the world's most famous crook

"Example A: Whoopie Pies. Delicious little cakes with...well, it's not exactly icing in the middle, I'm not actually sure what it is, some kind of sweet... thing. But! A PA Dutch delicacy! Don't even let someone tell you Maine invented them, they're full of it." Milo pointed out with a roll of his eyes.

Gently placing the treat back into the bag, he shrugged his shoulders. "I mean - they got everything. Chicken Pot Pie--- but like... pot pie, not pot pie like everyone seems to know it as? Like uh---- What I'm trying to say, it's more of a soup. Not a pie. So.. pot as in-- nevermind. Uh, Shoofly pie. Chicken and Waffles--- again, not the kind you're thinking. Apple Butter, Birch Beer. Chow Chow- though...I guess that falls under the pickled variety. And really, this is quite removed from Philly, so I'm not even being biased. It's just good."

James smiled, pleased to get rise out of the other– not that it was all that hard. Just had to give him a reason to defend his home land and suddenly out came the sword and shield. Not that James wasn't the same way about Swynlake. It was how he always saw anyone describe a sibling; Only I get to make fun of this thing because I know I'm doing it in good faith, as opposed to some goober who has no idea what they're talking about.

He had to squint at the thing that Milo pulled out of the bag. Whoopie pie? It looked more like some sort of chocolate scone to James, with the cream in the middle and everything. His brow wrinkled as Milo admitted to not knowing what the substance was between the layers but...yeah...it wasn't like James was checking the labels on his favorite snacks and treats before he was tossing them down the hatch either.

"Uh huh," James nodded, not at all convinced by that last statement. "And who's in charge of naming all these things because they hardly sound appetizing. Or accurate! You've just described something as a soup that's called a pie, and yet showed me something else that's supposedly a pie that looks like a fucked up Viennese Whirl?"

After the classics, it had been one of the first ones that she learned. She had liked the title: Pavane pour une infante défunte. Pavane for a dead princess, her father had translated for her. It was one of the first times she remembered having a language translated for her.

Pavane pour une infante defunte...it had sounded so much prettier in Italian and so, she had asked, sweetly, to learn Italian. And then, she'd learned French, German, Dutch...the list went on. But Italian would always be her second language. French may be the language of love, but Italian was the language of melody.

The song continued, switching into the minor key, sweet and high and mournful. When April had gotten older, she had realized that the song wasn't actually about a dead princess. It was a longing for a different time. She had thought that was stupid, who would want anything but the bright, wide open future?

She liked her story better: of a beautiful princess, trapped in a tower and rotting away, so only her skeleton was left when a prince came to find her.

Now, she understood the weight of nostalgia. She missed the golden summertimes of her youth. The uncomplicated joy in being young. With her twenties quickly approaching, all April wanted to do was turn back time. To when Poppy was alive. When her father was alive. When her parents were married and everything, seemed, at least, like it was happy.

The song dwindled down on a few last, sorrowful notes--held for several seconds.

And then, silence filled the store.

April wracked her brain for another song.

It was rare that the record shoppe was ever quiet. The workers usually left the music on when they left for the day, not loudly or anything, but it was eerie if the place was silent. Like a school with no kids or hospital with no patients or mall with no stores. It was built to be inhabited.

James had not moved throughout the song and remained still several seconds after the last night finally dwindled away. Much like Scat Cat's, he found it hard to find a moment's silence, and this one was a much needed space to digest what had just been consumed.

There was a mix of admiration and envy coursing through him. He knew that he would never, in his life, be able to play something that beautiful. His learned instrument hadn't really been built for that sort of delicacy– no matter how many towels were shoved into the drums to dampen the sound.

He knew he didn't have the capacity to harbor the tenderness needed to create something like that. James was his father's son, and was good for nothing but the brash, steady rhythm of the percussion section. She did, and he thought better of her for it, as well as wishing he could pry it from her fingers to take for his own. (Something else his father had taught him.)

When the silence continued James pushed off the counter, turning to see what was going on over at the piano. He half expected von Drake to be on her phone or something, but at the sight of her just sitting there he cleared his throat loud enough that she could hear from their opposite ends of the shoppe.

"Just what it says on the tin? Dude." Milo all but groaned in deep disappointment, as if James had insulted deep rooted heritage or something worse.

"It's--...." He trailed off for a moment, his lips pressing into a slight pout as he realized he'd... never actually had to explain what that was. Did he even know? "I mean -... it's uh-.. I think it's just the like... Dutch people who settled in PA like forever ago.. Or something. I don't know, they're usually like the Amish people but there's probably some kind of venn-diagram where you can be Amish but not PA dutch and vice versa." Milo said, his hands going up like he was holding two little orbs that he cycled back and forth before dropping entirely.

"...the important thing is they make good food. That's really the big one."

James held up his hands in mock surrender. By the sound of it, he thought Milo was about to go off on some long winded tangent to properly educate him.

...only that did not happen and James snorted at the attempted explanation, dropping his hands again. It sounded like it was one of those things where the knowledge just sorta came from growing up somewhere. That inherent information that was never a formal lesson, but more of an absorption from having been around it.

There was a fuck ton of that in Swynlake– it's tag line should have been, You had to be there. or IYKYK.

"Riiiiiiiiiight," he drawled. "I take it they've got more to their menu than just pickle brine, then? If their food is to be considered–" he held up his hands again to do air quotes, "–good."

April didn't want to be in the hotel.

She'd been sitting in the windowsill of their suite, smoking a joint. Her sisters were still at work, but she'd had off for the evening. Which meant she was alone. A place that April hated to be.

So, after she'd finished, she'd felt restless.

She put on a white button up over the cami she was wearing. It was hot as hell, but there was enough of a breeze now that the sun was down that it sent delightful shivers up her spine.

"C'mere, Porty." All three of the dogs, of course, jumped off the settee they'd been piled on. April reached down to scoop up hers from the litter and brought him out of the suite.

Out on the sidewalk, her feet turned her in the direction that she used to go all the time as a kid, when she felt that same loneliness creeping into her bones.

She pushed the door open to the record store, glad that it was open. She hadn't paid attention to the time and she had no idea what the record store's hours were these days. April didn't even pause as she moved towards the back of the store and leaned over to put Porty's leash under the leg of the piano bench.

Then, she sat down and began to play from memory.

James looked up when the door opened, the sound having long been ingrained into his system to elicit the reaction every single time. He was stood at one of the bins, putting out the last of the shipment that had come in earlier that morning.

As soon as he saw who it was coming in, his brain had started to prepare what he was going to say. A few opening lines were set out, as well as getting ready to bat back whatever she could have waiting for him. His tracked her as she came forward, only glancing away to watch the little dog at her feet, and– she walked right past him. He blinked, brows furrowing, but didn't turn.

The sound of the piano being played was enough of an explanation, he supposed.

James finished his task (because he was at work) and then made his way back over to the front, getting behind the counter so he could turn down the music on the overhead speakers. It gave more room for the piano to fill the shoppe. He turned, leaning back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and shut his eyes to listen.

"But first off, I can tell that's one demon who didn't grow up around the Amish.... - You could get twice the amount for that price from them." Milo pointed out with another soft laugh. "But-- yeah, no. I think if there's anyone who's most likely to be one hiding in plain sight it's... definitely that guy." He agreed easily enough.

The vibes were off. "Don't sell your soul to him for a pickled egg, I can cut you a good deal. Homemade with eggs from Jun's farm and an ancient Pennsylvannian Dutch recipe. Two jars, 19 pounds. Friends and family discount." Milo teased with that shit-eating grin he wore around James so often.

James placed a hand against his stomach, tilting forward slightly as if he was taking a bow in his seat in reply to the compliment. Yeah, he'd gotten pretty good at that impersonation since the guy had planted some good ear worms in James' brain over the years, making him mimic him to himself or to his mates when the occasion called for it. Like right now.

He sat back again, smiling in amusement and delight as the bit was being ran with. It made something shift in his chest, warm and stupid. This was nice, eh? How easy it was to fall back into step with a friend who had been gone, and yet it almost felt like he had never been as far as arms reach all this time.

But his stomach twisted, too, the way it did whenever happiness brushed against his skin– because how could he be happy after everything? And for it to be in a small moment like this, talking about pickled produce.

"Ahhh, only 19? That is a steal. I could never take you up on it, I'd feel like I would be robbing you blind," he said, sighing wistfully. A beat. His brows furrowed, "What's Pennsylvannian Dutch? Just what it says on the tin?"

That said, he couldn't hold this fence post up, get nails and a clamp, AND hammer it all into pkace by himself.

Seamus sighs, then glances to the side when he sees a shadow pass him by. A sharp whistle calls the person's attention, and Seamhs grins crookedly at them.

James had obliged– though he didn't know why. He was supposed to be curving off ties as he went, getting rid of distractions and making it easier for when he would have to leave this life of his behind. But he figured, eh, after his mates all graduated from uni they'd move on and forget about him anyway.

He looked up from his phone, where he had been trying to pick a song to start walking home to, and frowned at the guy talking to him. James pulled down his headphones so they were around his neck rather than covering his ears.

There was a flash of silver scales and April relaxed. Right. Why would her dad be haunting her all the way out here?

She was losing her mind.

She needed another joint.

"You just had to ruin the peace and quiet," she huffed, laying back down on her blanket and putting her sunnies back on.

"In this town?" he scoffed, but had wandered closer to the water, stepping in to prepare for gathering the fish.

It made him breathe in sharply as an emotion that was not his own had his scalp prickling, it lapping at him like the water at his feet. It made his stomach fold over on itself, sinking like a stone being thrown into the lake.

He doubled down on focusing on getting this fish, the singular task in front of him he could let flood his senses to wash out the presence of another trying to pour into him. It came in flopping and flailing, scales slippery and slick, but James had a firm grasp on it as he pulled it up from the water, walking it back to his bag.

It wasn't huge, but it wasn't a wee thing either. James let it wriggle, flicking more water her way, as he searched for pliers in his bag to pull the hook free. He swallowed, coming to the conclusion that he needed to leave before the growing pressure at his senses continued to build. But that was fine– she seemed about done with him anyway.

James went to lower the fish back out into the water, not even sparing the moment to watch it swim off before he was back at his bag, packing up.

Yet... he still prayed every night. He still asked Mr. Moon if he could go to their church too. He still wore a damn cross as an earring - something he absently fiddled with now.

"But yeah, I dunno. Clearly they already got one up on me." And Milo would never let that happen again. He hadn't been ready. He'd been rusty, he'd made a mistake - and he'd been working ever since that day to make sure it was one he'd never make again. "...Tell you what, if demons ever flood the streets again, I'll be taking their limbs back as compensation... Something tells me we do just.. have demons walking around town though. How would we even know if they're not the... knife wielding or weird hellish type."

James gave a nod of acknowledgement at receiving this information since he, unlike his father, didn't really care who believed in what or why they did. If they weren't hurting anyone, what did he care? Then he snorted softly at the additional comment, struck suddenly with a great fondness for the other– it had been such a Milo thing to say. Something James hadn't heard since he'd left and had missed without realizing it until it had been taken from his normal routine.

His brows lifted, considering.

"Yeah, I can see that. There's definitely something going on with the bloke who sells the pickled shit at the Farmer's Market every year," he said before scrunching his nose and squinting his eyes really hard, doing his best impression of the vendor. His voice dropped and got gravely like he smoked ten packs a day, "Hey, you! Yeah, you kid, you look like you got a sparkle in your eye still. You want some pickled eggs? Two jars, twenty pounds, you're not going to get a better deal than that!"

She couldn't help it. It was just a funny thing for James to say. To April, that was an obvious statement. Of course they would have to be concerned if June lost. She was the kind of player to storm off the stage, make a scene, snap her racket on the ground. Ever since she was a child, if she didn't get her way or win whatever game they were playing, she took it personally.

It had always grated April and she, therefore, took the path of least resistance. And she never tried to win anything. It seemed exhausting. June and May had sucked up all the ambition in the womb, leaving April free of such restrictions.

Maybe she shouldn't bad mouth her sister, but to April, she wasn't. It was just the truth of June. She was sure June said far worse about April to their friends.

"Defin--"

There was a large splash, just off the shoreline. Big enough for a spray of delicate ice cold water to tickle at April's legs. She sat up, raising her sunglasses again, feeling her heart jump.

"What was that?!"

Getting a laugh out of anyone was always a gratifying thing for him. He had basically made an identity in being the class clown and court jester, wanting people to think of him as funny moreso than anything else. It meant no one ever took him seriously or cast him any amount of credit.

There was also something deeper to it. He was no comedian who was going to dedicate his life to the art or whatever, but it was cathartic to make people laugh, wasn't it? Moreso than making them cry or get angry with him. Sure, he frustrated his fair share, but– his father had been the one who made people upset with harsh words and glares.

He felt a tug, watching as the bobber sunk below the water and the reel letting out more line as whatever had bit down started to swim off. Muscle memory kicked in, one hand going to the reel to spin as he let the rod down at an angle and then pulling it back up again in a smooth back and forth. He repeated the motion a few times, the game of tug-o-war, as her laughter died down.

And as soon as she started to reply, the fish came to the surface, splashing up and then heading back down. He continued, unbothered, and hardly noticed her reaction until her startled tone reached his ears.

This was a better conversation to latch onto. It would distract April from the sudden pounding of her heart and that if she opened her eyes, there would be a face hovering right on the other side of her sunglasses.

The water on her skin and the unseasonly cool breeze had made her entire body break out into gooseflesh. She refrained from shivering, instead stretching out a little more as if that would warm her muscles up. She rested her hands casually behind her head.

"Besides, it's not about the crown. It is about bragging rights. And, obviously, June has her whole complex about winning."

April said this lovingly, but it could honestly be so exhausting. She was glad she didn't care about shit like that. Her life was much more peaceful because of it.

Besides, she had other things to worry about. Like the creeping sensation that someone was watching her. And how she was afraid to look into mirrors.

James was also getting the feeling that someone else was present– but in the way that he usually tended to ignore. He couldn't necessarily articulate how he could tell the difference between the living and the dead, what it was about him that could tap into that side of the veil, nor did he really care. (Unless he ever figured out how to cut it out and toss into the trash.) But whatever it was that his mum had given him in that particular gene pool, his ghost sense were tingling.

This wasn't anything new. Swynlake had its fair share of ghosts, and the lake was one of those places that some tended to hang around. Especially in the spring or summer, when it was in bloom and people were in the water, bringing with them what the ghosts all ached for– life.

The vague sense of the ghost's emotions prickled and James, being the wonderful medium that he was, ignored the sharp hints of anger entirely!

Or if it was so much more complicated than that....

If a healing talent might've been around when James had his injury, or Milo his - would they have been able to save what was already lost or was James right? Had it already been gone too far to do anything but stop the bleeding, so to speak?

"You might have a point there. We might be at the point of having to make a deal with the devil or summoning a demon to help our case out." Milo teased, crossing his arms over his chest with a gentle shrug. "Which-... in this town, not so uncommon but... probably not a good idea. I personally wouldn't trust the demon route since they're the ones that got me in my situation in the first place but... haven't consulted the devil yet. We might have a shot there."

James hadn’t considered calling up a demon to consult with over a deal to get back what had been taken from him– either for his father or for his leg. He was deterred from that whole concept for several reasons, the first being that he knew his father and Mr. Smee would have disapproved of his use of magic. The second because of his own magic and being closer to the veil to the world where those creatures were always trying to come up from. He already wanted nothing to do with the ghosts hanging around, he sure as shit didn’t want to deal with something that hadn’t even been human to begin with. 

“If you believe in that sort of thing, anyway,” he sighed. Having had a father who had been an avid atheist after growing up under devout Protestants which had turned him against religion as a whole. Without the introduction to it at a young age and having no reason to have tried to find it later in life, James had no real opinion or belief in the matter. 

“Seems like a lot of trouble, don’t it?” he mused. “‘sides, after the shit show with the demons running amok that one year, I don’t think I’d be able to square up if things went south. And if those were just the lower level fucks, I’d hate to meet any sort of head honcho.”

He'd tried, but trying didn't work for him and there were probably so many reasons why. And it shouldn't have bothered him because, yanno, fuck James and his stupid sob story life that Sid actually felt some strange sense of sympathy for but couldn't say that because people didn't like people feeling sorry for them, right?

Right?

And his stupid sharp retorts and smug looks that were annoyingly attractive even while Sid would have rather died than admitted it!

Which, okay, yeah; maybe that was the problem. The whole...never said anything but what was he supposed to say that didn't make him sound like an idiot?

By that point he was irritated and shoved at the back of the car like that was actually going to work and of course it didn't accomplish anything but a nice little sharp jolt of pain along his side that he, regretfully, grimaced over and pressed his palm against reflexively.

But he was fine! He'd figure it out!

"Plenty of reasons," Sid muttered, bitterly but without much energy behind it because he hated to admit that it was a different sort of ache behind those words, "and I've only got myself to blame for that, sure, but I tried not to fuck it up."

He trailed off as stalked around to the other side of the car and unhinged the latch again to throw his frustrations into the attempt at figuring out some way to patch that broken hose together just enough to get the car started.

Hooooooookaaaaaayyyyy.

James had no fucking clue what he was going on about, which was about on theme for any conversation he'd ever held with Sid. Today's seemed particularly vague, though, adding on to the mounting evidence that something was just...off about the bloke. Not to say that wasn't his normal, but it was a different off than usual. He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

His eyes followed the other boy's movement as he got up and walked around the car, fiddling with...something. Look, James wasn't a car guy. Probably never would be. He knew how to drive, how to fill up the tank, how to clean it, and everything else it needed, he took it to someone who did know what they were doing. So, he couldn't very well help, unless he just Google'd it– but he was pretty sure that would do fuck all.

"What a pickle," he said and blew out a breath, assessing any options he could think of.

After a moment of contemplation, he clapped his hands together.

She had put her sunglasses back down, even if it was pointless since James continued standing in her sun. Was he trying to be annoying?

Honestly, probably. He'd been like that every since they were kids. She didn't have many memories of him, but the ones she did have, he'd always seemed surly and recalcitrant. Always doing the exact opposite of what was asked of him.

Not that she had many memories of him. They'd never really run in the same circles in primary.

She kept her eyes open, watching him throw the line back and cast it out. His wet shirt was still plastered to him and she enjoyed watching the play of muscles as he did it. The sun was a hazy halo around him through her sunglasses.

Her eyes trailed to the water--watching the ripples spread out like the swirls of a hypnotic video. She felt like she couldn't look away. Goosebumps spread through her and a cold wind suddenly swept over her. April snapped her eyes away from the water, heart suddenly pounding for no reason.

She adjusted on her towel, turning her head back towards the sky.

"June is nominated for prom queen, you know," April said. Her fingers absentmindedly swirled through the different drops of water that hadn't absorbed into her skin. "You should vote for her."

He nodded his head, brows arching in acknowledgement of that statement. Yeah, he guessed the other two seemed the type to have a preoccupied schedule that might not make room for lounging around the lake. But he also wouldn't have been surprised to see them sitting around, doing nothing. That was just sort of what he expected of rich people.

James, whose attention was on the water now as he waited for something to pull on his line, was oblivious to her scrutiny. After the crocodile had taken his leg and his father, everything about him had gotten shoved into a blender and pulverized down. It was all just some weird, disgusting mess of what it had once been. This included self confidence and his view on his looks– where he had once hadn't really minded looking in the mirror, now he couldn't stand it. Couldn't stomach all the features he knew were his father's, couldn't find comfort in the ones he figured were his mother's, and the whole missing a leg thing was an issue he had yet to sort out mentally. And since he didn't like it, who could?

Certainly not the pretty blonde who laying on the towel behind him.

Laughter left him and he glanced over his shoulder to see if she was being serious. When he concluded that she was, he shook his head.

She twitched a little, frowning as she put her sunglasses back on and laid back--his shadow still falling over her.

Her eyes rolled and she tilted his head towards him to reply when--

"Uegh, is that a worm?" she asked, mildly disgusted and mildly intrigued as she watched it writhe on the hook from behind her UV tinted sunglasses.

It was probably for the best, as she did not want to explain that yes, the Tipton had a pool, but no she did not have the access to it that she wanted...though, she could probably find a way to sneak in. Auntie Daphne did not appreciate them running about.

The lack of a reply to his question was enough of an answer all on its own. But, given two more seconds to the thought, maybe she didn't want to be hanging around the building where her father had died horrifically, huh? It wasn't like the waters where his own had disappeared under would ever be the same if he returned to the spot, but he wasn't too keen on heading down that way any time soon. Or stepping foot aboard the Jolly Roger.

Not until he'd properly earned the right to be there this go around.

"Yep. They're the designated goated bait," he replied, tucking the rod between his ribs and elbow to free his other hand so he could dip down again to pull out the little tub of worms he had, giving it a wiggle for her benefit. He tossed it back in the bag, returning to casting off.

James let the reel out a few dozen centimeters and with muscle memory, pulled the rod back over his shoulder and threw it forward again, letting it arc over his head and releasing his finger from the string to let the hook go lofting through the air. It hit the water, sinking, and he closed the bail.

He simply rolled his eyes as a lesser form of argument and waited for the sting along his abdomen to calm down.

"What?" He didn't make the connection at first, the ongoing brain fog had been the worst part of the whole ordeal the past month and it had been better, but not nearly enough. "No, I'm not-" hadn't he had a conversation about uni with James in the past? He couldn't remember. Frustrating enough, that, but it also left him in the uncomfortable spot of the two alternatives being he either just didn't remember because his brain had felt fried the past month or James hadn't been paying attention in the first place. And one of those felt like yet another dragging point to add to his misery.

"I don't think biochemistry is going to fix this problem," Sid countered, dryly, resorting to his defenses as he felt the pins and needles of exasperation rather than proper anger. He wanted the latter, at least it gave him distance, but he'd underestimated how sore some wounds still were. "I just don't want to deal with anyone from the garage right now; I've got enough problems without that," he grumbled.

Between wounded pride and wounded body there was only one he had much control over and he wasn't giving that up easily; it felt like the ledge his sanity was so carefully balanced on at that moment.

Which meant he had to trade off doing the stupid thing just to keep some degree of control over the situation and drag himself back up. But what in the hell was he supposed to do?

"Exactly how am I supposed to fix this problem since you seem to be the only one on this entire street just that offended by it?" Sid countered; he was too damn tired for this and the words were strained between gritted teeth, "If it was in your yard I'd get, sure; but do you think I purposely intended to break down right in this spot when I have been avoiding you for months?"

Oop. Right. James had forgotten about the bit where Sid was going to school on his father's preferred track rather than what he actually liked– aka machines. Ah well, the slip up was probably for the best! Gave the impression that he didn't care enough to remember. See? Even when he didn't meant to, he was still quite good at this. Like it just came naturally.

A dark brow lifted at Sid citing not wanting to talk to anyone at the garage. The fuck did that mean? Probably that he'd pissed someone off in there and had been kicked to the curb probably. Which was a very silly thing to do since this was such a small town– if you weren't careful, you could be blacklisted from half of Swynlake just for stepping on the wrong flower. Whatever, he didn't care enough to ask and get the story. It wasn't like it mattered passed the fact that the garage wasn't going to be very helpful. Unless James tricked them into coming down, but he didn't want to be blacklisted by that lot if they interpreted the situation as James being on Sid's side of whatever beef had been created.

He sighed, expression turning very unimpressed as he heard the next argument. Well no fucking shit he was the only one 'offended,' he was parked in front of James' house! Pissing off James' dog, and being a hazard to James' Mr. Smee. Whenever he was coming back home, that was.

He opened his mouth, about to say all of this, when Sid threw out the last bit. Avoiding you.

Huh.

James didn't really know what to do with that. On one hand, it was nice to know Sid had gotten the message. On the other, how much effort did he go to do all that? And why the fuck was he avoiding James? It should be James who was avoiding him! But he didn't because he didn't care enough to– except it didn't matter, because Sid had been doing it for the both of them, making James' life that much easier.

The little watch beeped and James looked down at it, hitting the button for silence.

Still, he nodded with a soft smile that only ebbed towards a frown a little bit. He was sympathetic, of course. While he had some experience in learning to deal with a missing piece of him, it was still nothing like what James went through. "...nothing they can do about that?" He probed lightly with a tilt of his head, uncertain. He knew there was a lot that went into fitting prosthetics and getting used to them and everything but...

He had to wonder how much of it was just going to happen regardless. That if there was a point where there was no further they could go to try and make it a seamless adjustment.

"I mean - it's kinda crazy, right? How much magic surrounds us and yet things like this... - they got nothing?" Sure, maybe he could wish upon a star for his injuries to go away, or James could make a deal with the devil for his leg back but... they really didn't have any magical advancements to like... help?

James gave Milo a frown and a slow, elongated tsshhh out of the corner of his mouth in response.

Ugh. Athletes.

He'd never been one of them. Sure, he was a fan of sports and watched rugby and cricket like it was a religion, ran around like an idiot when he was a wee one, but he'd never had the desire to get out there and have a crack at it himself. His version of exercise had been riding around on bikes or skateboards with his mates and getting scraped up by the concrete instead of a pitch. Why people subjected themselves to working out had been a mystery to him– and then he'd gotten the news that he needed to start so he wouldn't die when going up against the monsters and sea creatures of the world. He had done it but he hadn't necessarily found enjoyment out of it.

Just like he didn't in PT, or in Mr. Smee's training these days.

He shook his head and shrugged a shoulder. As far as he was aware, no, but it wasn't like he'd really gone to bat for himself about it either. James knew it was fucked up to think but– he thought it penance. The pain a payment plan on what his father had done for him. Every time he felt it was a shilling into the jar for what he owed. Only, there was no end to it since a life was priceless.

"Yeah. It is kinda fucked that fairies just have talents to heal people like that–" He snapped his fingers. "–but they're not in an ambulance getting paid, ain't it? I dunno I guess I wouldn't know if I'd trust a magical solution on something like this anyway. Always seems like it needs something to get something, and I already gave my foot away, didn't I?"

Everything in her wanted to reject what she was doing. Some distant line of ancestors were screaming in some combination of rage and pain, her very bones ached, and she could feel herself getting weaker and weaker.

But she couldn't stop. If she stopped, it meant she was giving up and she wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Her voice was already going hoarse when suddenly - "Fuck! FUCK!"

With a jerk, the figure under her flailed and breathed oh god he was breathing, he was breathing and he was swearing at her and it was the best sound she'd heard in her entire life.

"Shit I'm sorry I'll get it, I didn't think about it, I just - hold on, hold on, this will hurt like a bitch."

Before he could react, she reached over and yanked out the knife with one sharp movement. As she did so, she winced, the sensation pulling at her burned hand. But it didn't matter. She tossed the knife aside, watching as the wound in his side began to knit itself closed.

Only then could she breathe.

With one more small cry, she pulled herself in close, kissing him fiercely. "Don't you ever do that to me again. Ever. I mean it James, never ever again."

Despite the fierceness in her tone, her eyes still dripped with tears as she leaned back into him.

The yell that came out of him when the knife was finally removed was undignified and ghastly, his fist hit several more times against the wall until the pain finally subsided. He was left panting, body a ragged doll against the floor until his mouth was being covered by the scorching softness of Mim's. James hadn't been prepared for it, and therefore only responded with a muffled, mmph! before she was pulling away to scold him.

He watched her as she did and smiled, teeth showing, eyes bright with the infinite affection of someone who knew how privileged they were to bare witness to such a thing. To be held in the arms of someone who was capable of pulling off something as magnificent as what she had just done and for it to not even be the thing spoken of.

She was angry. She was covered in his blood. She had tears spilling down her face, streaking her cheeks. She was beautiful.

"I promise," he told her and had never meant anything more in his entire life than he did those words. James took her hand, marveling at his ability to do so with strength that he never thought he would have in this body again, and placed it flat against his chest. Inside, behind muscle and bone, his heart beat, trying to reach out to meet her palm. Wanting to thank her, wanting to let her know it was just as much hers as it was his now.