#who spilled grape juice on the above carpet

[thelordfool]

the clouds were purple last night. btw.

[romansleftshoulderpad]

Sweet Dreams are Made of This

Another continuation of the WCBI AU! Just wanted to write a small one-shot of them being teenagers for once. :D

(Reading the Origins arc is not required to understand this fic outside of one or two sentences)

Words: 3,048

Warnings: NSFW mentions, copious amounts of making out, allusion to the crusades, mentions of neutering, killing mention (in the form of jokes)

Ships: Romantic Remile, Platonic NaRemile, platonic LAMP

Tags: @fandermom @patchworkofstars @poisonedapples @hogwarts-my-love @opaque-puppet @omni-hamiltrash @darling-elm @jynxlovesluck @madly-handsome @strickenwithclairvoyance @limitededitionsanderssidesblog @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @ab-artist  @sometimeswritingsometimesdying @because-were-fam-ily @gattonero17 @analogical-mess @joaniejustwokeup @whycantihavemorethan32characters

---

Remy walked into school with an old pair of fleece space pants he had stolen from Logan and a night mask with the words “Lights Out” painted on sitting on top of his head. He always claimed to participate in school dress-up days out of irony, but anyone who knew him well knew better.

He smiled as Emile stepped out of the car next to him, dressed head to toe in a Stitch onesie with matching blue Converse. His heart melted as he took in the sight of his boyfriend. “Aloha,” he teased, stepping closer and greeting his boyfriend with a gentle kiss.

“No PDA in the parking lot!” Narcissa yelled, interrupting their moment. Emile giggled as Remy kissing him again while flipping her off. “You two are disgusting.”

“Disgustingly cute maybe,” Remy said with a wink. He looked up and down at her Falling in Reverse pajamas. “Has anyone told you punk is dead?”

“Has anyone told you that I don’t give a shit?” she asked with a smile as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, showing off the multitude of piercings she wore. “Plus, Roman roped me into this whole thing. I’m sure he’s running late in an Olaf onesie somewhere.”

The trio walked through the school gate. “I’m sure he’s already in the chorus room,” Remy said. “God knows he loves to be early.”

Narcissa groaned. “Remember when he made us get up at six for a chorus concert?”

“I have never wanted to kill him more than I had at that moment.”

“I’m the only thing stopping you two from killing each other,” Narcissa bragged with a laugh.

“Only because you’re going to kill one of them first,” Emile laughed. “Now, of course, I’d never tell you to bring harm to Roman, I’d just like to suggest you keep my boyfriend alive.”

Narcissa laughed as she looked Remy up and down as if scanning him. She winked at Emile. “No promises.”

Emile pouted and Remy swooped in with a quick kiss. It was hardly a matter of seconds before they were back to making out. Narcissa took her water bottle out of her bag and poured some of the ice-cold contents on Remy’s head.

“YOU BITCH!” he screamed, jumping back as his white shirt became halfway soaked.

“We’re getting you neutered after school.”

“I should get going,” Emile laughed, mostly dry. “I’ll see you at lunch.” He blew a kiss towards Remy and skipped off towards the science building.

Narcissa took a sip of water with a smirk. “Ah. How refreshing.” Remy punched her in the arm.

+++

Virgil always loved to go all out for pajama day, so it was no surprise to see him in plaid pajamas with slippers and a bathrobe on. It was, however, surprising to see Logan sitting in a Batman onesie.

Virgil wolf-whistled as he sat down. “Didn’t take you for the vigilante type.”

“I’ll have you know, Bruce Wayne is a brilliant deceive.”

“And?”

Logan sighed, mumbling, “And my English teacher gives extra credit to anyone who participates.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Virgil laughed affectionately. “Princey will never let you live this down.”

Logan sighed, hitting his head against the desk. “I’m well aware.”

+++

Patton had grown used to eating lunches alone. He wasn’t particularly upset about it, in fact, he found the time alone to be peaceful. So it was quite a surprise when Emile grabbed his hand and ran with him to a crowded lunch table.

“I’m not letting my best friend eat alone on this momentous holiday,” he proclaimed.

“It’s... it’s not a holiday,” Patton stammered but no argument could stop Emile from sitting Patton down between himself and Roman.

“Are those Christmas Pajamas?” Logan asked, scanning him with knitted eyebrows.

“It’s never too early to celebrate Christmas!” Roman said, fully clad in a Pikachu onesie.

“Halloween was last week,” Virgil and Logan both argued.

“And then Christmas!” Roman yelled.

“Forgetting something there, babe?”

“In this house, we don’t stan Thanksgiving,” Narcissa said, biting into a slice of pizza.

Logan looked at her for a long second before taking a sip of Virgil’s soda. “I will never understand today’s youth.”

“You’re seventeen. And a coke stealing thot.”

“I’m the thot here?” Logan asked, pointing at Emile and Remy. Emile was sitting on Remy’s lap, legs around his waist as they made out.

Roman gagged, covering Patton’s eyes with his hand. “That’s practically foreplay.”

“I’m calling the vet,” Narcissa said, her phone held to her ear. “Getting this horny bitch neutered.”

“Who wants my cousins dick?” Virgil teased. “EMILE PICANI, YOU PERV, PUT YOUR HAND DOWN!”

“You’re corrupting the innocent child,” Roman scolded.

“I’m fifteen.”

“Exactly. You are small like baby.”

“You’re only three years older than me.”

“Three cold and hardening years,” he said pressing a hand to his chest and moving his forearm to his forehead dramatically. “You’ll understand when you’re my age. You’re basically a sixth-grader.”

“I’m a tenth grader.”

“Being an asshole to Sophomores,” Logan laughed. “Another thing you’ll understand when you’re his age.”

“I thought Juniors are the ones who are supposed to be mean to Sophomores.”

“No, no, no,” Virgil said. “Juniors hate freshman.”

“This is exhausting,” Patton groaned.

“You know what’s not exhausting?” Narcissa asked, jumping up onto the bench. “Going to a party at my house.”

Patton, Logan, Roman, and Virgil all exchanged glances. Virgil pulled his bathrobe down over his arms as Patton ghosted his fingers over his eye.

“How many people?” Roman asked.

“Just us,” Narcissa said. “I’ll give rides to anyone who needs it.”

“My mom doesn’t let me ride with student drivers,” Patton said sadly.

Narcissa nudged his foot and winked. “She doesn’t need to know.”

“What’s your plan for dealing with He Who Shall Not Be Named and his dreidel?” Virgil asked.

“If anyone gets a boner I’m kicking them out,” she said. “And I mean anyone. Logan gets a boner? They’re out.”

“Dreidel,” Roman laughed. “I just got that.”

“My house, after school. I’ll get Dad to order some pizzas.”

“Pizza from Papa Draco,” Roman said.

“If you call him that tonight, I will kill you.”

“Logan, write my will.”

+++

Patton didn’t like lying to his mom. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie he was at a friend’s house after all, but he wasn’t truthful about the reasons why. He hated lying, but he didn’t want this to be the first trial of whether or not his powers work over the phone. He sat in the back of Narcissa’s car with Virgil while Logan sat in the front.

“So, Patton,” Narcissa said, “house rules are simple. Don’t swear too loudly and try not to spill anything on the carpet. Oh- especially nothing purple. Remy spilt grape juice once and he was banned for a month.”

“True story,” Virgil verified. “He wouldn’t stop pouting about it. You would have thought he was banned from seeing you or something.”

“Was this the legendary Draco party I keep hearing about but never get details on?” Logan asked.

“It’s one thing Remy and I have in common,” she teased. “What happens at our parties, stay at our parties.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No,” Narcissa said.

“Yes,” Virgil replied.

Patton felt a knot twist in his stomach and sink into him like an anchor. This was going to be a long night...

All three cars arrived at roughly the same time, allowing the group to follow Narcissa as she unlocked the front door. “Dad! I’m home!” she yelled. “And I even brought all my male whores with me!”

“Don’t get pregnant!” he yelled back from somewhere deep within the house. “Pizza’s on the stove!”

“Aww fuck yeah,” she said, grabbing a box. “Thot, Hoe, you grab the other two.”

Patton stood in mild surprise as Remy and Emile immediately followed suit. Then he remembered lunch and was less shocked. He followed everyone upstairs towards a door painted black.

Narcissa’s room was just about what Patton expected from a friend of Roman’s who wore all black and probably ten earrings at a time. The walls were painted black and dark blue. However what he did not expect was a large blue, pink, and white flag covering most of the wall above her bed. Patton smiled and Narcissa nudged his shoulder, “Got a demisexual one for Roman for Christmas. I can send you the link to the Etsy shop I use if you want some pride shit. You’d look cute with a rainbow lapel pin.”

Patton laughed, settling between her and Virgil as all of them took a seat around a circular purple rug on her wood floors. Emile passed around paper plates and they all started grabbing slices of pizza.

“Let’s play a game,” Remy suggested with a sly smirk. “Spin the bottle?”

“I think we’ve seen enough kissing for one lifetime,” Logan said. Roman stuck his finger down his throat and gagged.

“Good old fashioned game of truth or dare?” Virgil suggested. “Think of it as a housewarming for Patton.”

“Oh boy.”

“Oh boy, indeed,” Logan laughed, a sly grin growing upon his face. “I’ll go first-“

“Nope!” Remy yelled. “Roman! Truth or dare!”

“I was going to ask first!” Logan protested.

“House rules,” Remy said, “he who wears the leather jacket goes first!”

“He who shall go fuck himself,” Logan murmured earning a laugh from Virgil.

“Truth,” Roman said.

“Who was the last person you had a crush on?” Remy asked with an innocent smile but devil eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

Roman glared daggers at him. “Jon Cozart. Patton, truth or dare?”

“That’s a lie!”

“Prove it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Patton, truth or dare.” Roman never took his eyes off of Remy and Narcissa.

“Uh, truth,” Patton mumbled weakly.

“I dare you to kick Remy’s ass.”

“He said ‘truth’, Roman,” Emile said sternly.��

“Fine. What’s your favorite color?”

Patton fidgeted with his sleeves. “Blue. Emile, truth or dare.”

“Dare,” Emile said, leaning into Remy’s side.

Patton swore under his breath as he tried to think of something but his mind was drawing a blank. Virgil tapped his knee, prompting Patton to lean into him. He whispered something causing both of them to laugh. “I dare you to stop making out with Remy for an hour.”

Emile rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone. “Once this timer is over I’m sucking his dick in front of every single one of you.”

Narcissa threw a pizza crust at him. “I’m neutering both of you.”

Roman rolled a water bottle towards him. “Since you wanna be so fucking thirsty.”

Emile gave a hand gesture that Patton was honestly surprised to see from his best friend. (How well did he actually know anyone here?) “Narcissa, truth or dare?”

She bit into a piece of pizza contemplatively. “Dare.”

“Exchange an article of clothing with someone of your choice.”

“Virgil, hand over your hoodie,” she demanded. As Virgil sighed and took off his jacket, she made quick work of taking off her bra from under her shirt. She threw it at Virgil and snatched his hoodie within the same second.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said. “I’m not putting this on.”

“Virgil, truth or dare?” she asked.

“Tru-“

“I dare you to put the bra on.”

“I picked truth.”

“Hmmm, I don’t think you did,” Narcissa said with an innocent smile, pulling up the hood of Virgil’s jacket.

“Sounded like dare to me,” Remy said.

“He said dare,” Roman confirmed with a smirk.

“Princey,” Virgil said as he took off his shirt, “you are fucking dead to me.” Remy took careful note of the eyes raking over every inch of Virgil’s skin as he struggled with the bra.

“Do you need help?” Patton asked.

“No- No, I got- I can do this- I-“ Virgil sighed. “I need help.”

Patton rolled his eyes and did the clasp in one easy move, handing Virgil his shirt to put back on. “Not that hard.”

“Oh-Em-Gee, you know what this means?” Remy asked loudly with a look of false shock. Patton’s eyes went wide and his heart started racing. “Patton’s a fucking wizard.” He relaxed slightly but Narcissa made sure to take his hand where no one could see as she rubbed gentle circles against his skin.

“This wire is a bitch,” Virgil said.

“You’re a bitch,” Narcissa corrected.

And so the game continued into the night. Some small secrets revealed and many ridiculous dares completed. When an alarm went off on Emile’s phone everyone groaned loudly. He gave Remy a gentle peck on the cheek and they continued playing.

“Who wants to stay the night?” Narcissa asked with a yawn. Roman and Virgil both quickly volunteered while everyone else gave regretful glances. Patton sunk in on himself slightly.

“I, uh, need a ride home,” Patton said quietly.

“You live by Emile, right?” He nodded. “Cool, I can drive you.”

“If I may be at your mercy as well-“

“Yes, Logan, I’ll drive you home. If you don’t mind stopping by my place for a few minutes first. I need your input on something.”

“Oh?” Emile asked curiously.

“You’re not getting anything out of me,” Remy stated.

Emile moved closer, putting his hand on Remy’s knee and slowly dragging his fingers towards his hip. “Anything?” Emile asked innocently, pressing his body against Remy’s.

Narcissa pointed at Remy’s dick. “If that gets hard I swear to fuck I’m banning you from my house again.”

“We’ll have more fun at my house anyway,” Remy said with a smirk.

Virgil put his hands over his ears. “LA LA LA I DON’T HEAR ANYTHING NOPE NOTHING IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW.”

“Oh please,” Remy groaned. “You’re not the only one here who has to deal with people in this room wanting to suck your cousin’s dick.”

“Patton,” Narcissa said. “Can you help me bring the boxes downstairs?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he uttered, grabbing two empty boxes into his arms. Once they were in the kitchen, Narcissa put the boxes on the stove and gently laid a hand on Patton’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I saw Remy get under your skin a little- he doesn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure he doesn’t even know.”

“Remy’s... fine,” Patton said. “I’m just a little paranoid.”

“And that’s okay,” she said. “But I want you to know you’re safe here. Obviously, no one is going to ask you to disclose that information, but if you ever did, you’re one of us now and that means we’re going to support you. All of us.”

“How did you, you know, talk to them about it?” Patton asked shyly.

Narcissa smiled, soft and genuine. It was the first time Patton saw her as anything other than another scary upperclassman. “I know I give Remy a lot of shit but, if not for him and Roman, I don’t know if I ever would have come out. But they helped me,” she explained. “Remy’s easy. He makes it all seem so effortless, you know, using the right name and pronouns.”

“And Roman?” he asked nervously.

“Roman helped make me who I am. He’s the reason I stayed in chorus. He’s the reason I came out to my parents and why I get to be myself today.” Her smile grew a bit brighter. “I’d do anything for him.” She leaned in closer to him and whispered, “Plus, it was nice knowing Roman’s charm had no ulterior motivation.”

“Motivation?” Patton asked.

Narcissa grabbed the boxes from the stove and winked at Remy who stood at the base of the stairs. “I think that’s a story for another party,” she teased. “Preferably one with more alcohol.”

“Um, yeah,” Patton mumbled.

“Almost ready?” Remy called out.

“Emile’s a lucky guy,” was all she said. “Goodnight, Patton.”

Patton was faced with the familiar feeling of reading a new book, gears turning as the reader is faced with unfamiliar worlds and characters. Narcissa was something far greater than a new protagonist; she was something mysterious and fantastical, a great dragon hiding far from the edge of the kingdom.

He got into Remy’s car, sitting in the back with Logan. It was a silent drive, Remy preferring to have the radio off to stay focused on the road, with only the sound of the wind coming from the small way Emile’s window was cracked open and the gentle tapping of Logan’s fingers against his book bag. Patton held his bag to his chest, growing desperate to take off his binder. It was calming and peaceful, a state of tranquility men have killed to achieve.

When they pulled in to Emile’s driveway, Remy walked him to the front door. Patton and Logan watched in silence as the two lovers held hands tightly and pressed a gentle kiss to each other’s lips. It wasn’t as passionate and hungry as they usually were in public and Patton almost felt awful for looking, yet the tender moments of domesticity are what draw us in and capture our hearts. Patton couldn’t look away until they were once more two separate individuals.

“I imagine we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other,” Logan said stoically.

“That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

Logan let out a laugh, but no joy or humor, and twisted his face in such a way that was unreadable in the shadows of the car. “Friends,” Logan repeated. Patton felt a tug at his heart that he couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was he was feeling, he certainly wasn’t a fan. “It’s... nice, I suppose, all four of us being in the same room with no powers or arcane beings to worry about.”

“Oh! Speaking of, Morality-”

Logan pressed a finger to Patton’s lips to silence him. “I was just commenting on how nice this break is. Please do not disrupt that, this is not the time for us to be heroes.”

“Right,” Patton said. “Sorry, Logan.”

Remy and Emile met for one final kiss as Emile unlocked his front door with his free hand. They said their goodbyes and goodnight wishes as Emile disappeared behind the door.

“Do not apologize, Patton,” he instructed.

Remy got back into the car and the rest of the evening was silent, peaceful. The rest of the evening was what men kill for.

[promiscuous-jalapeno]

Songbird-Ch.2

Mystic Messenger Mafia AU

║ch1║║ch3║║ch4║║ch5║║ch6║

Word Count: 2,758

[VIOLENCE]

     The night air blew a rather unpleasant chill up your skirt, and you squinted to gaze at the neon sign just above you. The Stranger Lounge, one of the hottest joints in town, and your destination for the evening.

     “Hey there, dolly,” a sandy-haired boy called over to you as he leaned against the brick wall of the place, snapping his suspenders with a wink.

     You paid him no mind as you opened the door and stepped inside. The cigar smoke hit you as hard as the music. There was laughter and chit chat from men and women alike throughout the space. Girlies with feather fans were dancing on stage for a sea of small white round tables, covered in a cream colored cloth. Along the back wall were large U-shaped booths, for the more distinguished clientele. Men in suits with fat cigars stuck between their lips laughed with young beautiful women. This is where married men came to play, and the object of their fantasies came to make a quick buck, or at least earn a new fur coat.

     It was a rambunctious space, but it wasn’t where the action was. Oh, no. For the select few in the know, there was a much better spot. It lay below, hidden in the basement of this establishment. You made your way around tables of obnoxious cackling men and doe-eyed girls all clapping as the dancers kicked their legs in the air. Down a hallway and passed the kitchen where the laughter and music was drowned by the clanking of dishes and yelling of the cooks.

     “God damn it, Jimmie! Where the fuck are my steaks?! You killin' the cow yourself you slow son of…” their voices trailed as you walked further.

     Through another hallway and finally to a set of stairs leading you down a low narrow corridor. At the bottom lay a heavy wooden door. And behind that door lay criminals. Always the same familiar dryness in your throat as you took each step into the darkness. The click of your heels echoed off of the cold brick, counting down your last minute before entering this proverbial lions den.

     In the distance you could see a couple standing at the base of the steps. The metal slot of the door scraped open hard and a set of eyes leered through the slit.

     “Cat’s miaow,” you heard the fella say confidently and then smile to his girl. The grate slid shut with a bang and then there was silence.

     “Hey!” he began to bang on the door until it opened once again, “cat’s miaow! That was the password last week!”

     “Well, it ain’t last week no more, is it? So scram!” the gravelly voice spoke from behind the door.

     He pulled the girl back up the stairs, muttering curses under his breath and brushing into you as you passed each other.

     “But Johnny, you said-“ she whined and his face got red.

     “I know what I said, okay?!”

      The password to get in was ever-changing. This helped keep out any unfavorable people who had somehow managed to get in. But for those special few, such as yourself, you had a card. This could be shown at the door and allow you to gain entrance no matter what. Most of the carriers were gangsters and the affiliates of such. People you wouldn’t want to upset by making them figure out through the grape-vine how to get in.

     You fumbled through your handbag at the door, looking for the card when you heard the clicking of locks. The door creaked open to the sound of a familiar jazz band playing and the thumping of half-full glasses on the bar top.

     “I know who you are, no n-need for that, Miss,” the doorman tipped his hat to you as walked through the smoky interior.

     The ceiling was low and the lights were dim. A few warm bodies bumped against you and you found yourself seated at the L-shaped bar. The counter was slightly wet and you pulled your hands back to avoid it. A sea of brightly colored liquor bottles lined some shelves all the way up to the ceiling. Some of them, you imagined, worth more than you made in the last few months combined.

     “Sorry about that, little lady,” the handsome owner swiped a rag in front of you to clean the mess.

     You swiveled in your stool to watch the band play for a moment. The music from the instruments vibrated in your chest and you smiled watching the crowd of men and women drunkenly dance away in front of the stage.

     “Gunna dance a bit?” he asked you.

     “Not tonight, Zenny,” you sighed and faced his red eyes once more.

     “A drink, then?” he pulled a clean glass from underneath and set it in front of you with a smile.

     “You know I can’t stand that coffin varnish,” you laughed.

     He had known, of course. Instead, he was pouring you some water in the glass. A white bandage was wrapped around his knuckles and he slid it towards you, the ice clinking.

     “Hey! How’s that hand? It looks brand new, already,” you exclaimed.

     Just two days before he had been in a tussle with another man bent on causing a raucous. Zen wiped the floor with him, but his hand had been badly hurt. You’d never even know, watching him work the bar tonight as he was.

     “Ah, it’s nothing,” he rubbed his hand, “bandage is basically for show at this point. I’m all healed, really.”

     Beneath that warm and charming smile was a tough guy. A character who grew up on the streets and made his way in life by understanding respect and hard work. And on top of that, he had a beautiful singing voice. Girl from all over town flocked to watch him at the mic, making their dates jealous as they got moon-eyed over him.

     It was strange, to like someone like Zen. In any other scenario you would have him arrested. But here you were, sitting in this blind pig he ran, laughing with him. Having connections with the very people you set out to investigate was not something you had planned for. Often, you lay awake at night pondering whether or not you could really see this thing through. Could you sit across someone like Zen in that courtroom, your finger pointing towards him as he sat in shackles? All eyes on you, all ears listening to your testimony. You let the water swill in your mouth for a bit before swallowing it along with the thoughts and anxieties that had built up in the moment.

     “They’re in the back room, waiting for you I’m sure,” he mentioned while filling up another man’s glass.

     “Yeah, waiting for me to bring the drinks,” you said with sarcasm.

     “Hey, what do we always say? There could be worse things. For people like us, there could be worse things,” he replied.

     He wasn’t wrong. Just remembering the bullet from the other night had you suddenly delighted to carry a tray of jag juice around for the men.

     “Butt me?” you asked.

     He pulled a cigarette for you and lit it when you placed it between your lips. You gave him a wave before heading off through the crowds and into another room. Although the music carried through, there was no dancing here. Only gambling and heavy drinking. In the center of the room you saw Saeyoung seated in his usual spot at the table, holding a hand full of cards while puffing from a strong cigar with a smirk.

     Yoosung stood along the wall but rushed to greet you as you walked through. You took a seat on a nearby plush chair and blew a puff of smoke.

     “There you are!” Yoosung smiled as he stood above you.

     “Here I am,” you grinned back.

     “They’re in good spirits tonight, I think.”

     They, meaning Mad Hatter and the rest of the gang at the card table. Some of them were Capos for the family, you knew that from all you had researched. Others were local business owners who occasionally did work for the outfit. You could scan the room and put a name to each face. Except one…a younger looking male holding a drink tray was standing in a corner.

     His thick dark hair and quivering nature had you unsettled. While everyone seemed to be enjoying the night, he seemed to do not much but stare at the card table. You took another drag of your cigarette and narrowed your eyes onto him, inquisitively.

     “Who’s that?” you asked Yoosung.

     “I’m not sure. He seems pretty quiet. I think Zen might’a hired him? Pretty shy, but can you blame him?” he shrugged.

     “Lucky! We’re thirsty,” Saeyoung taunted from the table.

     Yoosung jumped up to grab his tray of glasses while the men threw more money onto the table and carried on with their conversations.

     “You take a drink, first,” Saeyoung gestured to a full glass and urged Yoosung to drink.

      “No…I don’t…” Yoosung shrunk into himself at the thought.

     “Come on, be a man and drink with us, Lucky!” he pat Yoosung on the back roughly and caused him to choke on the liquid.

     Everyone was laughing at Yoosung’s face, he was clearly trying not to spit out the harsh alcohol burning his throat and lungs.

     “Get outta here,” Saeyoung laughed, only to trip him as Yoosung tried to walk away from the table.

     A few of the drink glasses spilled on the carpet as he tumbled and the table was roaring. You tossed your cigarette in a nearby abandoned glass, going to help Yoosung clean up the mess, when Saeyoung spoke in a more serious tone.

      “You aren’t laughing,” and as he spoke the space went still and quiet. The only sound being the band from the other room who simultaneously picked up the pace with a new song.

     At first you thought he was looking to you. Your heart went into your throat and you froze, only to see him looking directly behind you at the dark haired boy.

     “Was that not funny enough for you? Are you worried for poor Lucky, here?” he took the cigar from between his teeth and with a smirk pointed it towards Yoosung who had straightened all the glasses and was picking up bits of ice. “Lucky, come here. You’re alright, aren’t you?”

     Yoosung ran to his side with a nod. Saeyoung puffed on his cigar for a moment before clenching it in his teeth once more. He smiled and pretended to dust Yoosung off, straightening his bow tie and vest for him.

     “See? Kid’s alright,” Saeyoung held his palms open as if he was showing Yoosung off to the room.

     The boy said nothing. You stood only a few feet from him now and could see his eyes were unblinking. His hands trembled slightly at his sides as if he was deciding to reach into his pocket or not.

     “You’ve been staring at me all night. If you keep staring without saying anything I’m going to pluck your eyes out of your fucking skull,” he took a swig from his glass and sighed.

     The room was thick with tension now. Everybody was staring at this boy, Yoosung’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t be more than 15. He was small and skinny, his eyes were still that of a child. His lips were moving but his words were a whisper. If you hadn’t been so close you wouldn’t have caught some of his mumbling.

     “Killed him…killed my dad,” the boys voice was hoarse and quivering. He had a crazed look in his eyes.

     His fingers slowly reached for his hip and you took a quick breath when you glimpsed the outline of a gun. Your eyes flashed to Saeyoung who was making a move of his own. Of course, he wasn’t a fool. But you had to do something. Lifting your skirt you whipped your own gun out and brought it down with a rich thud to the back of the kids skull. He went hurling to the ground on his knees and you kicked him in the side. Not too hard, but hard enough.

     “I think this kid’s bent,” you played it off, “probably been sneaking drinks all night. Come on, you. Time to go home,” you heaved and picked him up by the collar, dragging him towards the back door and into the alley.

     Your heart was racing and you tried to keep your hands from shaking so much after you let him loose. Bending down you got close enough to whisper.

     “You bitch. He killed my pop,” he said angrily through tears.

“Go home. Kiss your mama. You have no idea what you almost got yourself into,” you stood up, “don’t be such a dummy. You have to take care of your family now.”

     You left him out there and walked back inside, glad to hear that the normal chatter has resumed.

     “He wants to see you,” one of Saeyoung’s body guards appeared from your side and nodded his head in a gesture to follow him.

     The room looked like an office. You’d never seen it before, perhaps where they did the book keeping. What you wouldn’t give for a few minutes alone in there to read through some of the documents. You made a mental note of where it was. Perhaps one day, if Zen let you in. Maybe if you said you forgot something…If they had names, any names at all to connect them to other syndicates and families, or to where this booze was coming from…

     The red haired man stood up from a chair and walked until he was arms length in front of you. Very rarely had you been so close to him. Only now could you see just how handsome he really was. How could someone so cruel be so good looking?

     “How do you know that kid?” he asked with a dull face.

     “I don’t,” which was the truth.

     “And I don’t believe you. He’s about to pull a gun on me and you saved him anyway? Don’t lie to me,” he smiled, his gloved fingers traced your jaw line for a moment, “do you know who sent him, maybe? Maybe you did, and gave him a whack when you got cold feet?”

     His hand now had a grip on your jaw, and you realized he had been pushing you back and now had you pressed between him and a wall. The tips of his fingers pressed in further and he tilted his head while looking at you with a curious grin. Your chest was beating so hard you could almost swear everyone in the room could hear it, but you knew it was only your imagination.

     “If you get your paws off me, I could talk to you,” you spit back, not knowing where this fire was coming from.

      The few men in the room made an ‘ooh’ sound and a few chuckled at Saeyoung being had. He moved his face closer to yours, looking deep into your eyes as he released his fingers.

     “She may be cute as a kitten but this one has claws, boys!” he laughed and stepped away.

     They were all smiling as well. It was like being part of a joke you knew nothing about. You straightened your headband and took a quiet deep breath.

        “I’m just fucking with you,” he took his hat off and ran his hand through his red hair as he leaned on the front of the desk with a smile, “I know who that kid is. Oh! I see that look on your face. Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’m not going to do anything to him. He’s just a squirt, right?”

     The men all seemed to relax again and some even lit up a smoke as they sat down in their chairs.

     “There’s something about you. I don’t know what it is, but I like you. You’re observant. And you’ve got a kick to you,” he brought a glass of hooch over and placed it in your hand.

     Even the smell was strong enough to knock you back on your butt. You let it wet your lips but nothing more. Was the underboss…inviting you to drink with him?

     “Anyway, I’ve got your nickname figured out,” he adjusted the flower on your headband with delicate fingers, “I’m going to call you Kitty.”

[undertheaethier]

GoV Ch. 2: Warm Brownies

“Hey. How’d the meeting go?”

“Fine. I have a house now.”

Daphne looked over at me from the couch with half a Dorito sticking out of her mouth. “Uh. What?”

“You know. My parents left our house to my great uncle. I’m his only inheritor. So it’s mine.” I dropped my keys in their place and slid off my shoes again.

“Right, but like, it’s not yours yet, right?”

I shook my head. “It is, actually. He changed the paperwork in my name weeks ago. Without telling me.”

“Seriously? That’s crazy. I mean, good for him, though, working around the system. Down with the man. Your uncle sounded cool. And the house? That’s a good thing, right? Wasn’t it where you grew up?”

“Yeah,” I said tiredly. “But honestly, I think I’m just going to sell it.”

“What?” Daphne sounded honestly shocked, almost concerned.

I knew. It made very little sense to sell the place. Being only twenty, having a house in my name that was already paid off and had sentimental value to me sounded like I’d hit the jackpot. I knew tons of people in my situation would kill to be handed a house. But I hadn’t been there in years. There was no promise the place wasn’t rundown and crummy now (I didn’t know Great Uncle Ward’s habits) and I wasn’t sure I could ever really want to live there again. For, like, emotional reasons.

“Yeah. I went through the process with my grandparents’ house, and it’ll take a while, but that’s just what I want to do.”

Daphne just nodded and ate another Dorito ponderously. “Well, I mean, I guess that’s your thing, so. Glad you’re not leaving me, buddy.” She gave me a little smile.

I’d figured she would be more worried about the issue of me possibly not wanting to live with her once I had my own house. That was fine, it was a big worry. But I had no intention of abandoning her with the apartment--even if I was going to choose to keep the house, I would at least help her find someone to sublease, I wasn’t an animal. I shrugged off the implicit attack to my character and smiled back.

“Okay, naptime now,” I declared. She laughed and let me walk away.

Once in my room, I pulled the curtains over the windows. I took off my dress and my bra, and immediately threw myself under the covers, sinking into the bed.

I would probably sell most of the stuff Ward left me. I didn’t need his car: my sedan was newer and less expensive to repair than his old truck. If I was selling the house, I didn’t need the furniture, either. I would donate whatever was left, probably clothes and knick knacks and stuff. Just because I had gotten all of these things didn’t mean I wanted or needed any of them, and really, I wanted all of this over with. If all of my family was gone, then it was time to move forward. I could make my own family. Most people got married, so like, it was possible, even probable, for me too. Probably. Maybe I needed to make a Tinder profile…

In any case. This loneliness was an opportunity to start over. As I felt myself drift off, I decided: it was time for a new and improved Emrys Spencer.

Being new and improved didn’t necessarily start the next morning as soon as my phone alarm went off. But that was okay, these things took time. Daphne had gone out the night before and texted me she wouldn’t be back until this evening. That was pretty usual for her on the weekends; usually she left Friday night and returned sometime around brunch time on Sunday, if not later. I had half a thought to stay home and clean the apartment, but doing my usual Sunday routine was not “new and improved” Emrys, it was still “day in, day out” Emrys. I could do better than that.

I was going to go see the house. Whatever Ward had changed, whatever parts were falling apart, I could probably fix or hire someone to fix. I wasn’t anxious to start contacting the old realtor, Betsy Vanderwall. Though she was a great realtor and had been a big help with my grandparents’ house, I wanted to scope out the place for myself, start organizing what to detain, donate, and ditch, and figure out what would need help before the place could go on the market.

I hadn’t been to my childhood home since I’d left it, when I was twelve. When I’d packed up my things and Grandpa and Great-Uncle Ward loaded them into the truck to take them across town. I was desperately hoping that being back in the house wouldn’t make me overly emotional, but that was another good reason to go alone, just in case the eye fountains started flowing.

I packed a couple of moving boxes and a package of garbage bags into my car, then set out, the house key I hadn’t used in years stowed in my pocket.

It was just as I’d remembered it. The red brick house stood two stories tall plus an attic, and had an imposing, but homey look to it. A round window in the attic acted like an eye, peeking out over the neighborhood through the two evergreen trees that grew in the front lawn. The flower beds were mostly empty except for what had decided to grow there without human aid, and a couple of bushes stood comfortably on either side of the front walkway. On the side of the house in the driveway, Ward’s old truck sat, like a faithful dog waiting for its master. I cast it a pitying glance.

Nothing about the outside of the house seemed out of sorts. There was a wasp nest under one of the second-story windows, and that was not going to fly, but any damage was probably on the inside.

I unlocked and opened the door and had to pause. It smelled exactly the same. It was a mix of one of my mom’s flowery perfumes, my dad’s aftershave, a pine furniture polish, and almond-scented hand soap. Was I imagining it? The house couldn’t have maintained that distinct mix of smells for eight years. As if no one else had lived in it, as if conditions had stayed exactly the same as they’d been on the morning I’d woken up to six missed calls and Grandma at the door, calling for me, sobbing.

There wasn’t a single noise from inside the house, just a couple of birds outside and a dog down the street. Nothing yet creaked or rustled. The air was still.

Nothing in the foyer or front sitting room had appeared to have been changed, even moved. The settee and rocking chair sat dutifully in their spots. The curtains were the same blue and green floral pattern. The gray carpet was vacuumed and mostly clean, but I noticed a purple stain: one I’d made at five years old when I’d tripped over our cat Wilhelm and spilled grape juice on the floor. Mom had been upset, Wilhelm more so.

The kitchen, too, felt untouched. The red wall paint wasn’t at all faded. Every dish was where I last remembered them being placed, but were all without dust or stains. The whole room was sparkling clean, from the stove racks to the counters to the floors. Had Great Uncle Ward been hiring a maid? I wouldn’t have expected an eighty-year-old man to have kept the place so clean… I set down my purse and keys on the counter and cautiously proceeded.

I finally found a foreign object in the living room. Among the green, plush furniture I remembered, the red curtains I’d hidden in during hide and seek, and the mahogany coffee table that had been my tea table and my teddy bear operating table, I found a plaid blanket I didn’t recognize, and a blood pressure cuff. I opened up the curtains and headed to the guest room.

This must have been the bedroom Ward used, which made sense. Though he’d had the master bedroom available to him, it was up on the second floor with mine. This one would have been much more easily accessible.

It was decorated simply, with most of the things in the room being white and green, and the only furniture was a bed and a dresser, the way Dad had set them up. Above the dresser hung an old picture, black and white and faded, that I’d seen often in Grandpa’s scrapbooks: it was Alfred--Grandpa--and Ward, and their older brother Harry, before he’d gone off to war. There were boxes of things, like Ward had considered moving his belongings but had changed his mind. Two boxes were full of fantasy novels and literature textbooks. Huh. He really had been like my parents. I was pretty sure they’d owned a lot of the same books.

With that thought, I toughened myself up and went back to the foyer to climb the stairs to the second floor.

The door to my room was closed, which was old-house code for “dusty.” I carefully entered and was surprised again for multiple reasons. Firstly, this room was spotless, too. No dust, no cobwebs, and no signs of mold, mildew, or cracks in the walls. Secondly, this room was also almost exactly as I’d left it. The walls (and most of the decor, like the curtains and the bedclothes) were pale pink, my white furniture was in the same positions they’d occupied eight years ago, and my posters and paintings of fairy tale scenes and castles had been left on the walls. Things I’d remembered intentionally leaving behind, like certain toys and clothes, were organized and put away like my mother had often begged me to do.

For a moment, I was emotional. I found that I missed the twelve-year-old me who had lived in this room, who hadn’t been a cynic, but a dreamer; who hadn’t shied away from frivolity, but had embraced pretty, senseless things; who had known disappointment and hurt, but not the pain. Despite what I may have thought of my life and circumstances at that age, I hadn’t been nearly as happy in the last eight years as I had been at twelve. I wished I could go back and warn myself: Appreciate it, you brat! These things are so easily broken and ruined.

To be honest with myself, however, I liked who I was as a person. I had a lot of regrets, and a lot of flaws, but I was good. I was smart, and a supportive friend, and I was determined. I was a year from being done with a linguistics degree and I was still passionate about it. I could speak English, Spanish, French, German, Arabic, Russian, Latin, and Greek, and was working on another two: Korean and Mandarin. I took a great pride in being able to speak and read so many languages, and I was excited to use them. I didn’t know what my future held for me exactly, but I was happy to find out, and I looked forward to using my passion somehow.

I might not have had very many friends--Daphne and I weren’t close, and my best friends from high school, Chelsea and Aspen, had gone out of state for college--but I had a couple of good acquaintances in my classes, like Gordon in my Mandarin class, and Sarah and Melanie in my Principles of Language class. I valued their company and they valued mine. I knew I couldn’t be bad if I could spend my time with acquaintances who were such good people.

Still. I might have killed for the opportunity to feel as innocent and free as I had the last time I’d slept in this room.

Vowing to return and sift through my old belongings later, if only to sort them into piles for donating, I took a breath and entered my parents’ room.

By this time, I wasn’t startled at the dust-free surfaces and home-decor-magazine perfection of the room.

What got me was their smell, amplified by the presence of their belongings. My nose stung and I looked around the room with blurry eyes.

A picture of the three of us hung right between the door to the hall and the closet. I’d been...eight? I think. Mom was wearing a horrible blue top that Grandma had bought for her for her birthday. There were circles under Dad’s eyes. My hair was tangled. But we looked happy.

The four-poster bed was covered in a red and cream-colored quilt with embroidered flowers and leaves. The dresser stood proud opposite it, with a TV (now horribly outdated and considerably boxy) standing on top. There were picture frames, books, and other belongings sitting around on the dresser and the bedside tables. Mom’s favorite spot, a long, soft cushion over a window seat, sat like it was still waiting. She’d liked to read there when she needed space, and especially when it rained. There was storage underneath it, equipped with an arbitrary, albeit very pretty lock--Mom had always just kept books in there, and not even scandalous ones.

I peeked into the bathroom and found it in good order. Some of their old things were still sitting on the vanity, half-empty perfume bottles and cans of hairspray on Mom’s side, and mostly-full cologne bottles and the lotions Dad had used for his dry hands on his side.  

Everything was how I remembered it, down to the detail. It was like I was twelve again, and even though I was angry at them, I’d be glad to have them back in the house, back in the room with their luggage poorly packed and thrown haphazardly on the bed or the floor. I would have grumbled that I hadn’t missed them, but I’d hug them as Dad promised they’d brought gifts and they were sorry they’d missed my--whatever it was. A violin concert, a poetry reading, a parent night at school. I would have accepted their gifts with an ungrateful preteen grace, and told them about whatever had happened in the few days they’d been gone, what Wilhelm had torn up or about my grade in English.

I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt a tear fall down onto my shirt. As soon as I was aware, however, I let the dam break. I threw myself onto the bed and held onto one of the pillows, letting Mom’s flowery scent embrace me. I cried and for the thousandth time, I regretted every horrible thing I’d ever said to them.

They’d just been gone so often. They taught at a university only a short drive across town, but they’d traveled for conferences and research and other academic things, and at twelve, I felt like they were missing my whole life. They were either working, or at the school, or in another country. I never felt like they were here, with me. In retrospect, of course, I knew they’d cared about me. I knew they were trying. I wasn’t so ignorant and short-sighted to think that they’d never loved me. But at the time, it had felt like all they cared about was work. They only cared about their stupid faerie tales and their literary analysis studies. They’d left me on my own or with my grandparents so often, I’d wondered if they’d even wanted me at all.

I’d accused them of it once. I’d told them that I knew they didn’t care about me, that I knew they wanted to pretend they didn’t have a child and go parading around Europe like they had nothing to hold them down here, in the States. I told them that I hated them, too, and that the first chance I got, I would be leaving so I could live with people who cared about me.

Mom had cried.

Dad had tried to explain, but he got so easily frustrated with me, and couldn’t make himself say whatever he wanted to say. He was like that a lot when talking to me.

I’d run to my room and slammed the door and flung myself on my bed just like I’d done now, in my parents’ room, and I’d cried and silently bemoaned my circumstances. Why couldn’t I have a family that loved me? Or at least siblings to suffer alongside me? Why couldn’t my parents just love me enough to stay?

I hadn’t seen them off. They’d left me a gift: a silver key-shaped charm on a silver chain, left in a box with a note that said We love you. You are the key to your own destiny. Unlock it bravely. Mom had texted me from the airport to say they were boarding, and I didn’t respond. They were only supposed to be in Berlin for three days, for a conference. A short trip, compared to some of their research trips. I planned to apologize to them when they got back, and things would have been fine again, for a while.

They never got back.

Their first night in Berlin, they were killed in their hotel room, their suitcases stolen. Mom’s purse had had their papers and her wallet. The police had contacted the embassy, who contacted my grandparents, who woke me up the next day with crumpled hearts and faces.

How cliche, how stupid, that I’d had such an argument with them like that. Had I been a little more mature, a little more even-tempered, I might still have had dead parents, but my regrets would be rosier: I’d regret them not being able to come to my wedding, or see me graduate college, instead of regretting having told them I hated them.

Now, I knew, they hadn’t believed that. I knew they knew I loved them. I could almost hear what Mom would have told me once I’d apologized: “It’s alright, sweetie. We know you didn’t mean it. You were angry because you were feeling unloved, and that’s fair. We know you were only angry because you love us so much. And we love you, too.”

I would have believed it. Until the next time they left, when I would forget it, and get angry again, and make them feel guilty for missing my next event. Preteens are a little bit predictable that way.

I’d had no reason to hate my parents. No real reason. Sometimes, during the summer or winter break, they’d take me with them. With Mom and Dad, I’d gotten to see Munich sparkling at Christmas, and Salzburg in the summer, with the sun reflecting off the river and the castle crowning the city. I’d visited Paris, London, Brussels, Tokyo, Cairo, and Venice. When I’d saved up enough scholarship money to afford my study abroad trip to Spain my first year in college, I’d celebrated in the Madrid sunshine and then collapsed into sadness, wishing Mom and Dad were there with me. Wondering if they’d seen the same things I did. Wondering if we would have ever gone together, if their work on faerie tales and folk lore would have ever brought them here. Wondering how many other places I might see without them.

I hadn’t allowed myself to cry like that again until now. The pillow I held was a poor sponge, and an even poorer replacement for my parents.

I’d planned on only looking around the house for an hour or two, making notes and plans. But now I thought I might want to stay the rest of the day, in this bed, crying myself out. Just the thought made me cry harder, simultaneously comforted and saddened.

I was twisting around to grab another pillow when I heard a distinct thud and a quick whoosh sound coming from above. Probably just a squirrel on the roof, but--thud. Again. Directly above.

Shit. The attic.

I gathered myself together and wiped my face dry, getting rid of most of my makeup in the process, and ran down into the garage--also spotless, gardening tools and sporting equipment stacked neatly on collapsible shelves and bikes hanging from the ceiling--to get a broom. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Probably a raccoon, or an opossum, who’d been slowly chewing through the insulation until they’d made a nice nest in the attic in which to have babies. Gross. I’d chase them out through their stupid hole, and cover it with something until I could call someone about it.

The attic was large enough to have two entrances on the second floor, one by my parents’ bedroom, a closet with a staircase inside that led up, and one by my old bathroom, which just had a fold-down ladder. The staircase was much less dangerous, so I took that, and carefully climbed up, wielding the broom like a lightsaber. At the top was another door that led directly into the attic, an attempt to further insulate, and I turned the knob slowly, readying myself to leap at the first sign of a bushy tail as the door swung open.

I was so stunned, I couldn’t move. I swore my heart stopped beating. What. The--

The spacious attic was a place I’d hardly ever visited as a child. I only had a few memories of the round window and retrieving boxes of Christmas decorations. I think it was because Dad said the floor had started to rot at some point, and he was nervous about me playing up here. As I looked around, I saw no sign of a rotting floor at all, but I did see about ten small people looking up at me with round, alien eyes.

They were about the size of garden gnomes, and with about the same general body shape of healthily plump stomachs and stubby, but able limbs. Their skin came in a variety of colors, from a deep, warm brown to a bright green. One was even kind of turquoise. Some looked distinctly male or female, with beards and other facial hair, or pretty cotton dresses covering ample bosoms, but others were more androgynous. The trait they all shared were their eyes, which were large, round, and a glassy blue color, with no whites or pupils. They were exceedingly unsettling, and I felt myself growing a little faint when one in a dress chirped excitedly, “Emrys!”

I still couldn’t move, but I screamed. The little gnome-thing saying my name was somehow absolutely terrifying. I pondered whacking that one with the broom first.

A few of the creatures screamed back at me, and at the shrill noise it caused, I screamed again. 

“Emrys?” The creature looked almost worried.

My hands shook around the broom, and I decided escape was a surer method. I dropped the broom on the ground and turned to yank the door open wider, but the blue-eyed gnome-things beat me, and two of them shut the door while three more took the broom away. I staggered backwards and swallowed another scream.

“What--what the hell are you? Wh-why are you in the attic?” I stuttered, trying to keep my eyes on all of them at once.

Another gnome-thing wearing a tiny t-shirt and cargo shorts came forward with raised hands. “Emrys! Alles okay, keine Panik! Bitte hab keine Angst!”

German. German? Okay. I switched to German.

“What the hell are you and what are you doing in the attic?” I demanded again in my second-most familiar language. It’d been awhile since I had a practical reason to use it.  

“Emrys!” said another. “What’s the matter? You don’t remember us?”

“Uh--no?” I didn’t remember anyone putting a living curse on a bunch of lawn ornaments and sticking them up in the attic, no.

“But we’ve been waiting for you!” said another, looking distraught.

“Goodness gracious, Georg, you can’t tell her something like that! What’s wrong with you? You sound like a serial killer in one of those movies!” a gnome-thing said in a high-pitched, worried voice.

“I’m sorry,” said Georg, still looking upset. “But we have been! We thought you would come back earlier, but we were sure that when Ward passed, you’d be back immediately!”

“Ward? You mean--you knew my uncle?”

“Well of course we knew him, girl, think!” commanded one of the things, her voice gruff but feminine. “We’ve been living in this house almost as long as you’ve been alive, you thought we didn’t know the man living here for the past eight years?”

My mind was completely blank. What the hell was happening. Had some of Daphne’s drugs somehow gotten into my coffee that morning? She wasn’t a habitual user, but maybe it was possible. I wished I knew more about drugs, to be certain.

“I think she really doesn’t remember,” whispered one of the others behind me.

“Poor dear. We’ll have to explain,” said another.

“Please?” I asked. My voice sounded shaky and pitiful.

“Here, take a seat, Emrys.” One of the gnome-things was at my ankle, tugging at the hem of my leggings. He pointed to an old armchair that sat in the corner by a bunch of boxes.

I decided not to argue, and let the thing lead me to the chair. I took a seat carefully, but the chair felt sturdy and clean. I finally took a look around the attic. There were a couple of large stacks of boxes, but nothing cluttered or messy-looking. There was a line of little beds by the largest stack, perfectly sized for the creatures, but probably originally built for dolls. Most surprisingly, at the end of the room stood a fairly large entertainment center, complete with wide, flat-screen TV, multiple gaming and video consoles, and a sizable collection of movies and video games. A few boxes formed a long table where little chairs had been organized, and on top of the table rested a couple of small electronic tablets and a few books. An old wardrobe near my chair was partially open, and inside I could see stores of non-perishable food, and what looked like little clothes.

The creature that had led me to the chair sat before it and put a gentle little hand on my shoe. “You really don’t remember us, Emrys?”

I shook my head. “What are you?”

“We’re brownies, obviously,” answered another creature, the gruff one from before. “You know. Fae. We make contracts with humans and clean their homes in exchange for hospitality and--”

“Yeah, I--I know what a brownie is,” I said. My parents had told me stories about faeries since before I could remember. It was kind of their specialty. How could I not know what a brownie was?

“Well, technically, we’re called Heinzelmännchen,” said the one they’d called Georg. “We’re a special kind of brownie. We used to work for the city of Cologne.”

“‘Til the Great Pea Incident.” Another brownie sighed. “Man, screw that lady.”

“That’s where your parents found us,” Georg clarified. “They were doing research, and we heard them talking about their fairy tale studies. We thought it would be funny--you know, pop out and startle them, and hide away again.”

“But they were only a little bit surprised,” said the one at my foot. “We were kind of disappointed. We stayed with them while they were in Cologne, and when they were about to leave, they asked if we wanted to come with them.”

“We hadn't made a contract in decades, so we decided to accept!” chirped the high-pitched one. “And we came here and lived with them. It was probably two or three years before you were born. We had so much fun decorating your nursery with them!”

“Wait, wait, you’re telling me my parents knew about you--about faeries? They found actual faeries?” I asked disbelievingly. I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t have told me they’d found actual faeries.

“Oh, they knew alright,” laughed Georg. “Better than most humans probably ever have.”

“That’s part of the reason we were okay with showing ourselves to them. They already had such respect for us. And they were very kind.” One of the brownies, the turquoise one, sighed a little. “Of course, they wanted to study us, and ask us questions. But they never overstepped their boundaries, and they understood when we told them we couldn’t say more.”

“Nicest humans I’ve ever met,” agreed the gruff brownie.

“Probably the only nice humans!” said the one at my foot.

“And Ward. Did--did he know about you, too?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. We were…” The brownie with the higher-pitched voice sighed, and her voice broke. “We were very close friends.”

Georg went to embrace her as she began to cry. “It’s still a little hard. I’m sure you understand.”

I did--but I didn’t. Guilt clouded over me. These strange little creatures had known my great uncle better than I had. Had loved him. Had probably even…

“Was it you who took care of him? When he was older and sicker?”

“Yes,” confirmed the turquoise one. “We would help him find things he lost, or pick up things he dropped, or help cook for him when his arthritis was bad. We’ve watched enough Grey’s Anatomy to try to help him feel better.”

“Ward Spencer was a very kind man,” said Georg. “We’ve already put in a word with the council to have him posthumously named a Friend of the Fae, but since we hid the fact that he knew about us at all...”

“He was the only one who believed your parents about us,” said the gruff one in a softer tone than her usual. “The only one who could have, I guess.”

I remembered what Dr. Reid had said about Ward really believing in faeries. Huh. I guess he’d had a compelling reason to, after all. I almost wanted to laugh.

“When your parents died, he offered us another contract, so we could stay here. They’d left this house in his keeping, anyway, and we wanted to stay. He graciously allowed us to do so, and offered us use of anything in the house. He was sometimes even more accommodating than we were, and we’re brownies.”

That earned a chuckle from the brownie at my foot. “And now you’re here! And we can all get along the way we used to! Don’t worry, we’ll do the same things your parents and Ward asked of us. We’ll clean, and cook when we’re asked, and we’ll do any necessary repairs, and if you don’t have any friends, I guess we can hang out with you, too, though that may be stretching our job description a little far--”

“Oh, whoa,” I interrupted. “Uh--thanks, for the offer, but I’m not staying here.”

All of the brownies looked at me, startled. The one with the high-pitched voice stopped crying and looked at me from Georg’s embrace. “You're--not?”

“No, no! I have an apartment, and a roommate, and I’m locked in a contract for another few months, we were talking about renewing. I was just looking around to see what would have to be fixed up so I could sell it, but you guys have done a pretty great job--”

“Sell it?” shrieked one of the brownies. “You--you can’t sell this house!”

“I know, it’s got a lot of sentimental value, and with real estate being what it is, as a millennial, getting a house like this is almost a miracle, but I just don’t want it.” I tried to give them an apologetic look, but honestly, they were still freaking me out, and I didn’t really like them giving me life advice.

“No, you don’t understand!” said Georg. “When Ward gave us a contract, he reworded it from our original so that we could stay here if something happened to him. We weren’t technically even bonded to Ward, we were bonded to this house. We are bonded to this house. Indefinitely!”

“That’s what we wanted, after all, was to stay here for as long as we could! There’s still so much to learn about America, and the humans and the culture here. We want to stay!” chimed in another brownie.

“And we’ve seen dozens of HGTV shows. Not even the Property Brothers would be able to sell a house full of faeries.” The brownie by my foot crossed his arms as if to say So there.

Okay, yeah, that would be a real concern. I thought I was pretty good-looking, but I wasn’t nearly handsome enough to attempt something the Property Brothers couldn’t do. How was I going to be able to get rid of this place with the brownies in the attic?

...Did I want to get rid of this place?

I thought back to the intense nostalgia that had hit me in almost every room of the house. This house had preserved so many memories--the very smell of my parents, that I’d completely forgotten, and now the last memories of my great-uncle, who was turning out to have been much more interesting than I’d expected. This had been my home, once. There was still definitely something about it I loved. I could come to embrace the memories, even the regrets.

Nope, nope, nope, I was being brainwashed by garden gnomes.

I stood up, startling the little one at my foot. “Okay, no. No way. I am selling this house. Got it? No matter what. This is too--this is too much.” I looked into their startled blue eyes. Panic began to rise in me again as my mind flickered to stories of faeries, good- and ill-willed, that definitely did not--should not--could not exist. There had to be some crazy mold up here, but no brownies. No fae of any kind. Just me and the boxes.

“I have to go,” I murmured.

“Emrys, no, wait!”

“You’re not real,” I whispered to myself, trying to block out the voice.

I went to the door and, no matter how many of the things appeared to be attempting to block my path, I carefully stepped around them and held my ground.

“We are! We are real, Emrys, and you know it! You know better than to not believe in us!” Georg’s voice called behind me, getting quieter with distance.

I shut the attic door.

I took the stairs two at a time, their tiny voices calling behind me. I grabbed my purse and keys from the kitchen counter and almost ran out as I heard the door to the attic staircase open above me. My fingers shook as I took the key in my hand and quickly locked the front door. It took me even longer to unlock my car, then I shoved myself inside, and got out of the neighborhood as fast as I could.

[famousgalaxymusic]

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