only victories make heroes

~

Sam sighed as Bailey barged on through the broken glass, glad, at least, that he was wearing shoes. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I was able to use magic to protect myself.” She paused, wondering if she should tell him how exactly that happened. “It shouldn’t have worked, not that well, at least, not without a ritual, but I was holding the hand of this guy I met … well, he grabbed my hand as we were trying to get away, and it made my magic stronger. Holding is hand.” She bit the inside of her cheek in thought. “I think he might be my familiar.” She knew it didn’t always work like that, a bond one could feel between the witch and familiar before working together, but sometimes it did happen like that, and she didn’t know how else to explain what happened.

***

The relief that he felt upon finding Sam was short-lived, unsurprisingly wary upon hearing about her encounter with a stranger. Granted, she was smart and had good judgment and wasn’t four years old, but life as a career criminal and sometimes fugitive had fixed in him a deep-rooted and paranoid suspicion for anyone that hadn’t already proven their trustworthiness. (Bailey did not have many friends.)

“Maybe you’re just a better witch than you thought,” he said, aiming for encouragement and trying not to be too obvious about the fact that he didn’t like the sound of this ‘guy’ and was already devising ways to identify him. “I could make your magic stronger if I tried,” he said, tone heavy with skepticism. “What’s his name? What’s his deal?” Bailey interrogated super casually like a person who totally didn’t care at all.

Bailey looked askance at the stranger as he approached, eyes narrowing in scrutiny before returning his attention to his arm. There was minimal damage to himself, but Sam wasn’t going to be happy about the repair to the window (if she ever found out). 

“I’m sure you have,” he responded dryly, laughably judgmental for a functioning alcoholic. “Is this something you do regularly? Generously offer criminal knowledge to suspicious characters?” (Bailey wasn’t completely lacking in self-awareness.) He considered explaining that picking any of the locks would require finding something to pick the locks with, which was already too much work when the moonshine was right there. But the whole point was to convince the man that he wasn’t a career criminal, so he settled on, “Hitting something really hard usually yields the fastest results.” No one ever accused Bailey of being precise, and brute force had yet to let him down.

For a moment, Bailey’s blasé features turned panic-stricken at the mention of an alarm as he strained for any indication of sirens or approaching vehicles. It hadn’t even occurred to him to look for an anti-theft system, magical or otherwise, because he hadn’t bothered to implement one. And doing it herself seemed to be very Sam-like behavior. But when the rhythmic chirping of crickets was the only thing to punctuate the silence that followed, he dared to hope that luck was on his side tonight.

“Just in case you’re not being facetious,” Bailey said, shooting the woman a look as he resumed breaking off the jagged shards of glass still clinging to the sill, “You really shouldn’t do that. It’s unsafe.” He wondered if that counted as whatever Sam called victim-blaming, having recently been schooled on the more sensitive tenets of modern socially acceptable behavior.

“I do have my own key,” Bailey said, more petulantly than a grown man should’ve been. “I don’t have it on me now.” He was obviously irritated, but whether that was due to breaking and entering his own store or being made to explain himself to a stranger was a toss-up. “What would you suggest? A locksmith?” Fuckin’ millennials.

~

“We won’t be ‘fucking up’ anyone if we want to stay in business, but I’ll be sure to hire someone who can hold their own,” Sam said, pretty sure she wouldn’t trust any other type of person. For a brief moment she thought of that extremely unpleasant witch she’d gotten into an argument with over the correct usage of the term “nightshade” but she quickly dismissed the idea. She needed people she could manage as well as trust. 

“Do you want to be there when I interview them or …?” She got the feeling he wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the shop while she interviewed people, but as the owner she felt obligated to ask.

***

“Good,” he grunted. “You don’t need to waste your time holding someone’s hand.” Not only because the weirdos and nutters tended to gravitate to the store, but also because Bailey’s management style and Oleander’s general professional environment were not exactly crybaby-friendly. He’d made at least four other employees cry before he’d managed to find Sam. Bailey had a hard time around wimps. 

“Interview?” he asked, looking bewildered for a beat before remembering that normal people had to jump through thousands of hoops just to get a job. The last time he’d had a normal job was in the ‘90s (and even then, the Marine Corps wasn’t exactly normal). “No.” He couldn’t think of anything he’d want to do less than talk to a bunch of strangers. “Hire whoever you want. I’m sure I’ll meet them eventually.” He trusted Sam’s instincts more than his own in cases like this anyway. Bailey didn’t have a clue as to what he was supposed to look for in an employee other than a carbon copy of Sam.

Bailey stole furtive glances up and down the moonlit street in an attempt to be inconspicuous, but he might as well have banged pots and pans together with EX-CON tattooed on his forehead. He skirted around into the alleyway adjacent to Oleander’s to rattle the windows and try the back door, but was disappointed (and a little impressed) to realize how thoroughly Sam had locked up the shop. 

Liquid courage often metabolized to liquid stupidity, which was what likely compelled him to drive his elbow through a window. He paused when he thought he heard footsteps, searching the dark for any witnesses spectators before resuming his break-in. “I’m the owner,” Bailey announced, which was true. “I’m not a criminal,” he added, which was not.

-

Atreus shook xyr head with a slight grimace, trying to think of a better way to describe what xe did and not let xemself be scared off by Bailey’s stance. “It’s like counseling, for individuals and couples both. It’s not a sex thing. I teach classes- meditation, yoga, relationship building, conflict resolution- that kind of thing.” Xe attempted again. “I could give you a free demonstration, if you’re interested.”

***

Bailey eased off on the intensity a bit at the other’s clarification, though he didn’t look fully sold on it either. He couldn’t see how a store like his— essentially a pagan Home Depot— would work with… whatever the other was proposing. “So it’s couples counseling for witches. As an adult summer camp.” It sounded ridiculous. But so were Disney adults, and those apparently existed.

"Do I have to participate in this demonstration?” Bailey asked distrustfully. “I’m not a witch. And I’m not affiliated with one.”

-

Atreus appeared confused by the question because xe was. Xe had no idea what ‘holistic’ actually meant, it was just a word xe’d learned to use from hearing others use it. Xe assumed it meant ‘good’, ‘well’, ‘100%’. 

Xe lit up when Bailey mentioned cults. Now that was something Atreus knew about, mostly because xe’d fallen prey to several before. “Not a cult.” Xe assured Bailey, which is what anyone recruiting for a cult would say. “My focus is on helping witches and familiars in strengthening their bond, teaching them ways they can improve their relationship with one another. It’s important work for our community. Happy witches and happy familiars living their best lives.” Xe summed up, looking pretty pleased with ximself as if that had been an effective pitch.

***

Bailey didn’t look convinced. Not only did the other look like and say the same things he’d expect from some modern version of The Stepford Wives, but the chipper and cryptic sales pitch did little to assuage his suspicions of a cult. “How pleasantly vague,” he said expressionlessly. “What do you do, exactly? If it’s a weird sex thing, you’ll have better luck talking to Leland.” He crossed his arms, hoping to exude just how little interest he had in weird sex things.

Sam snorted softly. “Yeah, no, no worries, boss. I could use some more help around here, though. Do I have your go ahead to hire some people? With Halloween, the Winter Solstice, and Saturnalia coming up, we’re bound to be getting a lot more business coming through here, and ever since Johnson moved away I’ve been doing everything myself.” She wondered if Bailey had even noticed she was currently the only one employed.

***

Bailey scowled at the suggestion that they hire more people, mainly because he simply didn’t like people. Sam was capable and responsible and lacked the nagging, pestering aspect that anyone who spent a significant amount of time around him ended up exhibiting. He wasn’t keen on learning to adapt to another personality. 

“Fine. Make sure it’s someone who doesn’t mind fucking up teenagers,” Bailey said begrudgingly. All the pagan holidays seem to attract the crazies, but Halloween even more so. It’d be pretty shitty to make Sam fend for herself.

-

Atreus followed the other’s gaze to the door, xyr smile never flagging despite the look of confusion that crossed xyr features. 

“Okay, well… it’s a nice shop. That you own. Here.” Xe leaned against the surface of the counter, xyr smile widening as xe observed the man on the other side. “I’m new in town, and looking to set up shop for myself. I specialize in helping witches and familiars grow their bond, holistically.” Xe explained, hoping to make it sound appealing to someone that was presumably part of the club. “I thought I’d see if you guys might be interested in partnering up. I don’t sell any products, so it wouldn’t be an issue of competition.” 

***

Bailey liked to think that the decades he’d spent traveling the world and getting thrown into a myriad of dangerous situations had prepared him with worldly experience. Unfortunately, the more time he spent around Sam and other people, the more he realized that the only thing he was well-versed in was survival. Like abandon the building, wipe your fingerprints, and switch license plates sort of survival. And nowhere in his repertoire did he possess the knowledge to understand hippie tree friends. 

“Define holistically,” Bailey said, preternaturally suspicious of anyone or anything that appeared too attractive. Traps were designed to be tempting. “As a rule, I try not to endorse cults.”  

Sam’s eyebrows rose as Bailey seemed to start in on a lecture of some kind that fizzled out almost as soon as he’d started. “Okay, dad, I’ll kick out the creeps,” she told him, just to ease his mind. Her idea of a creep and his idea were probably vastly different. Still, it was kind of nice to get the feeling that he cared about her wellbeing. She’d never had a father, and the paternal vibes Bailey seemed to give off around her was comforting … in as much as Bailey could ever be comforting.

“Yes, and a Saturnalia bonus, back in December,” Sam said with a small smirk. “And a birthday bonus. You’ve been treating me well, don’t worry.”

***

Bailey narrowed his eyes at her in response, as if calculating how much of the store’s profit went towards Sam’s ever-growing paycheck, before mentally shrugging it off. She knew so much more about running a shop than he ever did, and there was no doubt that Oleander’s would be shuttered without her manning the helm.

“Good to know. I’d hate to end up on Faerune’s list of worst places to be employed,” he said archly.

Sam guessed he was right about the inventory thing. She’d already tried (and failed) to convince him to sober up, so she could only imagine how much worse it’d be if he had uninhibited access to a whole bar full of alcohol.

“We’re not going bankrupt,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “We’re doing really well, actually. Some chump actually cleaned out our clearance shelf the other night. He felt bad he kept me after hours and spent like three hundred.”

***

“I’m sure he did,” Bailey snorted, obviously dubious of the stranger’s intentions. While he suffered chronic blindness when it came to identifying when he was being pursued, he never failed to be suspicious of everyone else who showed a little too much interest in Sam. Not that she needed (or wanted) the hypervigilance, but he felt better making it clear that there was someone (Bailey) capable of committing carnage if they so much as thought about aggravating her.

“I’m not questioning your ability to sell water to a fish,” he added, “Which I know you can do, but…” he trailed off, realizing he’d forgotten the objective of his overprotective rant. “The point is, kick out the creeps.“ Probably a worthless effort (Addams Family-esque pimply teenagers tended to flock to the store like greasy moths if Bailey wasn’t careful). “And— have I given you a raise?” She could lie to him for all he knew; hell, she could have been embezzling from the store, and he’d have no idea.

-

“They assigned this to me on the mothership. I wasn’t well-liked, obviously.” Morty gestured to himself. “On the plus side, people usually leave me plenty of space. On the down side, people usually give me plenty of space.” He shrugged. “What’s your deal? Aside from paranoid alcoholism.” 

***

Bailey nodded sagely as if he understood what it felt like to be shunned as opposed to choosing to be reclusive (or maybe it was just knowing acknowledgment that the other was an extraterrestrial). He swung his drink up to take a thoughtful gulp, like the frat boy equivalent of an academic sipping tea, and tried to determine what, in fact, his deal was. He didn’t have much going on.

“Well, I’m not a Martian. And it’s just alcoholism. The paranoia’s not related,” Bailey said, waving to the patrons in the diner who glared at him through the window. He motioned to Oleander’s with his gallon jug, the contents of which looked dangerously (dangerous to no one but himself) low. “That place is mine. Barely.” In spite of all his efforts, the store remained standing by the grace of Sam.

-

Morty laughed because Bailey seemed serious about the suspicion but not enough to change his mind about the waffles. Maybe the guy was so sad that he secretly hoped Morty would skin him alive and wear it as a grisly costume. 

“There’s a lot of nice skin in this city, I don’t know that I hate myself enough to choose yours.” He didn’t love how creepy that made him sound, but he didn’t see any point in trying to convince Bailey that he wasn’t window-shopping for a new fleshsuit. “No offense, you’re just kinda old. And dehydrated, probably.”

***

Bailey looked appropriately grossed out by the answer, far from comforted despite the intention behind the insult. “Nice to know that my skin doesn’t meet your high standards,” he said dryly. “Where’d you get the one you’re wearing now? Area 51?”

~

“It’s 11am. We opened an hour ago,” Sam said, shaking her head at him. Seeing as a lot of witchcraft went on during the nighttime hours, the shop opened and closed late. “Why do you even own this place if you don’t care about it?” It was a question she often asked and yet he was still here, passing out in the alley, having no idea what was going on in his own store. “You’d probably be better suited owning, I don’t know, a bar or something. Or maybe just retire early, you know? Go out into the Feywild.”

***

Bailey’s lips twisted into a frown at Sam’s prodding, shoulders hunching forward defensively even as he tried to pretend he was unaffected. Deception was not his strong suit. But he didn’t feel like divulging the tragic (read: failed) details of his life before Faerune, in spite of the fact that they had led him right here.

“I disagree. A bar would be the worst for me to own. Think about all the inventory I’d go through. I’d be bankrupt within a week,” Bailey said grumpily, seizing the first opportunity to steer the conversation elsewhere. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Sam, eyes narrowing. “You would tell me if we were going bankrupt, right?”