button-down and then the navy blue sweater, rolling up his sleeves a bit more aggressively than is technically called for.   

Cal is good, Quincy thinks. Cal is good and kind, and Quincy cannot do this, cannot even think about doing this.    

He forces himself to shake it off, casting a cursory glance around his dark bedroom. It's filled almost to capacity with boxes, most of their contents new; others are filled with his clothes, the only material possessions he lets himself hold onto. The only well-used items in the room—his plain mattress, sagging on its pathetic box spring, and a CD player that wheezed its last wheeze weeks ago—will not be coming with him. Everything else he'll cram into his Mercedes.    

He'll miss this place, he supposes, in a useless, nostalgic way with only tenuous ties to reality. He's not going to wax poetic on the perpetually damp air, the water stains on the popcorn ceiling, the busted window screens.  

He guesses what he's really going to miss is solitude, because there is a certain sort of safety in lonesomeness that he has taken for granted over the years. Like the proverbial fool who doesn't know what he has until it's gone, Quincy knows that he is on the edge of something, here, and he is frightened.    

(It’s just that Quincy is not allowed to be frightened. This has to be done, and Quincy is the one who has to do it, and that, like so much else in his life, is simply the way of things.)   

He takes an unnecessary breath and calls Graves.    

"Little bro! You're up before noon!"

Quincy rolls his eyes, because despite everything, he is still capable of being annoyed by Graves, an extraordinarily ridiculous man. They aren’t related, but they certainly aren’t merely friends--brother is much more accurate, and besides, Quincy enjoys the confused glances as people slowly process their extremely disparate skin tones. 

"Don't get used to it," he says, reaching into his pocket. His keys are there, of course. They always are. He flicks open his knife with his thumbnail, the motion fluid, carried out with the ease of familiarity. It was a gift from Graves for his birthday last year, a short, cold-iron blade that looks like a key when he flicks it closed. "I was wondering if we could meet earlier than 11. I'm, uh, hungry."    

Quincy has to pull the phone away from his ear to save himself from Graves’s top-volume belly laugh, no doubt in response to his obvious lie. "Eager, huh? Does Quincypoo have a cruuuuush?"  

Quincy's brows furrow. He doesn't understand his brother, sometimes, the way he can live the way they live and still be downright goofy.    

"I just want to get started, I guess. There's nothing left for me here.”

Graves goes a little somber, then, or at least as somber as he gets. "I get it. When can you be there?"  

"How soon can you meet me?" Quincy counters, and presses the button on the key fob to unlock his car, but not before slipping on his rumpled jean jacket, stained and holey as it is. It's the only article of clothing he knows for a fact that Graves hates.    

 *  

Quincy has mixed feelings about Noxboro, the little town just west of the university, with its clusters of locally-owned curiosity shops and its rainbow-painted crosswalks. It's less crowded than the area immediately around the university but just as congested, and everyone is so nice to him, chirruping cheerful good morning!s and how are you?s when he passes them on the sidewalk. He is inconspicuous in an unassuming, progressive Southeastern town sort of way, but he is also extremely conspicuous as someone walking alone in an unassuming, progressive Southeastern town, and thus an ideal candidate for being showered with the well-meaning friendliness of strangers. Quincy isn't antisocial, but he would still rather be left unbothered. He flips up his collar, pulls his jacket more tightly around himself.    

Alice’s Diner was one of Graves’s finds, nestled in Nox Mill Mall. In World War II, Nox Mill was a munitions factory, and it was bought out after the war to become a woolen mill. It was briefly an underwear shipment facility—a fact that amuses Graves to no end—before being abandoned when the mills closed. They were going to demolish it, but the little Noxboro community petitioned to have it turned into Nox Mill Mall, a sturdy brick building with a couple of restaurants, a toy store, and a tea shop. Quincy tried to visit the tea shop once, and there was a guest speaker, a woman with grey hair in braids down to her waist talking about aliens walking among us. Quincy does not believe in aliens, but she looked at him like she knew, and well. Quincy doesn't like tea that much anyway.    

Quincy likes Noxboro, is the thing. He likes buying fresh milk at the co-op grocery store, likes to listen to Alice herself talk about her mother’s recipes and peddle her cake mixes on Sundays (I'm gonna throw in something extra, honey, she always says, and Quincy invariably finds protective amulets and sachets tucked into his coat pockets, recipes passed down in Alice’s family as meticulously as the recipes she makes at her restaurant). He smiles at the middle schoolers in band t-shirts clustering to take pictures of themselves on the rainbow crosswalks. He likes that, to get himself out of an unfortunately awkward incident involving a very flirtatious waitress, he lied, haltingly, without looking Graves in the eye, uh, I—I have a boyfriend, and the waitress—Sammie, he later learned—said, Aw, Forrest, we're just playing here, that's all it is. My girlfriend and I could just eat you up. (He doesn't know why she called him Forrest. When he asked, she threw her head back and laughed.)    

Quincy likes Noxboro. But between Nox Mill Mall and the co-op is a big-name corporate grocery store, and last time he bought some of Alice’s cake mix she was crying. Mama spent her whole life here, she said, voice trembling, did you know that? Started that restaurant with sixty-four dollars, no more and no less, $40 for food and $24 to make change. Used the money she made at breakfast to make lunch and the money she made at lunch to make dinner. No recipes, no nothing, just her eyes and her mouth. Quincy remembers nodding, squeezing one of her hands that she'd placed in both of his. She stayed here forever, spent her whole life building this community, and now I don't know if I'm gonna be able to afford to let her retire here.

Quincy loves Noxboro, and that is the problem. He is not supposed to get attached, not supposed to put down roots (is certainly not supposed to have rapport with locals, God, what is Quincy getting himself into, here?). He’s not supposed to know things like that Alice’s grandchildren run around outside without shoes on, half because they want to and half because they're the only shoes they'll get to have for the rest of the year and they want them to stay nice for church. It’s certainly not supposed to make Quincy's heart ache. 

But he comes to Alice’s, every Tuesday. And he keeps buying cake mix.   

Quincy pushes his way inside the diner, nods at the tired-looking hostess who recognizes him by now. He slides into the booth across from Graves, who already has food on the table, one plate on Quincy's side, one on his. Really, it's just Graves’s order twice.    

"Howdy, Forrest," Sammie purrs, and Quincy looks up in surprise to see her sauntering over to the table. Eleanor—the girlfriend, Quincy learned some time ago, who does in fact look like she would eat him—trails after her with an amused expression. The restaurant is fairly empty, and he supposes they have nothing better to do. Eleanor semi-permanently has that look on her face, like everything Sammie does is funny in just the right ways. When Eleanor isn't looking, Sammie looks at her the same way. It's love, Quincy guesses. He's glad for them. "Anything I can get for you?"  

“As usual, no,” Quincy says, perhaps more flatly than he entirely means to, because he is accustomed to Sammie’s antics. Still, he adds a perfunctory, "But thank you."  

Sammie doesn't push, just clears Graves’s already-empty plate and snorts as Graves drags "Quincy's" plate toward himself. Quincy doesn't eat his—never does—but Sammie doesn't question it, not ever, and for that Quincy is unbelievably grateful. He doesn't think for a second that she doesn't notice, that she doesn't know, and that's the thing about Noxboro, really. This town, and these people—so many of them have a way of knowing, in the most italicized sense of the word, a deep and perceptive kind of knowing. They've grown up with the old magic of kudzu and jimson weed, of lightning bugs clasped in their palms, of preachers who believe the words in the Holy Book, believe fire and brimstone as feverishly as most people believe in the earth going around the sun. There's something about growing up surrounded by belief like that that breathes a different kind of understanding into them.    

Quincy was afraid, at first, but now it's familiar. Comforting. The way Sammie looks at him when she thinks he isn't paying attention, like he's a puzzle she's trying to figure out, may as well be a mother's lullaby. It means Quincy is real. It means that he is not quite as far removed from reality as he thinks he is.  

"I hate that damn coat," Graves says then, pulling Quincy from his mental abstraction. "I keep telling you you need to let me dress you once. Just once, and you'll see how much potential you have."    

"I like my clothes," he says with the simplicity of someone who has had this fight many times. His nose wrinkles in disgust as he watches Graves shovel down his second helping of hashbrowns, licking crumbs off his lips. It wouldn't be so bad if Graves didn't insist on smearing them with strawberry jam. His exasperation at his own brother makes him think of Cal and his found family, of the brotherly disdain in his voice when he talked about Amy’s tarot and her well-meaning gestures centered on Cal’s health, and Quincy promptly shoves that thought back where it belongs.    

"So what is he like?" Graves asks with his mouth full, so so much for that, Quincy guesses. "Did he suspect?"    

"Suspect what?" Quincy says irritably, keeping his eyes on his hands. He'd usually tear up his napkin for something to do with them, but he's been toying with the rack of jam sitting on the table by the napkin dispenser. He picks up a container of strawberry to fight the urge to empty the rack and count them all. He looks at the light reflecting off its foil cover, tilts it so it alternates between reflecting and not reflecting. "He was...kind, and welcoming. He had no problem with me moving in so soon." Reflecting, not reflecting. Reflecting, not reflecting.    

"Good. That's good." Graves takes a swig from his massive mug of hot chocolate, and when he comes up for air he has a whipped-cream mustache.  

I feel strange about this, Graves, Quincy wants to say. I don't usually mind, but this one feels...different.    

He's working himself up to maybe saying it out loud, but then Graves states, very decisively, “As much as I love these brunches of ours, Quincypoo, it is especially important today. We have a Dick problem."  

Quincy wonders if this is a joke about Cal, and says flatly, "What."  

“A Richard Brandt problem, to be precise,” Graves says, and slaps a newspaper down in front of Quincy.  

BRANDT BREATHES NEW LIFE INTO NOXBORO, screams the headline, with a photo of the man himself grinning sleazily into the camera, posing in front of the new grocery store’s double doors. Quincy notices, not without bitterness, that they have cropped out the protesters who were posted just to the left of the entrance.  

"Brandt is behind this? Why?"  

"Not just the grocery store, bro. Read the article."

Quincy's eyes widen the more he reads. "What?"  

"I know. If the hard-hitting journalism is to be believed, Richard Brandt Enterprises isn't stopping with the superstore. They want to completely overrun this place."

"They have no reason to lie to the people. What’s the point?" Quincy murmurs uselessly, his brow furrowing as he gets to the part of the article that details the corporation's plan to construct more mainstream stores as cheaply and quickly as possible: According to Richard Brandt, CEO and founder of Richard Brandt Enterprises, "People want brands they can recognize. It's all about brand recognition. By making Noxboro a hub for those kinds of stores, we're going to ultimately bring in more people than ever before." In response to the concerns raised by protesters concerning how this plan will impact local business, Brandt had this to say: "That's ludicrous. The more people we bring in with these big-name stores, the more people there are for those local businesses that Noxboro prides itself on." He went on to say, "At Richard Brandt Enterprises, it's all about the people.  

"That's not how that works," Quincy says, looking up from the paper. "He's going to bankrupt these people. He's going to drive them from their own homes!" He thinks of Alice, his chest tightening. (He thinks of Cal, and hates how gently he pushes the thought away.)  

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Like I said. We have a Dick Problem."

Quincy is opening his mouth to object, but then Graves pauses mid-bite, eyes focused on a place somewhere behind Quincy's right shoulder.    

"What is it?" Quincy murmurs, muscles tensing reflexively. His hands, still tilting the jam back in forth, clench into fists around it.    

"At the co-op." Graves puts down his fork, and without moving his gaze puts a wad of cash on the table beside his plate. "We have a problem, little bro. Non-Dick-related."    

"We always have a problem," Quincy says, very quietly, because in truth doing what they do is still better than doing nothing.    

"Go out the back door and I'll meet you there, okay? Bring the car around."    

"Okay," Quincy says, and Graves is gone. He can be fast and practical when he wants to be, which is rarely.    

"Peeling out already, Forrest?" Sammie calls. So she was paying attention after all, not just making out with Eleanor in the kitchen.    

"Why do you call me that?" Quincy asks, futilely. This, too, is a fight he's had many times.

Maybe he looks as wrung-out as he feels, because Sammie’s face softens marginally as she watches him stand up, push in his chair after himself.  

"Dunno. Like the move? Forrest Gump?" she says, and shrugs. "You remind me of him. The kindness part, not the clueless part. I guess nicknames are my love language."

She gives him a wink, of course, because any interaction with Sammie would be incomplete without blurring the line between conversation and flirtation, and Quincy bites his cheek to keep from smiling. He needs to move.    

He considers the wad of cash, then considers Sammie’s shirt, long-sleeved and wearing thin in places, completely inadequate for keeping her warm, considers how she, too, is probably suffering from how Noxboro is changing.    

How she's going to keep suffering, if Richard Brandt goes through with his plans.

"Keep the change," he says quickly, and he's out the door and halfway to the Mercedes before he realizes he's still holding the little packet of jam. He slides it into the breast pocket of his jacket.    

I guess nicknames are my love language, he hears Sammie saying in his head, feels the packet of jam jostling close to his heart. He thinks of Cal calling him Quince, how the nickname settled like a blanket on his shoulders, easy and familiar and right.    

He cranks up the car and thumbs at his key-knife. He wonders if Cal ever goes to Alice’s, if he sits across the table from Amy or Zara or anyone and laughs open and red-faced at someone's joke, initiating conversation around bites of toast. He wonders if he spreads jam on it, if he prefers strawberry or orange marmalade.    

It's probably been enough time, now. He cranks up the car and thinks maybe he'll leave the jam packet where it is, out of sight but noticeable against his chest. It reminds him that Cal is kind, that Cal is so, so fragile.  

It reminds him that he's not allowed to have this.  

*

When Quincy pulls the car around to the co-op, Graves is waiting at the curb. As he edges closer to the passenger door, Quincy sees him tuck his blade back into his sleeve, dripping with black blood. He's holding a paper grocery bag in one hand.  

"How many?" Quincy murmurs.

"Three," Graves says, voice tired. In their line of work, it is not particularly uncommon to have to kill their own kind, but it always hits Graves particularly hard. "And they were all hunting the same girl. I was just in time."  

"What?"   

Daytime hunts are rare. Group hunts are even rarer. The odds of both happening at once are slim to none, and yet the black blood that's starting to seep through Graves’s shirtsleeve is as convincing evidence as any.

"I should clarify that it is not just any girl,” Graves intones, and Quincy goes very still. “It’s Amelia Fournier.”   

“What are the odds of that?” Quincy asks rhetorically.

“They already think that Kline knows something. The fact that you’re getting so closely involved probably just confirmed it, and it’s not like the kid has blood family.” 

“They didn’t waste any time,” Quincy murmurs. He feels sick, the knowledge of what could have happened had he not just happened to ask Graves to meet him earlier than usual heavy in his stomach.

“You can say that again. Fucking creeps.” Graves’s grip on the paper bag tightens, crinkling in his fist.

"Do you think there will be more?" (What he really wants to ask is, is Cal safe?, the question reverberating so loudly and urgently in his skull that he’s sure Graves can hear it.)

Graves meets Quincy's eyes. "I think we have some time, but...yeah. They were working for someone."  

Quincy hisses out a curse, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. "Any idea who?"

"Someone big," Graves shrugs. "They wouldn't name them, and there are only a few people with that kind of intimidation factor."  

"Fuck," Quincy says. He doesn't swear often, but there is little else to say in this particular situation. "We have to tell Alexandria."  

"I imagine she'll want to call a meeting," Graves affirms, scratching at his forearm, where the blood is no doubt beginning to coagulate on his skin. "As if she didn’t already have a bug up her ass about the roommate thing. And I have to take care of this now." He gesticulates wildly with the paper sack. "Looks like you'll have to postpone move-in."  

*

Cal wakes up early in that strange way that happens to him sometimes, groggy-calm, opening his eyes to stare up placidly at the ceiling. When they first moved in, he and Amy got wine drunk and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars up there. "I'm gonna give you the best constellations," Amy slurred, because she was, despite all her talk to the contrary, a lightweight, but as it turned out the only one either of them knew was the big dipper, so that's what they did, over and over and over. Big dipper after big dipper after big dipper.  

Cal smiles at the memory and has approximately two more peaceful seconds before his brain explodes with Quincy, Quincy, Quincy, and he bolts upright with the sudden, crushing terror that he's slept too late, that he's missed it, but his clock reads 10am and he sags, relieved. It's Tuesday, so he doesn't have any classes, and this is probably the first Tuesday he's woken up before 2pm all semester. Weird.

He sits there for a second, a strange but familiar feeling welling in his gut that he recognizes as anxiety—not just anxiety, but nerves, about-to-go-onstage nerves, high-school-graduation-and-my-name-is-next nerves. He's not stupid. He knows there's a one-to-one correlation between this feeling and the fact that is he going to be seeing Quincy later today. He's just having trouble getting over how monumentally stupid that is.  

As it stands, he can't think of a single problem he's ever had that's been made worse by showering, and his back aches from binding his chest, so basically he can't think of anything he wants more in this moment than water as hot as it will go, his bougie peppermint-scented shampoo, his bathrobe. He heaves himself off his bed, albeit reluctantly, and shuffles into the bathroom.

The thing about Cal, he thinks as he waits for the water to heat up, is that he doesn't hate his body the way he's supposed to, the way they tell you you're supposed to, because his body has never been the real problem. It's not his smooth, unstubbled face that he hates. It's not his soft body, his curves, the chest he binds every day; it's not even the hair he chopped off as soon as he told Henry, Dad, I'm not your daughter, I'm your son. Yeah, he feels more comfortable when he has his binder on, but he thinks that's mostly because the problem isn't his body, it's other people's assumptions about it. The problem isn't that his body isn't a boy's; the problem is that it is, but no one else saw it until he changed his name and cut his hair and started binding, and well.  

Of course he gets dysphoria sometimes. He steps into the shower, and yeah, it's a day where he has trouble feeling at home in his skin, but.  

The thing about Cal is that his body is not the problem.  

By the time he gets out of the shower, it's only 11, and he's feeling restless and doesn't want food yet, so he sits on his bed, fidgeting restlessly, before he realizes who he wants to talk to about... this, this feeling in his belly like he swallowed a fish.  

He decides to call Zara.

 "So what I'm getting is that he's incredibly hot, incredibly intelligent, and you've dropped the dead dad bomb and the trans bomb."   

"That...sums it up very concisely, yeah," Cal says, sighing and flopping back onto his bed. "But I've talked to him for a grand total of...I don't even know, an hour, maybe? So let's reign in the value judgments."   

"Not only did you drop those bombs, but he just rolled with them."   

"Yes, Zara."   

"That's kind of perfect."   

"I don't know. I'm not going to give him too many points for the trans thing. That's just him not being a shitty human. The dad thing, though."

“The dad thing though," Zara replies, emphatically, and Cal misses her so badly that his chest aches.   

Zara Pembrook is the one person from high school that Cal didn't completely sever ties with. Her mother, Virginia, is the medical examiner over on the far side of the city, and her dad is the chief of police. It's not that Cal's parents were bad, exactly, it's just that they were often gone, Henry off guest lecturing and Mary busy first with going back to school for nursing, and later on, pulling graveyard shifts at the hospital, and later on, when Cal turned seven, she was just in the graveyard dead, and Henry kept guest-lecturing, kept staying absorbed in his now-all-important research. There was always a seat for Cal at Virginia and John’s table, he and Zara kicking each other's shins just out of Ellen's view. Before Cal was Cal , he and Zara braided each other's hair and let John teach them about cars in equal measure, Zara patiently letting Cal do her makeup sometimes (he never liked wearing it himself) in between their competitions to see who could shoot the most bottles off the old wood fence out back. Later on, they traded bottle-shooting for sneaking out to the only bar in town that didn't card, a seedy place with an arcade on the first floor, where Zara would bat her lashes and make bets with beer-drunk, middle-aged men, shattering high scores on all the games that used a gun (until, of course, the night Cal decided to try tequila, the night that he only remembers in flashes, vomiting on his shoes until his stomach cramped emptily, Zara’s tears, Virginia’s stormy face and her eyes full of concern, an IV in his arm and hair being smoothed back from his face, no, baby, we know you're sorry, we won't tell your daddy). And then when Cal became himself, traded short skirts for flannel and boot-cut jeans, it was Zara who cut his hair over the kitchen sink with a pair of rusty scissors (Virginia whose eyes grew big as saucers in abject horror, who took the scissors for herself and gave him something resembling a decent haircut).    

So yeah, when Cal erased everyone else from his life before college, erased every trace that anyone other than Cal Kline, trans man ever existed, Zara stayed. Zara was always going to stay. Virginia wanted her to be a nurse, but to no one's surprise, Zara would have nothing to do with that. She's going to a two-year college to get her degree in mortuary science , which makes her infinitely more interesting then Cal will ever be, but also makes her kind of disgusting to talk to.  

Exhibit A. "Ugh. You're getting to demystify uber-hot Sweater Guy. Meanwhile I'm pretty sure I've figured out where the smell is coming from, and the answer is all of the clothes I've worn to lab in the last week. The lab with dead people, Cal."  

"Um."   

"My clothes smell like dead people. Mom, my clothes smell like dead people. My mom just walked in, Cal. She says hi."   

"Hi, Ms. Pembrook."   

"Cal says hi, Ms. Pembrook. Cal, my mom says shut up, you haven't called her Ms. Pembrook since kindergarten, it's just Virginia or Ginny and you know it. "  Cal hears the words twice—once from Virginia murmuring in the background and again from Zara’s spot-on impression—and he feels warm, feels something akin to homesickness.  

"Anyway. Your boy," Zara says decisively before Cal can wallow too much.  

"He is not my boy. I can't stress this enough. We basically stalked him for months, Zara, and he finally talked to me. He's intriguing. He talks like he's never really talked to people before, and I just...I don't know. I feel like there's more there. Intriguing. "   

Zara gives an exasperated huff so familiar that Cal can see the face she's making, can practically feel the puff of breath on his cheek the way he used to when they'd lay on his bed at home, curled together like a couple of parentheses. “Counterargument: we basically stalked him for months, Cal.” She lowers her voice in a pretty decent imitation of his. “I’d say that makes him your something.”

“Fuck you,” Cal says, but he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep the smile out of his voice.

Zara, for all of her and Cal’s outlandish shenanigans, only got suspended once in high school, and it was for Cal.

It was in gym class--Cal swears to this day that gym class is an unjust institution designed to pit high schoolers against each other in some Hunger Games bullshit. Cal had just come out to his father a couple months before, and as such been on testosterone for a couple months. The transition from what he was before to Cal was hard at school, but if he wasn’t feeling brave, Cal just told people it was a nickname he preferred, and no one cared enough to press the issue. It wasn’t until he cut his hair and started binding his chest that certain problems arose.

Certain problems, of course, primarily referred to David, a greasy, weaselly guy that Cal had the pleasure of enduring from kindergarten until the day he graduated (and even then, Cal thinks now, bitterly. David got into the university on a full scholarship. He’s a business major, which came as a surprise to no one).  

“You’re in the wrong locker room, Kline,” David hissed that day, far too close to Cal for his liking. He remembers squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of sour breath, reflexively pulling his crumpled t-shirt to his chest.

“I’m not,” Cal said, voice wavering, because it had taken several angry phone calls on Henry’s part and some tenuously legal under-the-table funding for the school library, but Cal was changing in the boys’ locker room with the law (and the principal) on his side.

“You won’t mind if I check to be sure,” David purred then, reaching around Cal to cup his chest in his binder, and before Cal could say anything, Benny--also a longtime classmate of Cal’s--put a hand on David’s shoulder.

“Dude,” he said, and Cal remembers opening his eyes, daring to hope. “Cut it out. Just let Cal be.”

David slunk away, but not before pinching Cal’s ass when Benny’s head was turned.

“Thanks,” he managed to squeak out to Benny, before throwing on his shirt and grabbing his sneakers, resolving to put them on on the bleachers.

Zara noticed immediately, of course.

“Cal? You look like you did that time you tried to out-hot-dog me.”

Cal hung his head, trembling a little, and he just about lost it when Zara’s voice softened.

“Dude, seriously, what’s up? Are you okay?”

Cal told her what happened in a voice barely louder than a whisper. Before he could do anything about it, Zara was up and off the bleachers. He barely had time to register who he was marching toward before she punched David in the face, hard enough for him to curse and clasp both hands to his face, blood spurting through his fingers.

“Welcome,” she said grandly, cutting Cal a vindictive grin he remembers clear as day, “to the 21st century, asshole. We respect people and we punch transphobes in the face.”

“Zara!” Cal cried in shock, but the gym coach was already running toward her. She didn’t fight when he told her on no uncertain terms to hoof it to the principal’s office.

“It didn’t even bother me that much,” Cal lied feebly, later on when they were sitting cross-legged on Virginia’s couch. (Virginia was angry for about a minute and a half, but when she heard what happened, she rerouted them to Dairy Queen. Anything you want, baby, she said, kissing Zara on the top of the head, and then Cal, too.)

“Maybe not,” Virginia had said, not calling him on his bluff, “but it bothered me.”

And it’s not like David stopped after that, but it was still incredibly badass, and Cal is remembering this and is swelling with love for Zara, is going to ask her if she remembers, when she says "Shit, Cal, I'm running later than I thought. I gotta go. Keep me updated on your love affair!"  

"It's not a love affair, Jesus," Cal says, but she's already hung up the phone.

  *

 Cal is off the phone for about thirty seconds before it occurs to him that he hasn’t Facebook stalked Quincy yet, in this, the 21st century, asshole. He barely has time to process the thought before he pulls up the app on his phone.

It's not difficult to find. He pulls up the university Class of 2020 Facebook page and searches for "Quincy" in it, and it's not exactly a common name. The profile is almost entirely blank, and he only has fifty-two Facebook friends. Even Cal, after cutting off everyone he knew in high school, has a couple hundred.   

Cal wonders if he's lonely. If that's why he was so quick to jump on the prospect of rooming with Amy and Cal—because he doesn't have anyone else. Maybe the way he's treating Cal is how he'd treat anyone, given enough time and attention.

Cal really doesn't want to be the kind of person that resents that.  

There's only so much to be gleaned from a blank profile, and Cal flops back onto his bed. He doesn't have another shift at the hospital until Thursday, and with no classes to fill his time, he has nothing to do but agonize over this.  

As though in direct response to his restlessness, his phone vibrates insistently. He tries not to hate himself for how quickly he snatches it up.  

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:34PM

Hello, Cal. I apologize, but I am afraid I must postpone my move-in until further notice. A pressing family matter has come up. However, I do not anticipate this delay taking more than a day or two. I will keep you abreast. Sincerely, Quincy Washington

Cal snorts reflexively—he hasn’t known Quincy for long, but him composing text messages that read like business memos feels very in character — but beneath the amusement is a creeping disappointment that he cuts off before he has to think about it further than that.

 From: Cal Kline  

To: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:36PM

heh heh. breast. =P

 Quincy responds immediately, wow ur so mature, it's a good thing ur eyes are so pretty ;], and Cal just about chokes on his own lungs, but a second message appears almost as quickly as the first:

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:38PM

I apologize. That was my brother, Graves. He can be...difficult.  

 From: Cal Kline

To: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:40PM

does he read tarot? and/or drink health shakes? I would kill for amy to do something natural like steal my phone once in a while

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:42PM

I asked him, and now he is in tears from laughter. Apparently, you are hilarious.  

 Cal smiles at his phone and types out, I won't let it go to my head, lol, and then, after a moment of thought, see ya around, Quince. hope your family is okay.

 From: Quincy Washington

Sent: 12:47PM

Thank you, Cal. I look forward to seeing you soon.  

 That last text message is almost but not quite enough to alleviate the heavy feeling in Cal's chest, and he tries to make himself focus on it, but instead his brain is shouting there's no urgent family matter, no one texts during something like that, he's just having second thoughts about moving in, and before he can stop it he's trapped himself in a tightening gyre of self-doubt, chest tight with anxiety.  

Why do you care so goddamn much? He screams at his brain. The trouble is, he knows why. Quincy made him feel more understood in half an hour than anyone else has in years, and that matters to him. He thought maybe Quincy felt the same thing, based on all the smiling he did (and God, Cal thinks, what a smile he fucking has ), but maybe Cal was just projecting. Maybe he's gotten this all wrong. Maybe...

Like always when this happens, when Cal gets this clawing feeling behind his sternum, he thinks of his dad. Don't fucking psychoanalyze it, but he thinks of his dad.  

Cal remembers a different Henry, before—the Henry who took him fishing that time, who told him bedtime stories whispered quiet and conspiratorial after his bedtime. When Mary died, she took some of Henry with him, and doesn't that just hit like a punch in the gut every time.  

(Cal remembers Mary too, of course—you remember his thoughts on hospitals. Cal remembers soft nightgowns and grocery store pies because who has time to bake, a soft voice singing him back to sleep after nightmares, showing him how to tie his own tiny toddler shoes. Mary used to give Cal these elaborate hairdos when he was younger, and Cal grumbled about it until she said to him, eyes sparkling, you’re going to be such a beautiful bride one day, and yeah, okay, that's its own fucking can of worms, that his fucking mother Mommymommynoplease, Daddy why is Mommy gone died thinking that she had a daughter, Cal's not fucking talking about that right now.)  

Before Mary died, Henry made pancakes on Sunday mornings. Chocolate chip, shaped like Mickey Mouse ears. Afterward, Cal was lucky to see him three times a week. It was Cal who packed his own lunches, Cal who puzzled through his own homework (Virginia who picked him up and drove him to her place, gave him a good hot meal and let him stay over more often than not).  

Cal doesn't exist in a vacuum, okay? He knows that most people who knew Henry think that he had some kind of psychotic break, that it led to his death, somehow.  

The thing is that Henry never acted quite the same after Mary died, threw himself into his research like never before—strange veins of his research, more precisely, that almost cost him his highly-anticipated tenure more than once.  

Every country in the world has a vampire story, Cal, he told him once, eyes glinting feverishly across the table. Don't you think that's odd? I think I'm really on to something here, kiddo.  

I guess so, Cal mumbled that way kids do when they're 15—because, like, come on Henry, Cal was fucking 15, he had a geometry test the next day, he didn't give a fuck about your latest goddamn research interest—and Henry had pushed the food around his plate a little longer before rabbiting off to his study again.  

Because yeah, there's another reason Cal tries to avoid saying his full name within earshot of anyone who might know anything about Henry Kline: it means willfully associating himself with a professor of theology who plunged off the deep end headfirst. He used to be proud of it, is the thing, showed off his Dad and his research on every single Father's Day assignment in elementary school. Kids got less forgiving as time went on. Buffy, they used to call Cal behind his back in high school, hahahaha —Buffy as in the Vampire Slayer. As in crackpot Professor Kline's kid. 

In college, of course, no one cares about that kind of bullshit. Never did. They whisper about Cal for different reasons: that's Cal, you know. That professor's kid—you know Dr. Kline? Yeah, the one who died, usually followed by something like oh my God yeah, my friend's sister's cousin took Religion 101 with him, that is so sad, et cetera, et cetera.  

It's just that Cal wishes he would have listened more.  

After Henry died, Cal was obsessed with listening to the last cassette he left in the truck--a mediocre Steppenwolf album, Cal remembers. He listened to it over and over and over, memorizing every word, trying to derive some meaning from it being the last one Henry ever played.  

When Mary was alive, she used to give Henry feedback on the articles he submitted to scholarly journals, proofreading them and scrawling her own thoughts on whatever the subject was in the margins. The last thing Mary did before she died was give Henry feedback on one last journal article—coincidentally, which is code here for really fucking uncoincidentally, that article was on the topic of universal myths, the topic that Henry would later dedicate his life to. Universal myths, of course, are legends that crop up in one form or another in every area in the world. Like dragons, Henry posited in his article. Like vampires.

He doesn't think his dad was crazy. He thinks he was coping.

*

“You look like shit," Amy says as soon as she walks in. To be fair, Cal is a lump of junk food wrappers and blankets on the L-shaped couch, blanket-burritoed legs stretched in front of him, the blaring television (Food Network, Cal's first and only love) the only light source in the room, but still, Cal huffs indignantly.  

"We can't all be hyper-productive all the time," he grumbles.  

"Where's Quincy?" Amy hangs her keys up on the key hanger—Christ, when did they get a key hanger?—and Cal gets that tight feeling in his chest again.

"Oh, yeah," Cal says, going for casual. He makes eye contact with Gordon Ramsay on the television, who is currently yelling at a guy who dropped his freshly-plated shrimp alfredo, because at this particular moment he seems a lot less threatening than Amy and her soulful eyes or whatever the fuck. "He had to postpone. Something came up. He'll be moved in in a day or two."  

"Rent's due in three days, Cal," Amy says, not unkindly, but Cal flinches anyway.  

"I know, Ames," he murmurs, and he must sound as tired and beaten down as he feels, because Amy switches on the lamp and turns off the TV, sinking down beside Cal on the couch.   

"You doing okay?" She says it so fucking softly, and shit, you know?

The worst part is that Cal still finds himself with a joke on the tip of his tongue, but it was Amy who the summer after first year had to bring clothes to Cal in the inpatient program he was in for a suicide attempt (a hard night, a handle of liquor, a bottle of pills). It was Amy who had to measure out Cal's antidepressants for him once he got out, Amy who suggested they live together for their senior year. That's the funny part, hahahaha,  about the fact that Cal's even thinking about lying to her: Amy has already seen him at his worst.  

Hahahaha.  

Cal shakes it off, mumbles, "It was a depression day, but I'm fine," and Amy nods, because they've been doing this for a while now, and against all odds Cal has gotten pretty good at telling the difference between what he can and can't handle.  

"Anything trigger it?"

Fuck. Amy knows him. 

"Yeah," he says finally, and then against his better judgement, "I was kinda thinking about my dad."  

Amy sighs, long and sad. This is a whole thing with them.

“Cal, I know you’re still struggling with this--”

“I’m not, okay?” Cal says, immediately and defensively, because he can’t help it. “I know he’s dead. It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

This is far from the first time they’ve had this conversation, but Amy looks no less earnest every time, like she genuinely wants to understand. Cal guesses that’s why he keeps trying.

“It’s just…” He lets his eyes slip closed, leaning his head back against the back of the couch. “I know you all think Dad was crazy. And I get it. I do. The dude clearly had some issues. But I just…”

“Just what, Cal?”

Nice try, Ames, Cal thinks, because he remembers their joint session with Dr. Moore, the one where they talked about active listening and good support systems, but he guesses it’s working because he still finds himself saying “Just everything, Amy, fucking everybody.”

Amy doesn’t say anything, so he forges on. “Just fucking...you all assume he was a crackpot, but aren’t even just a little bit curious about what had him so convinced? About why he got so hooked on that idea? It’s like no one even thinks about him as human, you know? He’s just crazy Dr. Kline, that professor who died tragically or whatever the fuck, and like...no one’s drinking beers, talking about his life. No one’s here to fucking miss him except me, because even Zara, Amy, even she, the closest thing besides you that I have to a sibling, moved on so fucking effectively, and I’m happy for her, but she didn’t know him before, before Mom. Back when he was just...Henry, father of one. Fuck. I don’t know.”

Amy’s quiet for a minute. “You feel...alone in this.”

“Yeah,” Cal sighs, rubbing his temples. He has a goddamn headache.

“Look, honey,” Amy starts, and Cal looks up. “I don’t harp on you moving on because I think he was crazy. I just…” She shrugs, and suddenly she’s the one looking exhausted. Cal is suddenly and acutely aware that this is, in effect, his baby sister sitting here. “I think your life would be better if you could. That’s all.”

Cal doesn’t drink anymore, but he really, really wants a beer. “Well, Amy,” he says, “we can at least agree on that.”

There is a moment of tense silence before Cal hears a little sniffle, and God if that doesn’t have his head snapping up in a second. Amy’s head is bowed, her shoulders shaking slightly. 

“Amy? Ames? Oh my god!” Cal throws the blanket off his legs, immediately folding Amy into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “Holy shit, babe, what’s wrong?” (He doesn’t flinch at the pet name. He doesn’t. Amy is safe. He can be real with her. She can know he loves her. She won’t hurt him.) 

“I’m sorry,” Amy says, with this heartbreaking, wet little laugh. “I just--I just had kind of a bad day. Nothing exciting, just school stress. And I--” Her breath hitches, and Cal feels his heart break a little in his chest. “I don’t want you to feel bad for being down, too. That’s not what this is. But it really sucks that I c-can’t help you like Zara did, the way you need--” 

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Cal says, faux-sternly, making sure to gently pull Amy back so she can see his face, set in a soft little grin. “You do help me the way I need, sunshine. You are literally a bundle of joy--wait, that’s something you say about babies, isn’t it? Okay, you’re not a baby, but the point is that you’re amazing and warm and lovely, and you’ve supported me so much that I don’t know how I’d survive college without you. You’re my sister too, Ames, and I love the shit out of you.” He tucks a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, and she sniffles, a bit less despondently than before. “And if I was a chem major I would definitely be dead, so I don’t want to hear anything about how you’re not allowed to be stressed out too. The tragedy olympics is banned in this household.” 

Amy leans into his hold, pillowing her head in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry. I know. I love you. Everything just happens so much sometimes, you know?” 

Cal opens his mouth to respond--he does, in fact, know--but all at once he hears and feels a deep, irritated growl from Amy’s stomach. 

“Amy,” he says when she immediately flushes, “When’s the last time you ate?” 

“This...morning?” She says sheepishly, as though it’s a question, and Cal shakes his head in lighthearted disapproval. 

“And you’re wondering why you’re crying! That’s it. Tonight’s a pizza night.” 

“For real?” Amy says, grinning a little despite herself. Their pizza nights are sacred--pizza delivery and Lactaid are both expensive indulgences when you’re a college student, but like, come on, you expect Cal to hold out when Amy’s big brown eyes are still glistening with tears, when her nose and cheeks are still flushed with the exertion of crying (when her stomach is growling with increasing irritation, and Cal can practically feel the queasy ache of hunger pangs that she must be feeling?) 

“For real,” Cal says decisively, and pulls her in for a tight hug, burying his nose in her hair. 

*

“Oh my god,” Amy moans. “Oh...my god. Oh my god. I’m full as a tick.” 

Cal bites his lip to hide his smile, continuing his gentle ministrations. Amy is splayed across the length of the couch, her head resting in Cal’s lap, her tummy a downright mound, churning laboriously around a truly alarming amount of pizza. Cal has one hand cradling her lower belly, providing much-needed support, his other hand stroking across the bulge beneath her ribs, working against the occasional cramps and twinges as they arise. 

“You don’t feel sick, do you?” he asks, pausing to brush a few strands of hair from her eyes, feeling a flicker of concern.

“No, just--” She grabs his wrist, replacing his hand on her upper tummy, arching eagerly into the touch. “Don’t stop.” She flushes a little. “Please?” 

Cal melts, obediently massaging at her bloated tummy, and Amy exhales in relief. She’s pulled her shirt up over her ribs--your hands are so warm! It feels nice, she’d defended herself indignantly--and Cal notices absently how tightly the skin is stretched over the bloat, extremely noticeable on her slight frame. 

“I find that hard to believe,” Cal murmurs, as Amy’s tummy gives a laborious gurgle. She’d plowed through an entire margherita pizza single-handedly, and Cal was as delighted by her actually eating as he was alarmed by the determination with which she did so. “You’re just so small! And that was...so much pizza.” 

“It was,” Amy mumbles, a little breathlessly. “But it doesn’t hurt! I’m just...very ful--oh--” Cal has kneaded against a particularly tight spot to alleviate the pressure, and she wheezes with the relief of it, looking a little dazed. “Oh my word, you’re good at this.” 

“I guess I’ve had a lot of practice on myself,” Cal says, pleased and a little touched that he can help Amy for once. 

“Are you doing okay, by the way?” Amy manages, cracking open one eye and resting a hand on Cal’s own belly. “How’s the Lactaid working?” 

“Perfectly,” Cal soothes her, stroking her lower belly, receiving another grunt of contentment. “Besides, I ate, what, three slices? I wasn’t quite as ambitious as you.” 

“That means leftovers,” Amy says gleefully, impossibly, shimmying a little, before groaning at the effects of the movement on her stomach contents. “For tomorrow. Oof.” 

“You’re insane,” Cal says, bending down to kiss her affectionately on the forehead, rubbing careful, small circles into the bloat beneath her ribs. Somehow, Amy cuddles closer, shifting in Cal’s lap so that she’s pressed against his torso. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles sleepily, flushing when Cal’s ministrations coax up a tiny burp but looking  exceedingly relieved. “Just...keep doing what you’re doing. Please.” 

Cal is content and very, very warm, the unique pleasure of being helpful chasing away the gloominess from earlier. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.” 

Amy sighs happily, having moved from the precipice of too-full to the relief of being wonderfully, comfortably sated; Cal’s own stomach is pleasantly full, the comfort of it all dragging at his eyelids. 

Right now, he can think of nowhere he’d rather be than this blanket nest, with his best friend--no, his sister. 

*

Later that night, after walking a very sleepy Amy to her own bed, Cal can’t quite fall asleep. He rolls over, quietly pulls open his bedside drawer to keep it from squeaking (and fuck if he doesn’t smile a little to himself at the habit--what, he’s going to wake up Zara? That’s not exactly a concern anymore) and pushes aside the bed of crumpled tissues and used spiral bound notebooks until he feels smooth leather under his palm.

The book is objectively beautiful. Even Cal, self-proclaimed not-a-literature-guy, can admit that. The title is embossed on the dark brown cover in gold script: The Writings of Ebenezer Finch. Unlike most of Henry’s book collection, the pages are well-worn from use in addition to age. It feels good in Cal’s hands. Solid.  

Cal was the first to brave Henry’s study after he died (who else was there, really?). A lot of things, he put into boxes to deal with emotionally later--photo albums, journals, and the like. He got through both of Henry’s desk drawers and dropped something--a stapler, he thinks it was--and frowned when it landed with a hollow thunk. After some finagling, he managed to find a latch underneath the lip of the desk, and when he pressed it, the false bottom of the drawer popped out.

His hands shook as he reached for it, expecting...he didn’t know what. And what he found was The Writings of Ebenezer Finch.

He didn’t know what to make of it at first. Didn’t touch it for months. By the time he finally cracked it open, he was almost disappointed to find that it was high-concept vampire fantasy--not surprised, given Henry’s line of research, but disappointed. Still, he felt compelled to keep the book a secret, reading it in snatches after Amy had gone to bed, the yellowed pages comforting and familiar beneath the buttery yellow of his bedside lamp.

It only took him a couple of weeks to get through it, that first time. Now, he goes back to it on nights like these, tries to curl up and hide in the words and understand why Henry cared about it so much.

Tonight, despite the comfort found with Amy earlier, his heart hurts with the weight of the day, so he starts on page one.

 In the beginning, there were three.

The greeks called her, the first her, Empusa. They believed her to be the offspring of Hecate, and housewives whispered her cautionary tales to their husbands once their children went to sleep. For Empusa, they warned, was a seductress, and once even the most steadfast of men had fallen into her grip, they would not be free of it until she had consumed them entirely. The second being, they knew by his sons--the striges, the bird-creatures, sinister in intent and biding their time to snatch children from their beds. The third and final being, they knew as Lamia. A secret lover of Zeus, they said. When Hera discovered Zeus’s adultery, she slaughtered the children of Lamia, swiftly and without remorse. As retribution, Lamia, too, took to stealing children and drinking their blood to sustain herself. The blood of babies, according to Lamia, was the sweetest of all.

They were wrong, of course, if only in name, and in some of the details. These things do become muddy with the passage of time, and humans do prefer a story they can understand.

Here is the real story: the first she was called Lamashtu, the second being Gallu, and the third, Lilitu. Humans don’t know the truth of them and never have, but if you are holding this book, you are about to.

This story, like most good stories, begins with love.