#only sam chisolm can stop this madness

[fontainebleau22]

Box of Frogs (Part 5)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisolm can stop this madness’.

Part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here.

---

‘Turned into what?’ Sam stood in the doorway to the living-room, taking in the glass tanks full of foliage, humming equipment, stacks of brightly-coloured handbooks on amphibian care and plastic tubs spilling out … eugh.

‘Frogs.’ Goody was haggard, his normally well-trimmed beard beginning to bristle, and dark circles under his eyes: when he’d opened the door he’d fallen on Sam’s neck with the fervour of a drowning man. ‘That’s Joshua up there.’ 

Sam peered suspiciously into the tank on the shelf. Yes, definitely a frog, mottled green and brown with paler ridges along its sides, motionless apart from the rapid in-and-out of its breathing. Joshua?

‘Billy’s in here.’ Goody collapsed onto the sofa beside the larger tank on the coffee-table. ‘He won’t come out straight away – I’ll see if I can encourage him with the misting spray.’

Goody fiddled with a dial, but squinting into the tangle of leaves Sam saw nothing, only a running stream and mossy stones. He frowned. ‘You sure they’re not just pulling your leg?’

Goody looked at him reproachfully: he certainly seemed too agitated for it to be a joke. ‘Ale saw it happen both times: Josh got frogged right in front of him. And Billy too.’

Sam glanced around as though Ale might be lurking unnoticed somewhere in the room. ‘So where is he now?’

‘I put him in with Josh.’ Goody gestured vaguely towards the tank. ‘He’ll be hanging behind those branches – tree frogs are nocturnal.’ Sam leaned closer: he could just make out an indistinct green blob clinging half-hidden behind the leaves.

Right. Sam attempted to rally his rational forces. ‘Is everyone a frog but you?’

Goody nodded exhaustedly. ‘Jack’s in the bathtub.’

‘The bathtub,’ echoed Sam blankly. 

‘He’s a bullfrog,’ explained Goody impatiently. ‘He needs the space, though you should hear his croaking.’ 

Sam felt himself beginning to struggle. ‘You’ve been sharing your bath with Jack? What happens when you want to shower?’

 Goody gave him a withering look. ‘I put him in the basin. Look, can you try to focus on what’s important?’

Sam sat down heavily on the sofa. A flash of blue ricocheted across the habitat in front of him and a delicate black-striped frog landed next to the pool; it seemed to regard him sagely. He tried again to get to grips with the situation. ‘Where’s Red?’

Goodnight pointed upward. ‘On the roof.’

‘On the-‘ Sam bit himself off before he started parroting again. ‘Isn’t that a mite dangerous for him?’

Goody stared at him in puzzlement, then snapped. ‘He’s a hawk, not a frog. He hasn’t been human since Tuesday, I’ve had to wrangle this all on my own. I’ve been counting the days till you came back.

It certainly wasn’t the return he’d been expecting: Sam blew a breath out through his moustache. ‘How did it all happen?’

Goodnight was leaning forward over the large habitat, working at the latches. ‘It’s- there’s this woman,’ he said distractedly, ‘loses her temper, zap!, frogs. Can’t reason with her. Look, none of that matters.’ He grabbed Sam’s elbow with one hand. ‘It just hasn’t worn off, and there’s no cure we could find – kissing him doesn’t work, and what Joshua and Ale have been doing in there together – well, that doesn’t work either. It’s why I need you.’ He fixed Sam with such an earnest expression that Sam couldn’t help reaching to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. ‘I kept telling myself, all I had to do was hold out till you came back.’

Sam Chisolm, officer of the law, six feet of well-preserved muscle and moustache, handsome, robust and a complete anomaly: a man without a magical fibre in his being. No ability could survive contact with him: from his childhood he had walked in a bubble of mundane reality, left sitting alone on the ground while a tree lifted his friends in its branches, speaking dogs clamming up into resentful silence at his presence, the flying ball that skimmed before a chase of laughing children falling inert to the ground at his touch

As he’d grown older he’d discovered he could make a bottomless flask of whisky turn up rattling and empty and the dancing pictures conjured by a barroom storyteller flicker to meaningless static; he’d made more enemies than he cared to count jostling elbows at a crowded counter and inadvertently stripping the glamour from a man or woman of irrestistible charm.

His stubborn resistance irked him, inevitably, when he had to put up with a minor injury Goody couldn’t cure, when his houseplants withered and died without Teddy’s ministrations, when he saw Faraday roll cheerfully through a wave of green lights which flicked relentlessly to red as Sam approached.

But in a world where everyone manifested some ability, useful or entertaining, the man who stood apart had power of his own. Sam could take pride in an exceptional career in law enforcement: he was the man who could clap a hand on the shoulder of a burglar and enjoy the dawning horror as his super-speed deserted him, the man in whose presence the lies of a con artist would fall clunking and flat from his tongue, the man who could walk confidently through a fog of confusion and slap the cuffs on the crime lord at its heart. Mundane and flat his world might be, but Sam served Justice, and served her well. 

‘You can touch them and make it wear off.’ 

‘Well, yes….’ Sam temporised, but Goody had already set aside the lid of the vivarium and was making frog-coaxing noises to draw Billy out. ‘I’d best put him on the sofa, the coffee table won’t take his weight…’

Sam put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Goody, wait a minute.’

Goody’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wait? It’s been days. I can’t imagine what he’s been going through: he’s been eating insects.’

 ‘Have you really thought this through?’ 

Goody made a sudden grab inside the tank and turned to him, hands cupped over his amphibian husband. ‘I’ve been doing nothing but think. All you have to do is touch him and he’ll be human again.’ 

‘It’s not that…’ Sam pressed himself backwards against the cushions, but Goody pursued him. ‘Here.’ 

With an inward sigh Sam caved. ‘Put him down, then.’ 

Goody opened his hands and Billy hopped co-operatively onto the cushion; Sam extended a finger and – flunch! – there was humanBilly sitting between them, rather dishevelled and slightly dazed. 

‘Sweetheart,’ cried Goody, folding him enthusiastically into his embrace. ‘Are you alright?’ 

‘Gkk.’ Billy coughed and swallowed, then looked as though he wished he hadn’t. 

‘I knew you’d fix it!’ Over Billy’s shoulder Goody’s face radiated joy; he pulled back to run his hands solicitously over Billy’s arms. ‘How do you feel? Did I do anything wrong?’ 

Billy stuck his tongue out experimentally, squinting at it, then held up his hand for examination. Goody folded his own around it and drew Billy back again to kiss his brow. He looked at Sam, still sitting at Billy’s side. ‘Could you … give us a minute?’ 

‘No,’ said Sam. 

Goody’s brow creased as Billy struggled from his embrace to frown at the vivarium. ‘It’s been a week: we could use a little privacy. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.’

‘You don’t understand,’ began Sam, but Goody rose to his feet. ‘Then excuse us – Billy and I will go and you can get started on the others.’

Billy was still touching the tank tentatively;  Goody took his hand and tugged him gently away. ‘Come with me, sweetheart, let me see you’re not–’

Billy took four obedient steps from the sofa, then - zap! - disappeared. Sam and Goody looked down together: where he had been standing was once more a tiny blue frog.

‘No,’ gasped Goody, falling to his knees. ‘No, no, no.’

‘I was trying to explain-‘ started Sam.

‘Quick,’ begged Goody, ‘touch him again!’

Sam heaved reluctantly to his feet. ‘This isn’t going to…’ Oh, why bother? Goody wasn’t going to listen. He squatted down and extended a finger again.

Flunch! There was humanBilly again, swaying a little. ‘I think,’ he said, voice rusty from disuse, ‘I’d like this to stop happening.’ He tried to scratch his eye with his foot and toppled over onto the carpet.

‘Sorry,’ said Sam with a pang of guilt. He jumped to his feet before Goody could stop him and headed for the door.

Zap! 

Goody let out a wail of despair as frogBilly hopped away and Sam took advantage of his distraction to duck into the hallway. ‘Goody, you have to listen. He’ll only stay human as long as I’m here, right next to him.’

There was a flurry from the living room and Goody reappeared, hands cupped protectively. ‘Then stay in contact with him.’

Sam backed away, hands raised defensively, but Goody followed him step by step. ‘What happens when I need to go home?’

‘You can stay,’ objected Goody, extending Billy’s diminutive blue form towards him; Sam felt a doorway behind him and retreated into its shelter.

‘What am I going to do, move in with you? Sleep in your bed so he doesn’t change back at night?

‘You could…’ began Goody optimistically, but Sam mustered his severest tone.

‘Neither of us wants you to finish that sentence. Besides, what about Josh and Ale? And Jack? Bedroom would be a mite crowded.

He’d been backing away from the door while he was speaking, but a sudden chill against his calves brought him up short. Brorp! bellowed something behind him, bass and echoing; Sam let out what he later hoped was a manly shriek and leapt for the door again.

‘Goody, see reason,’ he pleaded. ‘You heard him say it, he doesn’t want to keep transforming.’ For a moment there was silence, then he heard Goody’s footsteps retreating down the corridor.

Sam watched as Goody deposited Billy into the vivarium again with trembling hands, then clicked the lid back into place, ‘I’m sorry, Goody, truly I am, but I’m not the solution to this problem.’

Goody rounded on him, wild-eyed. ‘Not the solution? If you can’t fix this, who can?’

‘Just let me-‘ he began, but all at once the look of woe on Goody’s face was replaced by one of resolute determination.

‘I’m going up to the roof,’ he announced

Sam blenched. ‘Now Goody, I know this is all very distressing, but there’s no call for-‘

‘I am going,’ said Goody through gritted teeth, ‘to speak to Red. He knows where she lives.’

‘That’s a much better idea,’ agreed Sam at once, ‘I’m sure if we approach her like reaso-‘

Goody seized him by the shoulders, cutting him off. ‘You have to promise to bring me home again after.’

‘Huh?’ Why was he permanently on the losing side of this conversation?

‘If she won’t turn Billy human again, I can surely annoy her until she turns me into a frog. Swear to me that you’ll put me in the vivarium with him.’

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Goody, this is not….’

‘Swear it!’ Goody struck a melodramatic pose in front of the tank. ‘I love Billy, and I’ll do anything it takes to be with him again. I don’t care if I’m a frog for the rest of my life, as long as-‘

‘What kind of frog will you be, have you considered that?’ interrupted Sam.

‘What?’ asked Goodnight, derailed.

Sam gestured around. ‘Everyone’s different, even I can see that: Billy’s a poison dart frog, you said Jack’s a bullfrog and Ale I’m guessing is a Mexican tree frog.’

‘So?’

‘So if she does agree to frog you, you don’t know what species you’ll be: you might not even be compatible with Billy. We’d have to keep you in separate tanks.’ Goody turned pale, and Sam pressed his advantage. ‘What if she turns you into a bayou bullfrog? You’d probably try to eat him.

‘I would not eat my husband!’ declared Goody, outraged, ‘he’s poisonous,’ but  nevertheless he sagged in defeat.

‘I’ll fix this, I promise.’ Sam squeezed his dejected friend’s shoulder, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘I won’t let you down. Just give me a chance to tackle it my way.’

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

When the Morning Comes

Not my gif

AO3 Link/ Support Me on Ko-fi

Vasquez x Female Reader

Fluff, some angst

Summary: The night before the battle of Rose Creek, you and Vasquez come to terms about how you feel.

Word Count: 1.8K

           It was the eve before the battle of Rose Creek. Goodnight had just left town which left Chisolm, Red Harvest, Horne, Billy, Faraday, Vasquez and yourself among the guns hired by Mrs. Cullen to defend the town.  It wasn’t so much a strategic set back as an emotional one. It suddenly became apparent that one or more of the odd group of mercenaries you had grown to care about over the last week would be dead the next day.  Everyone drank, and made jokes, but the sense of doom held silently over everyone’s heads.

           It was almost a relief when Sam suggested everyone try to get some early shut eye.  You clamored up to bed, making the proper good nights to everyone before entering your room.  

           You knew before your body hit the mattress you weren’t going to sleep. Still, you made a valiant effort.   You laid down.  You closed your eyes and waited, but nothing happened.  You rolled to the corner of the bed pressed against the wall and cocooned yourself in the blankets, but that didn’t work either. Eventually you simply gave up.  Kicking off the blankets, you put on your coat, and walked out the door of the saloon.

           The night air was comfortably cool and the stars shone brightly in the sky as you made your way down the main street.  Everything was still and peaceful, a stark contrast to what the morning would bring.  

           You shook off the thought as best you could.  

           Not paying attention to where your feet were carrying you, you found yourself standing in the doorway of the stable. Taking pause upon realizing where you were, you contemplated going back to bed, but quickly dismissed the notion. As quietly as you could to walked down the line of pins until you reach your horse, Sally. She was always a deep comfort to you, which you needed more than ever.  Much to your surprise, she was standing awake and alert when you reached to her.

           “Hey girl,” you said soothingly as you touched your hand to her nose. “Can’t sleep?”

           She bobbed her head in response.  You smiled a little, petting her gently.

           “Yeah, me neither.”

           “You’re not planning on running off are you,” a familiar accented voice called.

           You turned to see Vasquez enter the stable.  From his rumpled shirt and undone vest, you had to guess he was having the same trouble you were.  

           “No,” you answered shortly.  “Are you?”

           Vasquez shook his head as he walked further into the stable. He came up beside you, looking appraisingly at Sally.

           “May I,” he asked, holding out his hand.

           You gave him a quick glance, and silently nodded.

           With all the care in the world, he placed his hand on the horse’s neck, stroking her with tender care.

           “Good horse,” he commented.

           “Ain’t she just,” you smiled proudly.  “She don’t spook easy neither.  She should be alright for tomorrow.”

            “Will you?”

           You glanced up at him noting how intently he was staring down at you.  It might have been intimidating, if not for the soft look in the corners of his eyes.

           “I’m always twitchy before a fight,” you answered honestly.  “Once the fighting starts, I don’t really have time to think about it.”

           Vasquez nodded his head in understanding, but kept looking at you.  You couldn’t deny the feeling you got whenever he looked at you like that.  You had seen it off and on since arriving in Rose Creek.  It made you a little weak at the knees, like some silly school girl. You would almost be mad at him for making you feel that way, but then he’d just look at you again and all those thoughts went out the window.

           His expression shifted suddenly, so fast you almost didn’t spot it before he turned his head away from you and back to Sally.

           “I think you should stay behind with Mrs. Cullen tomorrow.”

           You blinked away your shock.  “What?”

           Vasquez ignored your comment.  “You’re a good shot.  We need you up with the snipers.”

           “Emma’s got it covered,” you countered.  “Besides, you need at least one sniper on the ground to get the dynamite off, we went over the plan already.”

           “Things changed,” he said turning his head to you.  “Goody’s not here anymore.  You need to be the one in the bell tower.”

           You let you hand drop from Sally and turned to fully face Vasquez, arms crossed. “Chisolm already covered that. I’m staying on the ground.”

           “Why do you want to be in the thick of all of this?”

           “Why don’t you want me to be in the thick of it?  Don’t you trust me?”

           “I do trust you,” he emphasized fully facing you as well. “That’s why I’d rather you be in the tower.”

           “As opposed to having your back on the ground?”

           “I can take care of myself.”

           “So can I.”

           He gave an exaggerated groan, running his hand through his hair. “That’s not the point.”

           “Then what is?”

           “I…” he stopped. His jaw clench slightly as if forcing the words, he wanted to say back down his throat. A flurry of emotions ran across his face; desperation, fear, understanding, and a few more you couldn’t name before he looked down at his boots.  

           “I don’t want you to die.”

           The statement hung in the air and along with all the things it implied.

           You searched your mind for something to say. You hadn’t known each other for long, but you couldn’t deny you had grown to care for Vasquez as he had done for you. You could even say you rather liked the Mexican outlaw with the charming smile and deadly aim. So much so, the image of him lying dead in the street made the threat to your lives all the more real and truly terrifying.

           “I don’t want you to die either,” you said along with everything it implied.

           Vasquez looked at you, with a surprised look.  He opened his mouth to speak before you interrupted.

           “But,” you continued, “that doesn’t mean I’m not going to let you do your job. The best chance any of us have on getting out of this is playing our parts, no matter how we feel about it.”

           Vasquez stared down at you as if about to protest, but nodded reluctantly.  He knew you were right.

           “I don’t like it,” he said bitterly.

           “I don’t like it much either,” you admitted. “But, on the other hand, I’d rather be on the ground knowing where you are, than in some tower just guessing.”

           It took him a second, but he nodded in agreement once again.

           A small silence feel between you as you took a moment to look at him.  You never understood why he came to Rose Creek. Chisolm promised not to turn him in for a reward, but that didn’t seem like enough.  He could have easily shot Chisolm and been on his way, but he decided to join him.  He came, and over the past week you saw him grow attached to this odd town he had promised to protect and tomorrow, he might die for it.  For strangers.  

           A small smile appeared on your face.

           “You’re a good man Vasquez,” you said softly.

           He laughed at that. “I can think of a few people who’d disagree.”

           “Just an opinion,” you said with a shrug, “you don’t have to take it as gospel.”

           You gave Sally one last pat before walking towards the stable doors.  Just as you were about to pass him, Vasquez reached out and took your hand. You turned to him, surprised.  He didn’t look at you directly, but kept his gentle hold.

           “Stay safe tomorrow,” he said, lightly squeezing your hand as if any sudden movement would break it.

           Your cheeks heated slightly at the gesture, but you kept a grip on his hand, not wanting the warmth to leave you just yet.

          “Same goes for you,” you said as you returned the pressure.

           You noticed a small smile cross his lips causing you to smile as well.

           Neither one of you moved.  All that could be heard was the light breeze through the rafters and the quite rustle of hay.

            Never dropping his hand, you walked to him until you stood barely a foot away from him.  Vasquez looked down at you with that same look that made your heart melt. 

           Tentatively, you reached out with your free hand and cupped his cheek.  He met your hand, covering it with his own, stroking his thumb against your knuckles.

           You were standing even closer now, your chest just touching his with every intake of breath.  All it would take to finally feel his lips on yours would be to lean forward a little.

          You wanted to kiss him.  Good God you wanted to, but you hesitated, for the same reason you suspect he did.  

           There was still a fight to be won. One or both of you could be lying dead in the dirt the next morning. All of this, whatever this was, could come to nothing.  Neither of you wanted to make any promises only for them to be ripped away the next day. You would wait.  You had to.

            Carefully, you leaned forward and lightly brushed your lips on his cheek.  You closed your eyes, savoring the rough touch while you could.

            “Good night,” you said softly.

           You pulled away slowly, hoping for the feeling would last as you opened your eyes. 

           He met your gaze with an intensity which left you rooted to the spot. Keeping eye contact with you, he gently pulled your hand from his cheek and brought the palm to his lips, kissing it tenderly.

           You blushed at the touch, silently cursing yourself for doing so.

           He pulled your hand away, but held his grip, rubbing his thumb absently across one of your fingers.

           “Buenas noches.”

           You almost broke right then and there, but you didn’t move.  His dark eyes bore into you, spreading their warmth across your body, starting in your chest and moving all the way down to your toes. You could had stayed exactly like that for the rest of your life.  His strong coarse hands grasping yours, looking at you like you were the only person in the world who truly mattered.  But it couldn’t last.

           Slowly, reluctantly, you slipped your hands out of his grip and walked out the stable door.  

           You didn’t look back.  You knew the moment you did, you wouldn’t be able to leave.  You needed sleep.  You needed focus.  You didn’t know what the morning would bring, but you knew one thing; Vasquez would not die, not while you were still breathing.

[hellacluttered]

Mag7 Reactions- Their S/O Getting Mad at Them Because They Got Hurt

Joshua Faraday

Faraday gets kind of annoyed, because he’s in pain and he was hoping to come home to get comforted and doted on but now you’re scolding him. However, he restrains himself to just grumbling quietly because for one, you had said he was gonna get hurt if he did what he did and this proves you right, and for another, part of him thinks it’s cute that you’re so worried about him. He ends up milking the wound for all it’s worth, getting you to take care of him and he’s always touching you when you’re changing his bandages (claiming of course it’s just because it was the most comfortable spot for him to ‘rest his arm’ or something like that); one time when you have him sit on the bed so you can check on his wound, he gives up his “subtlety” (or so he imagined it was) and ends up straight up tackling you to kiss you, but you whack him and tell him to stop it because he’s hurt and he should take it easy- he can’t argue with that because then he’d have to tell you he’s been faking some of his pain to get your pity.

Vasquez

He hears you out, acknowledging your points and agreeing with pretty much everything except when  you say he shouldn’t have done what he did that got him hurt. He assures you that he knew he would probably get injured and it’s part of the way he lives, so you shouldn’t worry so much, but that he understands and he’s sorry that it stresses you out so much. You can’t stay mad at him when he’s being like that, so you just tell him to shut up and sit down so you can attend to his wounds. You catch him being overly stoic a few times so the extent of his injuries won’t worry you, and then you start to feel guilty for going off on him so you apologize and from then on the both of you are very straightforward and objective about the whole thing.

Goodnight Robicheaux

He does his best to appease you, reiterating why he did what he did, making you sit down with him and maybe exaggerating his pain and fatigue a little bit to get you to clam up sooner. He knows your points are valid, but he’s tired and sore and he’d rather discuss them later, though he does feel bad for making you angry. As soon as he gets a chance, he sneaks out to buy you some flowers, and though your instinct is to scold him for leaving his bed (which he assured you he’d stay in), his gift and his charming smile melt you, and you end up just thanking and kissing him before making sure he gets back to resting.

Sam Chisolm

Sam gets it. But he also knows that you’re aware he’s in danger every time he goes after a criminal, and that you know it was only a matter of time before he came home injured. He lets you talk yourself out, and when you finally ask to see his wound, which has already been attended to by himself or a doctor, he lets you. You don’t say much, and he can tell you’re worried, so he just assures you it’ll be fine and tells you about a few of the much worse injuries he’s had as proof that he’ll recover from this one too. He makes sure to keep you updated on how his recovery is going so you won’t worry about it, and he knows next time it happens you’ll take it in stride better than the first.

Billy Rocks 

Billy’s wounds don’t bother him much, but he immediately understands that you’re just mad because you’re worried, and the thought of you worrying about him is what gets to him. He listens quietly while you tell him off and then in the end apologizes and tells you he’ll be more careful in the future, but that you should know he will get injured again plenty of times. He doesn’t need your help caring for his wounds but he lets you help him anyway because he knows being able to keep a close eye on his progress will help you relax.

Jack Horne 

Jack feels bad about it. He knows his cause was justified and he made sure you knew it too before he went, but he still feels guilty. He assures you he’s fine, that his wounds are minor (which isn’t really true), and that there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. You readily accept his apology, your anger rapidly dissolving, and you reconcile quickly. He’s hesitant to let you see his wounds, but you talk him into it, and thanks to the care of both you and him, they heal up pretty quickly.

Red Harvest

He’s good at looking like he’s paying attention when he’s not, and he’s only half-listening to you when you lecture him. He pretty much knows what you’re saying without having to listen and while he appreciates your concern, he wants to focus on cleaning his weapons and wounds and fixing those of his arrows that were damaged. When you’re done, he just nods and tells you he’s dealt with worse and he’ll be fine, and it takes you awhile to calm down because of his seeming apathy. He takes care of his own wounds in front of you though so you can see they aren’t too terrible and that night instead of sleeping on separate bedrolls like usual, he joins you on yours, holding you close the whole night.

[fontainebleau22]

Box of Frogs (Part 1)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisholm can stop this madness’. Because I needed something to think about when I was ill.

****

‘You’re telling me that’s Josh?’ Goodnight scrutinised the small green creature in the plastic box, and it stared back at him with round unblinking eyes. ‘Doesn’t look much like him.’

The frog was perfectly calm, legs folded against its speckled body and sides moving in and out as it breathed. Vasquez, on the other hand, was distraught, red-faced and sweaty, still in his apron from work, hands trembling as he held the lid open for Goodnight to see. ‘A woman at the café. She was annoyed with him, and she waved a hand and - zap!’ Vasquez hugged the box protectively to his chest. ‘My boyfriend is a frog.’

Goodnight rubbed at his head, still damp from the shower. ‘Who is it?’ Billy called from the bedroom.

‘Vasquez. With a frog. In a box.’ Billy came through to the kitchen, buttoning his shirt.

‘Were you two not even up? asked Vasquez, momentarily distracted. ‘You’re a disgrace.’

Goodnight gestured to the frog. ‘He says this is Joshua.’

Billy inspected it sceptically. ‘Expect us to believe that?’

‘It was a customer.’ Vasquez put the box down carefully on the table, pressing the lid closed again. ‘Just some woman, youngish, red hair: bit snappy with her order, but she didn’t look anything special. You know how hard it is to guess what someone can do.’

Goodnight nodded sympathetically: appearances could be deceptive. ‘My aunt Lucretia, she looks like a harmless little old lady, bit doddery on her feet, but she can sink people waist-deep into the ground. Taken more than one would-be mugger by surprise.’ And that time at the church social when Mary-Lou Wentworth said her lemon sponge was dry…

Vasquez was hunched in misery. ‘She looked like she’d just have some cute harmless skill like – like ‘flowers always blooming in the yard’ or ‘never run out of change for the meter’, not ‘turn people into frogs’.’

‘So why did she pick on Josh? Can’t have been random.’ Billy was right: if you could turn people into frogs, and Lord knows it was an idea with its temptations, you probably wouldn’t do it on a whim.

Vasquez looked strangely shamefaced. ‘I was chatting to her, seeing if I could make her smile. She looked so sad…’

Goodnight though he was beginning to fathom the shape of it. ‘Using your own ability?’ It had never seemed entirely fair to him that Vasquez, already tall, dark and handsome, should have the added ability to give himself a little sparkle of attraction that could melt even the most rational and hard-hearted of men and women. ‘So you were putting on the glamour to make her smile, and Josh got jealous.’

Vasquez looked down at the box sorrowfully. ‘He came over, started chatting to her’ – Goodnight groaned internally – ‘I didn’t hear exactly what he said, but zap! And he was a frog.’

Goodnight pinched his brow. He was still in his robe: he should have been eating a croissant and pouring well-judged scorn on the literary section of the New York Times at this stage of the morning. He lifted the lid to inspect the frog again. It could be Josh’s idea of a prank – he could be hanging about under the window, seeing if Vasquez could get them going – but would Vas break a shift for that? Did the frog look a little like Josh? It was hard to say -

‘Is that the truth?’ Even though the question wasn’t directed at him Goodnight heard the edge in Billy’s voice: front-on, that tone never failed to make any listener immediately dredge up their worst secrets and lay them out for inspection.

‘Yes.’ Vasquez still sounded irritated, a sure sign he was being honest. ‘Josh just – just sat there on the stool croaking, and then he hopped away, you should see how far he can go in one jump, and while I was chasing him she must have left, so I couldn’t beg her to change him back.’

‘You had to chase him?’ Billy wrinkled his nose. ‘How can you be sure this is him? It could be some random ordinary frog you caught instead - the real Faraday could still be outside somewhere, catching flies with his tongue.’

Horror flickered across Vasquez face, followed by scorn. ‘Of course it’s him. How many other frogs do you think there were in the shop at the time?’

Billy shrugged and Goodnight stepped in before it could get worse. ‘Why have you brought him to us?’

Vasquez fixed him with an intense dark gaze, and even though he knew what was happening Goodnight felt himself start to smoulder inside. ‘So you can fix him.’

‘Cure him?’ Goodnight poked a dubious finger towards FrogJosh. ‘Of what? I’m no expert, but he seems in good health to me. Large, bright-eyed, moist: fine specimen of a frog, probably set the other frogs swooning, or whatever it is they do.’

‘Cure-him-of-being-a-frog,’ said Vasquez between gritted teeth.

Goodnight shook his head. ‘Being a frog’s a state, not a disease. I can only set things right that have gone wrong.’

Vasquez slumped histrionically onto the table. ‘I’m holding my boyfriend in a plastic box: how can you say nothing’s gone wrong? I should have gone to Sam. He would have helped us.’

Goodnight reached for the kettle. ‘Sam’s not here – he’s gone to Albuquerque. For his thing, you know.’

‘Mierda.’ Vasquez clenched his fists in his hair.

‘Have you tried kissing him?’ suggested Billy cheerfully as he helped himself to a croissant.  

‘Cher, don’t be so callous.’ Goodnight tried a reproachful look, but it bounced off the wall of Billy’s unconcern. ‘Maybe it’ll wear off in a day or two,’ he offered optimistically.

‘I can’t wait for days! We’ll just have to find her again.’ We? Goodnight’s heart sank as Vasquez looked pleadingly at Billy. ‘And then you can make her change him back.’

There wasn’t a flicker of emotion on Billy’s face, but Goodnight was watching carefully enough to see his nostrils flare as he breathed out hard: Vasquez really could make himself difficult to resist.

‘If you can find her,’ said Billy grudgingly. He tapped the box with his butter knife. ‘Meantime you’ll need to get him a proper habitat.’

Vasquez whipped the box out of Billy’s reach. ‘Don’t prod him like that.’

‘He needs a tank,’ advised Goodnight, ‘with some moss and a pan of water.’

‘And some crickets to eat,’ added Billy helpfully. Vasquez winced, but –

‘Ribbit’.

Three pairs of eyes were drawn to FrogJosh, who puffed out his throat sac complacently.

‘See?’ said Billy triumphantly. ‘He agrees.’

[fontainebleau22]

Box of Frogs (Part 2)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisholm can stop this madness’. Read Part 1 here.

-----------------

 Ale regarded FrogJosh mournfully. ‘I’m sorry, güero.’ 

He’d done his best to make a suitable habitat, as Billy suggested: he’d taken advice from an enthusiastic assistant at the pet store, and now his boyfriend was perched on a moss-covered rock in his new tank, next to a shallow pan of water and a heap of dried crickets. A nest of fresh green twigs offered a hiding-place, but he seemed to prefer to sit in the open, eyes fixed on Ale. 

It worried him: he’d followed all the advice in the guide he’d bought and Josh seemed happy enough, but how could he tell? Was he racked with internal anguish? FrogJosh reached up a hind foot and scratched his snout reflectively.

Behind him Red sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Take him or leave him here, just decide.’ 

‘I can’t take him.’ Ale gestured vaguely towards Good Care for Your Frogs where it was propped against the coffeepot. ‘He’d get too hot in the car and I can’t take the tank into the shop.’ 

‘Might end up on the menu?’ Red grinned, and Ale fought the urge to clap his hands over Josh’s ears. Did he have ears? 

‘How can you be so heartless? I thought you’d show some fellow-feeling.’ 

Red tugged reflexively at the feather hanging from his earlobe. ‘Hawks aren’t edible. Look, just leave him. He seems happy enough in there.’ 

FrogJosh stared some more, then swelled out his throat sac suddenly. Was it possible for a frog to look impatient? ‘You’re right.’ Ale stood up. ‘There’s only one way to fix this.’

‘So what’s the plan?’ 

‘We track this woman down, confront her, and Billy tells her to change him back.’ 

Red considered, serious as ever. ‘What if she’s immune to Billy?’ 

Ale scoffed. ‘When did that ever happen? Billy’s – persuasive. He once made Josh drive him to Tucson and back so he could buy Goody a turquoise tie-pin.’ 

Red grimaced: they’d all been bent to Billy’s will at one time or another. ‘How d’you think Goody stands it, being married to a man who can tell him to do anything he wants?’ 

‘You’re kidding me,’ says Ale. ‘Billy doesn’t even have to use the voice on him: Goody’s always done everything he says.’

Red settled himself at the table. ‘Be easier just to get Sam onto it.’ 

‘He’s in Albuquerque, Goody, said. That thing he goes to every year.’ Ale picked up his keys and headed for the door. ‘Billy’s the best bet right now. Just keep your phone on. And don’t poke at him.’

**

Billy was waiting outside his and Goody’s apartment, sharp and handsome in his suit for work, his carefully tied-up hair lending him an appealing hint of exoticism; as he got into the car Ale sparkled at him a little, just to prove that even in jeans and flannel shirt he was still the most attractive. 

‘How’s your boyfriend?’ asked Billy pointedly. ‘Happy in his tank?’ Ale damped it down again: Billy was, after all, integral to his plan.

‘Where are we going – following the trail of frogs?’ 

Ale grinned. ‘That’s exactly what we’re doing, amigo. I went over to see Léna, my niece. She’s … good with the internet.’ Billy nodded: abilities of that kind were best left undiscussed except among friends. ‘A complaint was filed two days ago to the local police department of a man being turned into a frog. They didn’t take it very seriously. A woman called Thelma McCann reported it, so we’ll start with her: she can at least tell us if it was the same woman involved.’

Eventually Ale pulled to a stop beside a row of small houses. ‘Think this is it.’ 

Whatever the McCanns’ abilities were, they didn’t seem to run to home maintenance: the paint on the house was peeling and the front grass overgrown. At first sight the yard appeared to be full of garbage, but once they were out of the car it was clear that a yard sale was going on: a battered leather recliner with a dent in the seat stood next to a stack of video games and a console, and ranged on a table were novelty beer glasses, a collection of expensive-looking model cars and an assortment of books.

A plump middle-aged woman, presumably Thelma McCann, was sitting beside the stall in a deckchair. ‘Come to buy?’ she asked hopefully. 

‘Mrs McCann?’ Ale put on his most winning smile. ‘Could we ask you a few questions?’ 

‘You from the police?’ Her expression became more guarded. 

‘No, ma’am,’ said Billy solemnly, ‘we’re herpetologists.’ 

He held out his hand and she took it, mesmerised. ‘You’re here about Thomas? Well, you’d best come through.’ 

She led them through the house, which had a sparse, newly spring-cleaned look about it, and out to the back yard. ‘He’s over there,’ she said, pointing, ‘under that flowerpot.’ 

Ale crouched down to lift the terracotta crock carefully and reveal a large amphibian with brown-black knobbly skin, panting slightly in the heat. It goggled up at him. 

‘Isn’t he a bit big for a frog?’ asked Billy. ‘You know, a bit … warty?’ 

Ale looked warily at Thelma; probably best not to use the t-word. ‘What happened?’ 

‘We got a new neighbour, bought a house just up the street. Cullen, she’s called, and she’s real crabby – always looked like she just swallowed a cactus. Got into a row with Thomas, though to be fair maybe she wasn’t to blame for that: he likes to pick a fight. One minute they were yelling at each other, and then – zap! She waved her hand, and there he was.’ She seemed oddly calm, telling the story.

‘Just like Josh,’ said Ale, then, in response to her raised eyebrows, ‘my boyfriend, he got on the wrong side of a woman like her in the café yesterday.’ He looked optimistically down at Thomas. ‘I was hoping it would wear off in a couple of days.’ 

‘You think?’ Thelma looked disappointed; a fly buzzed past and Thomas flicked out his tongue to snatch it from the air. ‘More use to me as a frog than he’s ever been as a husband.’ 

‘Can you tell us where she lives?’ asked Billy. 

‘Number 113.’ Thelma frowned. ‘Not sure she’s so keen on visitors.’ 

Billy’s smile was complacent. ‘I can be persuasive.’ 

She cast an appreciative eye over him. ‘I’ll bet you can, honey.’ 

‘Good luck with –‘ Ale nods at Thomas, who’s happily rooting about under his flowerpot.

A few houses further up the street in the direction she indicated, they found a van parked at the kerb: emblazoned on its side was H. Worchester and Co.: Let Us Take The Load Off. Its back was open as two men in overalls unloaded furniture: one of them laid his hand on a sofa which rose a few inches into the air, then guided it down the ramp and across the pavement with a few gentle touches, as though it were made of thistledown. 

A red-haired woman, the same woman Ale had seen in the shop, was standing to one side supervising the delivery and clutching a pile of soft cushions. He hadn’t really had a chance to look at her last time they met, and all he’d remembered was how brusque and unfriendly she’d been: her face now was still set in the same hard lines, though she was undoubtedly younger than him.

Billy approached her confidently. ‘Excuse me, Ms Cullen,’ he asked, ‘could we speak to you for a moment?’ 

She looked him up and down, coldly hostile. ‘I don’t need converting or encyclopaedias, thank you.’ 

Ale came up beside him. ‘Please,’ he said placatingly, nerves tight in his stomach, ‘we just want to ask you-‘ 

‘And don’t even think about telling me that there’s good news,’ she snapped: at this distance she seemed to be positively vibrating with banked-up fury. ‘How do you know my name?’ 

Next to him Billy cleared his throat. ‘You turned my friend’s partner into a frog.’ 

She straightened, narrowing her eyes. ‘If I did, he deserved it.’ 

Ale struggled to put aside his anger on Josh’s behalf: surely she just needed winning over. ‘Will it wear off? Can you turn him back?’ 

Ms Cullen looked at him straight on. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ 

One of her hands clenched, and Ale took a step back, a restraining hand on Billy’s shoulder as warning crackled through him, but Billy had already started, in that voice, ‘We want you to-‘

 - Zap!

Ale fell to his knees with a groan of horror, scrabbling in the grass; Ms Cullen turned on her heel and strode into her house. No. No. It was as much as he could do to wrestle out his phone one-handed and gasp out his request to Red; then there was nothing else but to sit and wait, racked with guilt.

It seemed an eternity until Red’s truck came screeching to a halt beside him and Goody spilled out of the passenger door, looking round frantically. ‘What happened? Where’s Billy?’ 

Mutely, Ale held out his cupped hands and the colour drained from Goody’s face at the sight of the tiny blue frog nestling there. 

‘Billy!’ he gasped, reaching out a trembling finger. ‘Sweetheart! No!’

[fontainebleau22]

Box of Frogs (Part 3)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisholm can stop this madness’.

Part 1 here. Part 2 here.

---------

Ale stood on the step, raised his hand to knock and swallowed hard. His night had been racked with guilt: what could he say now that would be in any way appropriate? I’m sorry I got your husband turned into a frog? 

Goody’s steps approached inside and Ale steeled himself. Maybe they could find some common ground. Maybe Goody would turn to him for valuable advice on what to do when your significant other suddenly becomes amphibian. The door opened and under Goody’s accusing stare all Ale could manage was a mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

Goody held the door open for him. ‘Red’s convinced me that this wasn’t entirely your fault.’

‘How’s Billy?’ asked Ale sheepishly, and Goody beckoned him through to the living room.

On the coffee-table, taking up its whole surface, stood an enormous tank, easily three times the size of Josh’s and so crammed with dark foliage that any creature in it was impossible to spot. A heat lamp hung from the lid, glowing orange, and a tiny stream gurgled into a pool surrounded by mossy rocks; the tank itself was surrounded by humming equipment connected by complex pipes and hoses. It made FrogJosh’s accommodation look positively spartan.

Ale peered into the leafy interior, but there was no sign of FrogBilly. ‘I saw him twenty minutes ago,’ said Goody beside him. ‘He’ll probably come out for the misting spray. He enjoys it.’

As they watched puffs of fine mist burst simultaneously from four separate nozzles at the lid’s corners, and Ale discovered another reason to berate himself for his inadequate frog husbandry. ‘There!’ With a flash of blue Billy broke cover to land on the mossy side of his pool.

Billy as a frog was as striking as he was in human form: a bright blue with black mottling, dark-eyed and delicate. ‘He’s a poison dart frog.’ Goody sounded proud and distraught all at once. ‘I think I’ve got the temperature right for him now, though the humidity’s probably still too low: the vivarium needs to be at least eighty per cent.’

Humidity? Vivarium? How had Goody become such an expert in sixteen hours? A stack of books slid under Ale’s elbow and he reached to rescue them: Poison Dart Frogs: a guide to care and breeding; Reptile Keeper’s Guide: Poison Dart Frogs; Poison Dart Frogs: success with an amphibian pet. Goody must have had all this equipment ‘ported to him last night: Ale winced at the thought of how much it must have cost. 

Another knock at the door made Goody look up eagerly. ‘That’ll be Jack: I asked him to come.’

At his shout first Red appeared, then burly greying Jack behind him. It was unusual to see them outside together: though they shared a house in apparent amity, the nature of their relationship was a delicate issue and one their friends choose to leave largely unexamined.

It was odd, even before you took the shapeshifting into account – Jack was decades older than Red and a dyed-in-the-wool Bible-quoting Christian, while Red was a traditionally-inclined native; Jack was given to quiet pursuits like making his own wine and foraging for mushrooms, while Red worked as a mechanic and listened to death metal. What their modus vivendi was, who could say: certainly none of them had ever dared to ask and risk the ire of a man who could turn into a bear.

Jack squatted down by the t – the vivarium. ‘How’s the patient?’ He peered at Billy admiringly. ‘Handsome fellow.’

‘So is Josh,’ said Ale, piqued.

‘He’s a handsome frog,’ lamented Goody, gazing at him in despair. ‘How do we change him back?’

‘Tried kissing him?’ asked Red, deadpan.

‘Of course I have,’ snapped Goody. He turned to Jack pleadingly. ‘You can tell me: is he suffering? A human mind locked in the body of a frog body, tormented and desperate...’ 

Jack burst into a belly-laugh, sobering again when he realised Goody was serious. ‘Lord, no. What ideas you have - change of body don’t make you suffer. Mite unexpected, no doubt, will have taken him a while to settle to it, but does he look like he’s agonising over it to you?’

Maybe it was just Ale’s bias, but even in amphibian form he thought Billy still managed to look pleased with himself. 

‘We have to find a solution,’ declared Goody, ‘I can’t bear to see him like this.’

Jack patted him delicately on the shoulder. ‘Now, don’t take on so: we’ll fix this.’

‘How? Sam’s not back until Saturday, his thing lasts the whole week, and Vasquez’ plan was an unmitigated disaster.’

Ale had to admit that was fair, and the flash of blue as FrogBilly leapt away into the foliage only made him feel worse.

Jack straightened up, regarding him and Red with a paternal air. ‘You young  folk, you always go at things too head-on. Probably spooked her.’ He turned to Goody. ‘This needs gentle handling. Red here will take me over to her house, I’ll bring a peace offering and we’ll see if we can’t sit down and discuss it all calmly.’

Ale supposed Ms Cullen might be susceptible to Jack’s avuncular charm, though remembering the simmering rage which he’d sensed radiating from her, would a chat over oak leaf wine and pokeberry preserve really help? He opened his mouth to say so, then thought better of it.

‘Maybe I should come too,’ suggested Goody, ‘explain how important it is.’

Jack patted him delicately on the shoulder. ‘You boys just sit tight here and leave it to me –  I’m sure I can persuade her to change her mind. And none of that cacophony you call music,’ he warned over his shoulder to Red as he followed him out.

**

Two hours later Ale was on Goody’s step again, this time with FrogJosh in his tank carefully cradled against his chest. ‘Any change?’ he asked Goody eagerly when he opened the door.

‘Still a frog,’ said Goody gloomily. He looked askance at the glass tank in Ale’s arms. ‘Why have you brought Josh here?’

Ale marched into the living room and placed the tank next to the vivarium: it looked as sparse and uninviting as he’d feared. ‘I thought-‘ He looked hopefully at Goody. ‘We could put him and Billy in together. There’s room for twenty frogs in there.’

‘In the vivarium?’ Goody choked in outrage. ‘One, Josh is a common frog, it’s not the right habitat for him. Two, Billy is poisonous. And three, Billy would never forgive me if I trapped him in a glass tank with Josh. He finds him irritating.’ 

Ale was still stuck on his first sentence. ‘Josh is not common.’

Goody sighed in exasperation. ‘It’s a technical term. Billy’s tropical.’

‘And how can he find him irritating if they’re both frogs?’

 ‘He’s still Billy,’ said Goody, ‘that’s what Jack said. And Josh is still Josh.’

 Was he? He hadn’t done much since he was changed apart from laze around and eat, but Ale had to concede that proved nothing. ‘Do you think they still have their abilities too?’ he asked, sidetracked. ‘Could Billy still make Josh do what he wants? Is Josh still lucky?’

 Goody spluttered out an unwilling laugh. ‘Being turned into a frog doesn’t strike me as very lucky.’ 

Ribbit, said Josh; Ale stared at him in consternation.

The sudden pounding of footsteps outside alerted them both before someone scrabbled at the door, then Red burst in, panting for breath and as agitated as Ale had ever seen him. ‘This is all your fault!’ 

He was clutching something fat and brown in both hands. ‘Why did you have to drag us into this?’

He thrust the frog he was holding towards them accusingly and Goody’s face fell. ‘Oh no!’

The frog was huge, with a wide greenish snout and a brown body, its long muscular legs trailing. Brorp! it protested. The noise was startlingly loud.

‘What happened?’ asked Ale.

Red shook what must be Jack at them. ‘She happened. Everything seemed to be going fine, then …’

Brorp! said Jack again: he did sound angry.

Red looked tearful. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ He stood squeezing Jack unhappily: Ale was sure it couldn’t be good for him being froghandled like that.

‘Take him home,’ advised Goody. ‘At least he should be easy to –‘

Red shook his head, oddly embarrassed ‘I can’t.’ He took a step towards the coffee-table. ‘He’ll have to go in there.’

‘No.’ Goody took up a defensive stance in front of the vivarium. ‘He’s a bullfrog, anyone can see that. He’d eat Billy.’

‘I thought you said Billy was poisonous,’ said Ale, looking from one to the other.

‘It’s a terrible idea for both of them,’ said Goody firmly. ‘Anyway, what’s the problem with you keeping him? You’re a hawk, he’s a bear: another shape isn’t going to make any difference.’

Red’s awkwardness suddenly let Ale put two and two together. ‘Surely he’s too big for you to swallow by accident – what are you, a condor or something?’

‘Shut. Up.’ hissed Red.

Goody reached for his pile of books. ‘Look, take this. It tells you all about frog care. Bullfrogs need water: you can keep him in the bath.’

Red’s face lightened. ‘I’ll put him in your bath.’

‘I don’t want a bullfrog in our-‘ protested Goody, but Red had already set off down the corridor.

‘What is happening?’ asked Goody, turning to Ale wild-eyed. ‘Why won’t it stop?’ A happy brorp! came clearly from the bathroom along with the sound of running water: the tub seemed to have an amplifying effect on the sound.

Ale felt the grip of the same despair. In the beginning he’d been convinced that the frog effect would be temporary, that sooner or later there’d be another zap! or possibly a flunch! and Josh would be sitting on the floor, looking dazed and wondering why his mouth tasted so strange. But as time had gone by and Josh stayed stubbornly batrachian his faith had begun to waver. What if the red-haired woman wouldn’t agree to change them back? What if she couldn’t change them back. Would he have a frog as a boyfriend forever? No. No. He balled his fists at his sides in determination. This has to be put right.

Brorp! echoed through the apartment, deep and thunderous. Brorp!

[fontainebleau22]

Box of Frogs (Part 7)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisolm can stop this madness’.

Part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here. Part 5 here. Part 6 here.

---

‘What about your jobs?’ asked Emma. ‘Wasn’t there trouble about the time you’d missed?’

For a group of men who’d spent a week as frogs they seemed surprisingly unresentful, yet a residual guilt kept her prodding at the topic. On a golden afternoon like this, though, it seemed difficult for anyone to hold a grudge: the park was busy with sunbathers, frisbee-players, and old ladies sitting primly on benches gossiping with the pigeons.

They’d found a secluded spot under the trees where they could sprawl out on the grass: Red was setting up a barbecue while Jack unpacked an apparently bottomless cooler of food, and to Emma’s relief Gavin had ignored the promise of sausages and lolloped off to join in chasing the frisbee.

Faraday shrugged cheerfully. ‘Boss was pissed off I hadn’t turned up for a week, but just happened they’d had a big order come in that morning that he needs me to deal with, so it all worked out OK.’

Ale stretched lazily with just the smallest of sparkles to draw attention to the shift of his muscles. ‘Maria started shouting when I showed up at the cafe, but I smiled at her some and next thing she was feeding me blueberry pie to make up for all the crickets.’

Billy cracked one eye open from where he was lying with his head in Goodnight’s lap. ‘I just told them I was back and they should pay me for the break.’

The week since she’d met them all in such inauspicious circumstances had been like being picked up by a tornado, but in a good way: from that strange first evening when Josh had led them charging out to celebrate being human again, this ill-assorted group had adopted her into effortless friendship, filling her empty days with argument and activity and anchoring her again in the here-and-now.

Billy shifted a little, squinting against the sun in his eyes. ‘Teddy, could you?’ Goody asked at once. Teddy leaned over to lay a hand on the trunk and concentrated: the tree obligingly rearranged its branches to shade Billy’s face. ‘Better, cher?’ asked Goody solicitously.

Ale tsked disapprovingly. ‘He was just the same when you were a frog: humidity this, fruit flies that, is the heat lamp strong enough...’

‘Goody always takes care of me,’ said Billy with smug satisfaction.

‘Only the best for you, sweetheart,’ agreed Goody, stroking his hair. ‘Though I hope they’ll give me a refund on the equipment.’

‘I saw the size of his tank, with all those leaves and the little stream and everything,’ groused Faraday. ‘Mine don’t look much in comparison. You could’ve put more effort in.’

Ale batted at him, irritated. ‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about – I looked after you perfectly well.’

‘I was a frog the longest,’ declared Josh with a perverse pride. ‘What if I’d dried out? You could have got me one of those fancy misting sprays.’

‘Guero, I swear…’ Ale lunged up to tackle him, sending the two of them rolling on the grass; at that precise moment the Frisbee came zipping in, skimmed harmlessly over Josh’s head and bounced off Sam’s ear.

‘Damnation,’ said Sam resignedly; Gavin raced up, grabbed the frisbee and charged off again.

Ale had Josh pinned, knees on his shoulders, grinning as he squirmed. ‘I got in the tank with you, ingrato – did Goody do that?’

‘Not for lack of trying,’ said Sam, shuffling over to let Goody run a hand over his rapidly-rising bump.

Emma let the good-natured bickering fade into the background, closing her eyes to appreciate the warmth of the sun on her face, the rustling breeze in the branches above and the sound of distant excited barks.

Her grief was always with her, the sense of absence at her side a constant, but now as well there were Jack and Goody, gentlemanly and courteous, Teddy and Red with their shy smiles, Josh and Ale with jokes to distract her. You’d have liked them, she told Matthew silently. She opened her eyes again to Sam’s concerned gaze, and when she smiled he came to settle beside her on the plaid rug in wordless sympathy.

‘You know he kissed you to see if it would turn you back?’ Teddy was asking Billy.

‘Billy is attractive in every form,’ declared Goody, unabashed.

‘Oh, please.’ Josh pulled a face.

‘If anyone was a handsome frog,’ asserted Ale, ‘it was me.’

Teddy snorted. ‘You? You were just a green blob.’ Ale choked in outrage and Teddy smirked. ‘You had no neck.’

‘I have to say that Teddy’s right,’ agreed Goodnight, ‘you were a singularly unattractive frog. Plain as anything.’

‘Josh didn’t think so,’ said Ale, nettled.

Goodnight sat up straight and fixed them both with a severe gaze. ‘Do you have any idea what it was like once I put you in the tank with him? It was worse than the Discovery Channel – I was going to buy a screen.’

Gavin came galloping back to collapse panting at Emma’s side, and she buried a hand in his fur. Red appeared silently with a bowl of water which he placed in front of him, and Emma nodded her thanks as Gavin slurped enthusiastically at it. ‘You might want to be careful with the meat...’

They both looked over to Jack, pulling a string of sausages from his cooler. ‘No need to worry,’ he called heartily: he arranged the sausages precisely on the grill, then handed the tongs to Red and squatted down to scrub fearlessly through Gavin’s fur. Gavin writhed in delight. ‘We understand each other, don’t we?’ cooed Jack, and Emma stifled a stab of amusement at the similarity between the burly high-voiced man and her sofa cushion of a dog.

‘I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced by being…’

‘…a bullfrog?’ Jack beamed. ‘I found the whole experience quite refreshing, and Goodnight kept me out of harm’s way. He raised himself a little and put a hand to his chest formally. ‘Your hospitality was much appreciated, Goody.’

Goodnight looked pleased, though slightly puzzled. ‘I’m not sure I’d call a week in my bathtub hospitality, but you’re very welcome.’

‘Look,’ said Billy suddenly, ‘isn’t that Mrs McCann?’

Emma craned round and there indeed was Thelma, strolling along the footpath in the company of a tall ginger-haired man in a well-cut suit.

‘Is that her husband?’ Ale sounded incredulous and Emma couldn’t contain a giggle. 

‘No.’ They watched as the man drew Thelma to a halt in front of a rosebush; he reached out a hand theatrically and it burst into flower, the buds swelling and opening to full bloom.

‘Nice work,’ approved Teddy. The man picked one and offered it to Thelma with a flourish; she took it, eyes lowered coyly.

‘I did go over there and offer to turn Thomas back,’ said Emma thoughtfully, ‘but she said it might be best to wait a while.’ Ale nodded understandingly and they watched the pair of them wander away.

‘Though if you’re still game for some frogging…’ Emma turned to Josh warily, but winked, unabashed. ‘This oily little guy’s started hanging round the cafe, Bogue he calls himself, and Maria thinks he’s working to undercut her franchise: maybe you could come and have a look at him?’

‘You can’t solve every problem with frogs,’ said Emma primly, aware of Sam raising his eyebrows beside her, but Ale grinned brightly. ‘I think this is one you can.’

Calm had finally settled, everyone relaxed in the sun as the scent of browning meat drifted appetisingly on the air; Billy and Goody laughed low together and Gavin’s tail thumped lazily.

A striped balloon came bouncing over the grass towards Ale, its string trailing, chased by a small girl in dungarees. ‘Here, mija,’ said Ale obligingly, reaching for the string.

‘No!’ shouted the girl, skidding to a halt; Ale had already plucked the balloon from the air and made to hold it out to her, but as he did so his arm jerked up and he started to rise from the ground, tugged smoothly upwards. ‘What the…!’ 

‘Let go, quick,’ pleaded the girl; Ale, already at head height, looked down in consternation.

‘Your face!’ cackled Josh gleefully.

‘Don’t just stand there, grab his feet!’ Teddy jumped, but Ale had drifted beyond his reach.  

Emma turned to Sam. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’

‘Nope,’ said Sam contentedly, settling his hat over his eyes.

‘These things have a habit of working out on their own,’ Goodnight assured her, Billy still comfortable in his lap.

‘How high is he likely to go, miss?’ Jack asked the girl, and she shrugged helplessly. ‘Heavy people go up faster’n me.’

‘Red?’ asked Jack, and there was a flutter of feathers as his companion launched himself upwards. ‘He can puncture it with his talons, let him down gently.’

‘Noo!’ the girl’s wail of protest faded as she raced off after Red, waving her arms.  

‘Wait till you’re over the trees and then let go,’ called Teddy as he and Josh followed the ever-rising Ale across the meadow.

‘Or see if you can drift over the lake,’ offered Josh, earning a faint, ‘Pendejo’ in return.

Emma hesitated. Should she follow? Turning Ale back to a frog could hardly help at this stage, and no one else seemed worried; Jack was once more clattering industriously at the grill.

‘Hey, Sam,’ added Goodnight idly, ‘how was your thing? Never did get the chance to ask about it.’

‘Good,’ said Sam from underneath his hat, ‘always worth it.’

‘Never heard you say different,’ approved Goodnight. He settled himself more comfortably against his treetrunk.

‘And you?’ asked Emma. ‘You had the hardest week of anyone…’ The thought of how distraught he’d been still brought a pang, but Goodnight cut her off with a flashing grin.

‘I’m fine – we all are.’

 ‘Well, not Ale right at this moment,’ interposed Sam cheerfully. From the corner of her eye Emma could see a small crowd beginning to gather, shouting advice and holding outspread blankets.

She turned back to Goodnight. ‘Truly?’

Goodnight looked down fondly at Billy, dozing in his lap, then winked at her. ‘Fine as a frog’s hair split four ways.’

---

[fontainebleau22]

Box of Frogs (Part 6)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisolm can stop this madness’.

Part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here. Part 4 here. Part 5 here.

---

I go away for one week, just one week, and when I come back my entire friend-group is living in tanks and eating flies. Sam was cruising slowly through a tangle of suburban streets, checking the names as he passed. It had taken him some effort to persuade a reluctant Red Harvest, in a conversation conducted through the skylight, to adopt human form long enough to tell him the address of the woman who had wreaked such havoc. And Goody so upset - ain’t going to be much in the way of entertainment on poker night till this is all set straight.

He drew to the kerbside beside an unremarkable one-storey house with a well-tended yard; as he stepped from the car a young man strolled by, fingers clicking in time to the tinny beat from his headphones. Tiny rainbow-coloured fish leaked from the earpieces and gathered to dart behind him in a rippling shoal. He paid Sam no attention, but one or two of the fish lingered in his wake, swimming curiously over to inspect him; as they neared him their colours began to fade to black and white. The boldest, nosing towards him, suddenly popped like a soap bubble, and the others flipped their tails and fled.

Sam squared his shoulders and strode to the gate. He had one hand on the latch when a dog the size of a kitchen table came cantering round the side of the house, rowfing enthusiastically. Sam withdrew his hand from the latch. Goody hadn’t mentioned a dog, nor Red. Not that it would have made a difference: Sam Chisolm wasn’t afraid of dogs, even disturbingly hairy dark brown ones. 

‘Good boy?’ he said experimentally. The dog sat down and scratched itself vigorously; its eyes, if indeed it had eyes, were hidden under a shock of thick fur and it occurred to Sam, purely coincidentally, that it might be more polite if he stayed on this side of the gate for the present.

‘Who is it, Gavin?’ called a voice; the dog turned its head and Sam was half-surprised that it didn’t answer.

A woman appeared, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans muddy at the knees, her red hair coming loose from its braid. She seemed younger than Red’s rather incoherent explanation had led him to expect, though her face was pale and drawn. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a tone of glacial coldness.

‘Ms Cullen?’ asked Sam politely. ‘Name’s Sam Chisolm.’ He glanced at Gavin who had settled down again, a tongue like a roll of carpet lolling from his mouth. ‘Fine specimen of a dog you have there.’

‘What do you want?’ she demanded impatiently. Well, he’d been warned she had a short fuse. ‘If I could – ‘ he started, but she interrupted. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘You’ve had some recent dealings with my friends.’ Her face darkened like a storm rolling in and Sam quickly held up his hands. ‘Ain’t come to quarrel with you or pass blame; it’s just the whole – frog issue.’

Ms Cullen rolled her eyes. ‘Who are you friends with, my macho jackass of a neighbour? The asshole from the café who wouldn’t stop winking at me? Or the strange old guy who told me to look into my heart for the Lord’s guidance?’

Sam winced. ‘Jack meant well, I’m sure.’

Ms Cullen looked at him narrowly. ‘Are you like the one with the cheekbones who tried to order me around?’

‘No, ma’am,’ said Sam with dignity. ‘I’m not here to do anything but talk with you, and if you let me in I swear I won’t outstay my welcome.’

‘Gavin will see to that,’ said Ms Cullen darkly; it was hardly encouragement, but it seemed as good as he was likely to get, so Sam squeezed cautiously round the gate.

Gavin perked up at the prospect of a visitor and Sam loosened his collar. ‘Is he … friendly?.’ Ms Cullen sighed pointedly, cast around for a stick and hurled it away into the bushes; Gavin went cantering obediently after it.

Sam looked optimistically at the wooden bench nearby, but Ms Cullen just stood and folded her arms. ‘Well?’

He took a deep breath. Need to tread carefully here. ‘Thing is, I just got home from Albuquerque, been away for a week, this thing I –‘ Ms Cullen raised an eyebrow and he hurried to change gear. ‘You’re right, never mind all that, but I came back and found my friend Goody with an apartment full of frogs, and it seems ‘most everyone I know is now in a tank under his care.’

Gavin came crashing back, stick in his mouth, and Ms Cullen wrestled it from him and tossed it again to send him racing off. 

‘Now I’ll grant you Joshua can be overenthusiastic, and you’re not the first that’s threatened to turn him into a rat or a skunk or the like, and I can see that if Billy – that’s the one with the cheekbones – started trying to order you about, you might get tired of that, and Jack, well, he is strange, and that’s the truth…’

Ms Cullen seemed puzzled and Sam had to admit that Gavin’s looming presence might be keeping him from top form. He ploughed on regardless. ‘But Ale – he’s Josh’s boyfriend, he was distraught, Goody said, and Goody’s just beside himself with Billy being a frog and I’m here to ask if you’d find it in you to turn them back again.’

Ms Cullen stared at him. ‘Back.’ Her flat tone was unnerving.

‘To human. You can turn them back, can’t you?’

Ms Cullen shrugged. ‘Why would I want to?’

Because they’re frogs. Sam tried to rein in his temper. ‘I undertake that they’ll have seen the error of their ways; and surely you must feel some sympathy for Ale and Goody, and Red too, losing their partners so sudden? Red won’t stop being a bird, and Goody, well, he ain’t so sensible at the best of times and this has just thrown him for a loop…’

He realised, too late, that Gavin had snuck up behind him and was growling a basso profundo accompaniment to his words, and worse, he was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea as Ms Cullen drew herself up; it felt as though rage was rolling off her like heat from sheet metal.

‘Yes, Mr Chisolm. I know what it’s like to lose a partner suddenly –  I know exactly what it’s like. And no one’s going to wave a hand and bring Matthew back to me.’

Ah. Quite a lot of things became clear to him at once. ‘That’s a hard thing-‘ he began with awkward sympathy, but she hunched her shoulders defensively. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need your pity. I just want you and your friends to stop bothering me.’

In all honesty Sam could see her point. ‘I get that this was all Joshua’s fault at the start - that ain’t usual...’

‘Just go.’ She was running out of patience, that was clear, but Sam owed it to Goody not to give up. ‘But - they’re frogs.’ If he could just find the right words to convince her. ‘Do you really think this is what your hus-’

Gavin’s growl turned into a bark. ‘How dare you?’ Ms Cullen lifted her hand and Sam, despite himself, took a step backward. 

There was an electric zap! followed by a startled yip, and Gavin flashed from an intimidatingly large dog to – an intimidatingly large frog, the largest frog Sam had ever seen, more than a foot from snout to tail, with thighs like a turkey and enormous paddle-shaped feet.

‘What did you do?’ demanded Ms Cullen, horrified. FrogGavin opened his mouth and let out a strange whistling noise, like a deflating football, before hopping away across the grass.

‘Now that is downright unsettling,’ observed Sam. Ms Cullen looked in disbelief from frog-Gavin to him, then flexed her fingers again; Sam stared at her levelly. This time there was no zap!, just a sound like the slap of a wet cloth, and Sam stood there, resolutely unfrogged. ‘Won’t work on me,’ he said, almost apologetically. 

They’d clearly reached an impasse; but as they stood, eyes locked, another car drew up outside and running footsteps approached. ‘Sam!,’ cried Goody, vaulting over the gate. ‘I looked it up – I’ll undoubtedly be a Cajun chorus frog – we’re compatible!’

‘What?’ asked Ms Cullen, too taken aback to protest his invasion of her property.

Goodnight turned to her, manners forgotten in his agitation. ‘I need you to turn me into a frog so I can be with Billy again. Sam will put me in the vivarium with him and we’ll be fine.’

No, no, no. ‘Ignore my histrionic friend,’ said Sam to Ms Cullen, trying to pull Goody away by the elbow, but, ‘You have to,’ declared Goody feverishly. ‘I can’t live my life with Billy on the coffeetable in a tank! He’s my husband and I love him.’

Terrifying visions of a future sitting alone surrounded by frogs began to dance through Sam’s head. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he begged. ‘Goody, be reasonable...’

Ms Cullen frowned in confusion. ‘You actually want me to –‘ she started, but then broke off, pointing an accusing finger at him. ‘Don’t I know you?’

Goodnight frowned. ‘Well, you turned my husband into a frog, I think that must count as a basic acquaintance…’

‘No,’ said Ms Cullen with more confidence, ‘you’re the man from the pet store, I recognise you. You were buying-’ ‘curly-winged flies,’ supplied Goody, the light of memory on his face – ‘and when I went back after they said you’d paid for my leash.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Goody. ‘You were upset, it seemed the neighbourly thing to do.’ He looked around vaguely. ‘Big dog, wasn’t it?’

Sam indicated the enormous frog rooting about happily in a flowerbed. ‘There was an accident,’ he said awkwardly.

Goody whistled, impressed. ‘And I thought Jack was big.’

‘An accident.’ Ms Cullen glared at Sam, then clicked her fingers sharply. Goody jumped expectantly at the flunch! which followed, then looked down at himself, still warm-blooded and mammalian, in disappointment, but Gavin popped back into canine form and came sauntering back towards them, apparently unfazed.

Sam retreated behind Goody in what he hoped was a subtle manner. ‘So you can reverse it.’

‘Reverse it?’ Goody’s attention refocused like a laser. ‘Permanently? Sam tried, but Billy kept frogging and unfrogging again and – can you bring him back?’

Ms Cullen tried to scowl at him, but her composure suddenly wobbled. ‘Yes, I can bring your husband back for you.’ She turned her back hastily and went to sit down on the bench, hugging her arms; Gavin hurried over to offer a wall of doggy comfort.

Goody looked to Sam, who cleared his throat. ‘Ms Cullen lost her husband unexpectedly.’

Understanding dawned on Goody’s face and he went to sit down beside her. ‘You said, you moved here after he…?’ he asked gently. 

Ms Cullen hugged Gavin close, tears beginning to creep down her cheeks. ‘I just – I thought being somewhere new would help, but I miss him every second, just the same.’

Goody put a tentative hand on her back. ‘What happened?’ 

‘An accident. Hit and run. One morning he was there, and then – just gone, in an instant. It’s so unfair.’

‘It is unfair,’ agreed Sam, sitting down on her other side. When she looked at him, he added gravely, ‘I know a little about losing family. And so does Jack. He’s always been a help to me.’

Ms Cullen rubbed at her eyes. ‘Maybe I have been a bit quick-tempered recently.’

Goody patted her arm comfortingly. ‘Now, Ms Cullen,’ – ‘Emma,’ she interjected quietly – ‘it’s understandable.’

‘Though it’s true,’ added Sam, ‘you can’t solve every problem by turning people into a frog.’

Goody glared at him over her head, but Emma managed a watery smile. ‘That’s what Matthew used to tell me. I never met anyone I couldn’t turn before.’

‘Sam here’s immune to magic,’ explained Goody.

‘Blessing and a curse,’ said Sam.

‘What about you?’ she asked Goody curiously. ‘What can you do?’

‘I can cure things.’ Goody took her hand sympathetically. ‘Though unfortunately not broken hearts.’

Ms Cullen – Emma – shut her eyes again briefly, then shook herself and sat up straighter. ‘I shouldn’t be making everyone else suffer. Let me bring them back.’ 

‘We can take you-‘ started Sam, but she shook her head. ‘I can do it from here.’ 

She lifted a hand again, but Goody suddenly grabbed it. ‘Wait!’

‘What?’ squawked Sam, but Goody gave him a withering glance.

‘How exactly does this work? Is Billy going to find himself standing on the remains of my coffeetable in a busted tank? I left Ale and Josh on the bookshelf, and Jack is still in the washbasin…’

Emma had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. ‘It should bring them back to the place where it happened. Reset the clock.’

‘So they’ll be here?’ Goody took her hand with one of his charming smiles. ‘Would you?’

Emma closed her eyes and concentrated, then clicked her fingers. The mother of all flunch!es set Gavin barking and started off car alarms down the street, and Billy and Jack popped into existence, staggering in surprise.

‘Billy!’ Goody jumped to his feet. ‘Thank the Lord!’

‘Goody?’ Billy blinked at him in confusion. ‘I left you at home. No, I was at home with you. Sam was there, but he’s not back.’

‘Sam’s over there,’ interjected Jack, equally at a loss. He peered at Billy. ‘Aren’t you a frog?’

Billy looked around. ‘Where’s Ale?’

‘Where’s Red?’ asked Jack. His question at least was answered as a dark blur came plummeting down from the sky, changing form at the last moment to land in a flurry of feathers and hair. 

‘There you are!’ Jack enveloped Red in what could only be described as a bear hug, and Goody followed suit with Billy. ‘I’m so glad to have you back, cher.’

Emma turned to Sam, deliberately ignoring the heartfelt reunions. ‘The red-haired guy and his boyfriend will be at that cafe.’

‘We’ll go and fetch them,’ declared Goody, all smiles. ‘I can’t thank you enough-‘

Emma shrugged and the corners of her mouth tugged down. ‘Back to normal for you all. Gate’s over there. Come on, Gavin.’ She began to walk back to the house, shoulders slumped.

Sam exchanged glances with Goody. ‘Look, we shouldn’t trespass on your time, but won’t you…’ Emma looked back expectantly, and Sam faltered.

‘…come and be sure the others are OK?’

Sam threw Goody a look of gratitude. ‘Yes, just in case it hasn’t worked.’

‘It will have,’ said Emma, but Goody was already back to his regular voluble self. 

‘Wouldn’t want either of them to end up different – you know, Josh left with frog feet or Ale breathing though his skin.’

‘We wouldn’t?’ asked Billy.

Jack nudged him reprovingly. ‘We’d be honoured if you’d come with us to the café, ma’am.’

Emma looked cheerful for the first time. ‘Can I bring Gavin? He likes company.’

‘Of course,’ said Goody blithely, ‘Billy and I will take Jack and Red, and Sam can take the two of you.’ 

Hellfire, Goody. Sam ground his teeth. ‘No problem.’ 

When Emma laughed properly Sam could see how young she really was. ‘Want me to frog him up again for the journey?’

‘I think,’ said Sam resignedly, ‘ I’m going to need to learn to love him as he is.’

---

[Just a short coda to follow, and this idiocy will be at an end.]

[fontainebleau22]

Box of Frogs (Part 4)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisolm can stop this madness’. 

Part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here.

———

‘New hobby?’ asked Teddy, peering into the habitat on the bookshelf with sunny interest.

‘Not as such,’ said Goodnight gloomily.

Teddy watched as the frog scratched at his head with a hind foot. ‘Cute little thing.’

‘That’s Faraday.’

As though he heard his name, FrogJosh croaked loud and clear, and Teddy jumped back, turning to Goodnight suspiciously. ‘You having me on?’

‘Wish I were,’ said Goodnight. ‘That’s Billy in the big tank, and Jack’s in the bathtub.’

Teddy regarded FrogBilly, perched at the edge of his pool, with a mixture of awe and horror. ‘What happened?’ He turned, eyes wide. ‘Not catching, is it?’

Goodnight sank onto the corner of the sofa. ‘There’s this woman… Faraday got on the wrong side of her, no surprise there, but she turned him into a frog, just waved her hand.’

‘And it didn’t wear off?’

‘No. Vas took Billy and went to reason with her, but she turned Billy too; then Jack thought he could persuade her, and …’ He gestured in the direction of the bathroom, then put a hand to the glass of Billy’s vivarium. ‘I’m trying to do my best by them, but it can’t go on like this.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Sam,’ said Goodnight firmly. ‘I’m counting on him. He said he’d be back Saturday.’

He focused on Teddy. ‘Come to ask a favour?’ Teddy cast another anxious glance at the tanks, but held out his hand to show a cut across the palm, shallow but ragged, and Goodnight tsked. ‘Gotta take more care with those tools.’ 

He beckoned to him to sit, then took his hand and massaged over the injury with his thumb, lightly at first as Teddy winced slightly at the pain, then more firmly, and Teddy relaxed as the warmth spread from Goodnight’s fingers.

‘How come they’re all here with you?’ he asked curiously. ‘Why aren’t Vas and Red looking after them?’

‘Good question,’ muttered Goodnight fervently. ‘Vas took off somewhere yesterday, and Red… well, he’s not himself.’

Vas had left, stormy-faced and preoccupied, abandoning FrogJosh to his care, and Goodnight hadn’t heard from him since; his phone was ringing unanswered, and when Goodnight had tried the café he’d got such a tirade from Mary, furious at being left short-staffed, that he’d felt the phone start to melt in his hand, and had to hang up hurriedly before it began to drip through his fingers.

Fortunately FrogJosh had proved easy to care for, eating with a healthy appetite and dozing in the sun, and though the idea of sharing his bathroom with a bullfrog had fazed him initially, Jack had been positively obliging, allowing himself to be transferred to the washbasin while Goodnight showered and punctuating his off-key singing with rhythmic brorps. 

Red was the one who seemed to be taking the situation hardest: distress and agitation had driven him permanently into his avian shape, wheeling in the sky over Goodnight’s house, letting out shrill distant cries.

Goodnight rubbed until the skin of Teddy’s palm was smooth again and let go. ‘There.’

Teddy worked his fingers, satisfied. ‘Appreciate it.’

‘Quid pro quo,’ said Goodnight, and Teddy smiled shyly. ‘I’ll have a word with your azaleas before I go.’

Neither Goodnight nor Billy had ever exactly understood Teddy’s way with plants – humming to them, stroking their leaves or communing with them in some indefinable way – but a single session of apparently aimless wandering in a neglected yard left it lush and flourishing, and over a month of intensive pep talks he’d even managed to persuade their little lemon tree to produce some actual lemons.

Teddy opened the door, then froze, one foot in the air. ‘You know there’s another frog on your doorstep?’

‘What?’ Goodnight hurried over and sure enough, a plump green frog was sitting under the sill.

Teddy had turned as green as the frog. ‘It is catching.’

‘It could just be an ordinary frog,’ said Goodnight, though his heart was sinking. ‘Lost its way, got dropped by a bird, or, I don’t know, just rained down from the sky. Maybe someone went by whose ability is making it rain frogs, and every house on the street has one.’ 

They looked down together at the frog which was making a valiant effort to climb over his doorstep. ‘I – I have an – have to be…’ Teddy bolted for the gate.

‘But the azaleas…’ called Goodnight pointlessly after him, then sighed in defeat. He bent down to scrutinise the frog. Amphibian expert as he was by now, he had to admit that it didn’t look like a common or garden frog: it was bright green, round and shiny, and still scrabbling at the doorsill. Sinking feeling complete, he scooped it up and took it indoors to examine.

Who was it? And what kind of frog? He deposited it on the windowsill where the light was best and picked up Amphibians of the Southern US, flipping through the pages to compare pictures. The vivid shade of green said tree frog: white throat, white spots on its back … did it have stippled thighs? He reached out a hand to pick it up for closer examination, but the frog leapt nimbly out of his reach. Maybe best not to look too closely. He turned another page, and there it was: Mexican dumpy tree frog. So.

Goodnight pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deliberately. OK. OK. I can cope with this. Billy is a frog, Josh is a frog, Jack is a frog and now Vasquez is a frog.

He could guess how Vasquez had contrived to get himself transformed, but it answered some of their questions that he’d then managed to navigate his way here, back to safety. It also demonstrated that being transformed into a frog negated people’s abilities: FrogVasquez was pudgy and short-necked, hardly handsome, and – he looked down – not there any more.

Goodnight scanned the windowsill in consternation. No, there he was, scaling the side of the bookcase, heading for the shelf where Frog-Josh’s tank was stationed. No room for doubt: as FrogVas reached his destination he plastered himself against the glass of the tank, clinging with lobed fingers and toes. Goodnight carefully peeled him off, opened the lid and plopped him in, and FrogJosh let out a series of joyous ribbits.

Goodnight stood for a while trying to come to terms with it all, but it didn’t get any better. Eventually, Come on, he told himself, pull yourself together. Everyone is depending on you. What did a dumpy tree frog need? 

He sat down next to Billy’s habitat, and after ten minutes with his manuals he reached for the list he’d already drawn up – brown crickets, curly-winged flies, vitamin powder, spare circulation pump – and at the bottom added lighting timer, large ferns and mealworms? He considered the list for a while, then slowly bowed his head until his forehead was resting on the paper. How had it come to this?

A movement in the big vivarium attracted his attention, and there Billy was, jewel-bright, gazing at him seriously: Goodnight knew he wasn’t imagining the sympathy in his round dark eyes. He put his fingers to the glass. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said sadly, ‘I wish I could be in there with you.’ At least Vasquez and Faraday were together again, he thought sentimentally; he cast a glance up at their tank, then quickly averted his gaze at what was going on in there.

Billy blinked and hopped closer. Did he look hopeful? Or was he just hungry? Goodnight picked up the list. I can do this. Only two more days.

** 

The clerk behind the desk broke into a welcoming grin as Goodnight pushed open the door of the pet store. ‘Mr Robicheaux! Pleasure to see you back so soon.’ 

Goodnight grimaced, but the clerk burbled on cheerfully. ‘We’ve restocked the amphibian mineral supplement you were asking about.’ He reached up, his arm stretching and thinning as it went, to pluck a package from the topmost shelf.

‘I’ll take two,’ said Goodnight resignedly, unfolding his list, ‘and all of these.’

‘Flies are just in,’ said the clerk, scanning the paper, ‘take me five minutes to sort them out,’ and while he went out back to fill the order Goodnight wandered the aisles at random, on the lookout for ideas to enrich Billy’s habitat. Would any of the fishtank ornaments be appropriate – a castle, maybe? Or a very tiny mirror? But maybe that would be too disturbing…

Absorbed in thought, he took a step backward and bumped elbows with someone else; a plastic bucket went skittering across the floor. His collidee proved to be a small, angry-looking woman, her red hair drawn back unflatteringly tight from her face.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, retrieving the bucket and offering it back to her; she frowned, but said stiffly, ‘My fault. I was trying to reach…’ She gestured to where a tangle of leather dog harnesses hung from a hook.  

Goodnight looked back to the counter in case the elastic-armed clerk was available, but no one was in sight. ‘Allow me,’ he said, and turned over the bucket to balance on while he reached up at full stretch to bring down the harnesses all together in a tangled clump, handing them down with a smile.

‘Thank you,’ said the woman, grudgingly, turning away as she began to work the thickest strap free from the tangle.

‘Big dog, huh?’ asked Goodnight conversationally.

That brought a spark of interest to her face. ‘He’s a Bernese. Sweet as anything, but he’s in a new house and he tries to run back home…’ The dawning smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

‘Just moved here?’ asked Goodnight sympathetically.

‘Yes. After my husband-‘ She bit her lip in an attempt to maintain her composure, and Goodnight thought he understood her red-rimmed eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s a hard thing. My husband’s – away right now, and that’s difficult enough.’

‘Mr Robicheaux?’ interrupted the clerk from behind the counter, ‘We can get you mealworms freeze-dried, but not live.’

‘Frogs,’ explained Goodnight, seeing her expression, then, with a shudder of relief, ‘Freeze-dried is fine.’ The woman seemed to be looking at him oddly, so he added, ‘I – inherited them unexpectedly. Not something I would have chosen. But I need to make sure they’re properly cared for.’

Two spots of colour stood out on her cheeks as she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, twisting the harness in her hands. ‘How did you-‘ 

She was staring at him so intently that Goodnight was unnerved; ‘I-‘ he began, but the words stuck in his throat. They stood frozen for an awkward moment, then suddenly the woman turned heel and fled.  

The clerk frowned as the door slammed behind her. ‘She pay for that?’

‘Stick it on my total,’ said Goodnight, with a pang of sympathy. At least he still had Billy to go home to, blue and stripy though he currently was; he couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to lose him.

‘Sure you don’t need any mice?’ asked the clerk optimistically as he handed Goodnight his bag. ‘Could do you a reduced rate.’

‘No,’ said Goodnight, preoccupied by his strange encounter. ‘If Jack wants mice then Red can human up and get them himself instead of hunching about miserably on my roof.’ He picked up his package, gave a brisk nod to the startled man and squared his shoulders as he headed to the exit. Sam. When Sam comes back it will all be OK again. Sam can fix this, I know he can.