#c baz

Though Sebastian’s face was one they clung to like a drowner to a liferaft, it wasn’t rare for Baz to try on different faces of people they’d met around town. They liked to wear a new one from time to time the same way someone might enjoy trying on clothes they had no real intention of buying; it was a nice way to pass the time, and to change things up even if only for a moment.

The face they wore today had originally belonged to a man they’d met only in passing. He’d been tall, which Baz always found sort of fun to play with. He’d had a light dusting of freckles, too, which the doppelganger found charming. Beyond that, he was a mostly-ordinary looking man. 

Which made it all the odder that the stranger ahead of them on the sidewalk was staring at them so intently. 

Baz had thought they were imagining it at first, but there was no mistaking it now; the man was staring at them with wide eyes and a strange expression. To a doppelganger, this was usually the sort of thing that meant a change was in order. Someone recognizing the face you were wearing — especially when it was one you knew little about — could spell trouble quickly. Baz knew they needed to avoid the man and find somewhere to swap faces as quickly as they could. They tried to maneuver around him, avoiding his gaze. 

—

Mickey was slipping. Blame it on the double shift or the night of drinking and subsequent hangover he had right before the double shift, but clearly he was losing his touch. Any other day ignoring one of his spirit hallucinations came natural to him. But now he was seeing double apparently because he swore he had just seen the same thing earlier at the hospital. Spirits weren’t uncommon, much to his dismay, and he had also become familiar with certain faces that haunted him there. This face was one of them. And he had never seen him outside of the hospital before. It wasn’t that these hallucinations had strict rules. They haunted him any and everywhere. But they certainly had patterns. There was definitely some psychological explanation that he couldn’t begin to diagnose because he sped through his psych rotation in med school. This all had to add up to why Mickey was staring at the supposed ghost rather than ignoring it like he would under any other circumstance. 

There was one thing Mickey had learned about these hallucinations though. Moving out of the way of their path was a dead giveaway. The moment he sidestepped the spirit would make him. Over the years he had learned to keep on his path and let those spirits pass through him. Sure it was weird, but it assured that he’d be left alone. He was deadset on overcorrecting his staring, so he set clear on his path as usual, practically checking the man as if he was still playing hockey. “Shit. Sorry.” Mickey said instinctively before freezing in his place. He wasn’t supposed to run into ghosts. Or whatever his brain usually called them he couldn’t actually think right now. “I- what the hell, dude? Are you like, you? And like… physical?”

—

There were certain rules on the sidewalk. Nothing official, of course — Baz had asked once, and their father had given them a rather unkind response — but things that everyone knew well enough. People moving in one direction took one side, people moving in the other walked parallel. You trusted everyone to follow these simple rules, which meant it was always something of a shock when someone didn’t. Like, for example, when the man who’d been staring at them didn’t quite keep to his side of the sidewalk, his shoulder bumping into theirs hard enough to spin Baz around. They blinked, their heart ticking up its pace a bit. 

It was best to avoid anyone who might know the face you were wearing as someone else, but if that wasn’t possible, the best course of action was to go with the flow. It was a dance, in its own way; you had to let the other person lead. “Oh, hey, man,” Baz greeted. This body came with an American accent, and they were careful in choosing their words. “Good to see you. I was just—” They cut themself off, blinking. The first question — as to whether or not Baz was themself — seemed to imply that the stranger knew more than he ought to. But the second one was difficult to understand. “Am I… physical? Is that a philosophical thing? To be or not to be, yeah?”

—

Mickey wasn’t often left speechless. Now, staring down at what should have been a dead man, he supposed he could be considered so. It wasn’t that he had nothing to say exactly, but that he was inundated with all of the things he could say. All of which made him sound completely insane. This state that he had found himself frozen in had him questioning many things. Why did the stranger speak to Mickey like the two knew each other? Why were they here and not at the hospital where they belonged? And why the fuck had the two just ran into each other? 

“Sure, sure. That is the question and whatever.” Mickey finally found himself speaking and of course it would be some useless joke that didn’t mean anything. Part of him wondered if he should just turn and run at this point, but he’d spend the rest of the week thinking about running into a ghost- er, hallucination. “I mean I just ran into you. And usually when I run into you I don’t run into you. First off you’re not here. You’re never here. And when you are there and I’m also there and we run into each other we do less running into each other and more passing through each other, y’know?” He passed and his eyes flicked around as he tried to follow his own trail of words to arrive at this same destination. He nodded to himself in agreement, that all totally made sense, yeah? “I’m so confused right now. Who are you?”

—

There was something odd about the way the man was looking at them. It was a risk you ran, Baz knew, when you borrowed a face. They’d had people look at them strangely plenty of times because they recognized the face they wore; sometimes, people were surprised they were in a city they shouldn’t have been in. (They’d always figured that was what would have happened if they’d run into any of Sean’s mates in London.) Other times, the confusion came from Baz not reacting to them the way they ought to. (Luc came to mind; Baz quickly shoved the thought of him away.) But this felt different than all that. The way the man was looking at him — the way he was speaking… It wasn’t something Baz thought they’d ever really encountered before. And they typically had a lot of experience with this sort of thing.

And the stranger wasn’t really helping to narrow things down much. He was quoting Shakespeare, which was lovely, but then he was going off on some ramble that Baz couldn’t quite follow. “Is that a riddle? I’m here, but I’m not here, we run into each other, but we pass through each other… Is the answer time, or something like that? I’ve always been ruuuuhhhh—really bad at riddles.” Cool it with the Britishisms. You’re meant to be American at the moment. “I’m… exactly who you think I am, aren’t I? You’ve seen me before, we know each other. Who else could I be?” Just accept the easy answer. Please.

—

“No. Not a riddle. Just indecipherable . I do love riddles though. I appreciate the troll under a bridge vibes.” For what it was worth, this stranger seemed just as confused as Mickey was regarding the whole situation, but not confused in the way one of his hallucinations acted when they encountered their first person that could see them. There the shock was in being seen. As if they had roamed around the town without a single pair of eyes meeting theirs for centuries until Mickey had come along. The thought made the hair on his arms stand on end. As if he was special or important enough to be this voice for the unseen? The thought was almost as ridiculous as him being a medium at all. No, in this case the stranger’s confusion didn’t seem to come from being seen, but being recognized. That part was new. 

“I don’t think you’re anybody” Mickey noted, another weird thing for a hallucination to say. Most had no idea who Mickey was, just that he could see them when others couldn’t. All signs pointed to something being off. It left him with the option of feigning ignorance and moving on or trying to dig in deeper. The bad news? Mickey definitely looked insane right now. The good news? Since he already looked insane, there was no point in trying to come back from it. Might as well lean into the crazy at this point. “We’ve never met before. But I’ve seen you before. And when I’ve seen you, nobody else can. And I definitely can’t run into you like I just did. You pass right through me. So I’m really confused right now.” It was the most honest Mickey had been about his hallucinations since his parents had died.

—

“Aren’t riddles often indecipherable? The bad ones, anyway. Some people think being smart means asking questions without answers and berating anyone who doesn’t provide one.” They weren’t sure what they were trying to do here. Distract, somehow? As if they could spin words into the right order to make the stranger look a little less confused, or as if there was some way to use pretentious anecdotes as a way to convince him that nothing strange was afoot. It was silly, of course. He’d already decided there was something odd going on, and Baz didn’t quite know how to convince him otherwise. If they knew more about the face they were wearing, it would have been far simpler. But the person in the mirror was as much a stranger to Baz as the man standing in front of them talking about riddles.

Their brow furrowed as the man continued. He didn’t know the owner of this face, but he’d seen him. Why did he look so weirded out, then? If he didn’t know who this was supposed to be, how could Baz be doing the impression wrong? Confusion curled in the doppelganger’s chest, bringing a sense of unease right along with it. “This is really starting to sound like a riddle,” they said, their tone lilting up uncertainly, as if they were making a joke. They had no idea if they had intended it that way or not. “Clearly, if you run into me, you’re going to run into me. I don’t pass through people. I’m not a ghost.” As soon as they said it, something clicked. Oh, fuck. The man whose face they were wearing must have been dead; the man staring at them must have seen his ghost. Why was everything in this town such an ordeal? Baz cleared their throat, straightening their clothes and trying to seem a little more confident than they were. “You must have mistaken me for someone else!”

—

“What? No. A good riddle always has an answer. It just makes you think for it.” Mickey was distracted far too easily and he was pretty sure this stranger knew it. Mickey could be ‘ball, ball, squirreled’ out of any serious conversation. The only thing that saved him was the usual lack of serious conversations he was willing to have. “Those people sound like assholes. It’s never as simple as just being smart or not smart.” Another thing Mickey felt strongly about. Intelligence was far too subjective to try to narrow it down to a yes or no. He was prepared to dive deeper into that with the stranger before he physically shook his head to abandon the thought, “Not important right now though! Focus.” He was talking to himself, but if the stranger assumed it was them and also wanted to lock in, Mickey would appreciate the two birds, one stone solution. 

Mickey flinched at the mention of ghosts. Of course that is where this would go. What else could he possibly expect when he mentioned passing through something? Stupid. “You’re not a ghost. You’re right. But usually you’re in my head and only I can see you and I definitely can’t touch you.” Needing to test the theory immediately, Mickey spun around, motioning for the closest person that would acknowledge him, “Hey! You. You can see them right?” Mickey asked, gesturing to the second stranger of the day. Confused, but obeying, the stranger nodded nervously before walking off. “Ha!” Mickey laughed in triumph before turning back towards the passerby, “Thank you!” Now back to the stranger who was still here. “Others can see you. Which means I’m either not crazy or far crazier than I thought. But I know your face. It’s hard to miss when I’m the only one that can see it.” Mickey wasn’t even mad, just confused. Usually, his denial of the spirits won over curiosity. But today’s little plot twist had ruined that. “Look, I'm just really confused right now. Do you have a name? Mine’s Mickey.”

—

“See, that’s what I’d say, too, but there are a few blo—-blowhards on Reddit who’d disagree with you.” Being American was a lot harder than it looked. These days, Baz didn’t often bother trying to match their slang and vocabulary to the face they were wearing. More often than not, they stuck with Sebastian’s face, and he’d been just as English as they were. The rest of the time, they simply didn’t care if people thought their speech patterns were odd. Right now, though… they couldn’t let this stranger realize that they weren’t who they were pretending to be, lest he figure them out entirely. After the fiasco with Luc, Baz would rather avoid things like that. “Why isn’t it important? I’d love to talk more about riddles with you!” Anything to steer clear of the conversation the man really wanted to have, which Baz, in turn, really wanted to avoid.

Okay, the stranger didn’t think he was a ghost. That was a good thing! Except… apparently, the stranger didn’t think anyone was a ghost, despite having evidently seen enough of them to have a frame of reference. That was odd, wasn’t it? That he seemed to think the ghosts he evidently saw were just in his head, even now that he was faced with a more tangible version of one? Baz turned to the person on the street who’d confirmed that they could see them, offering a sheepish wave before the other took off at a much quicker pace than they’d started with. This man was making a scene. Baz only liked scenes when they were the ones making them. “Of course other people can see me,” they said, a little uncertainly. “I’m standing right here. Are you sure you didn’t just spot me in a crowd and commit the face to memory? That seems a lot more likely than whatever it is you’re describing here.” They shifted uncertainly, unsure if they ought to give their actual name or not. It wasn’t the one that went with this body, but they weren’t sure they knew what the one that went with this body was. Deciding it was safer to use an alias, they pulled one from the back of their mind with relative ease. “Simon. Are you all right, Mickey? Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”

—

Reddit? Jesus. “Thank god. I can’t imagine any scenario where it would be a good thing if me and someone on reddit actually agreed on something.” This situation was giving Mickey a headache. And making him meaner than he ever had any intentions of being. Even from the grave, allegedly, ghosts were ruining Mickey’s day.”You’re distracting me on purpose and it’s working, but I don’t appreciate it for the record.” Maybe they really did know Mickey and knew how to sidetrack him. More likely, Mickey was easy to sidetrack. 

It was occurring to Mickey that any chance at saving face would invite turning and walking away. Accepting that he had probably made a mistake of some kind. It would be easy to do, considering he really believed that these spirits in his head were just hallucinations, right? By that logic, the stranger was completely right and it was just some type of pareidolia taking place here, seeing a face in something that had always been in his mind. That seemed reasonable. But Mickey was not feeling especially reasonable today. “Holy shit. You’re ghost gaslighting me!” He was laughing incredulously now, certainly not the glowing image of someone put together and sound of mind. “I don’t need to see a doctor, Simon. I am a doctor.” he groaned, annoyed by himself for self identifying that way. “I might actually be crazy, sure. But not about this. You’re dead. Well not you, but someone that looks exactly like you. Like a twin or a great great ancestor that somehow wears modern day clothes. The logic isn’t perfect, but it’s there Simon! It’s there!”

—

“Oh, I’m with you on that one! I don’t want to be on the same page as people like that. Have you ever seen their takes on movies?” Baz was a master of dancing around subjects they didn’t particularly want to broach; this conversation was proof enough of that. They weren’t usually called out for their attempts at distraction, of course, but perhaps Mickey was a little more observant than most. “I’m not trying to distract you,” they said, the lie burning their tongue and twisting their stomach into knots. “I’m just trying to make small talk!”

But, of course, no distraction was foolproof. Mickey was dead set on getting to the bottom of this, even though Baz was dead set on… well, keeping far away from the bottom. Which was a very new goal for Baz! They were typically happy to spend time around bottoms! (This was a tangent they didn’t need to go on, even internally. They were trying to distract Mickey, not themself.) “I don’t even know what ghost gaslighting is!” Not technically a lie. They could guess what he meant by that, but who could say for sure? It was enough of a loophole to save them the stomachache, at least. “Oh! You’re young for a doctor. Congratulations on finishing medical school!” Another attempt at distraction that didn’t seem to take as well as they’d hoped it might. Perhaps Mickey was too intelligent to be sufficiently distracted. Doctors were meant to be smart, weren’t they? “Look, ma— man,” stupid American accent, “I’m clearly not dead. I’m walking around talking to you, aren’t I? Dead people don’t do that! And I haven’t got a twin, and I don’t think great great ancestors look exactly like modern day people in real life! Maybe it’s one of those… glitch in the matrix moments, yeah? Oh! Maybe you’ve accidentally caught a glimpse of a parallel universe! That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?” The further they could steer Mickey from anything even remotely resembling the truth, the better off they’d be.

—

Mickey could feel his attention diverting. It was annoying. For just a minute, Mickey felt what others must feel whenever he was around them. It wasn’t a great feeling, admittedly. Though he would certainly write this off as an exception to the usual rule. In his case, it was probably charming if not a bit offputting. It may have been that in this case too, if he wasn’t talking to a not-dead dead person. “”I won’t entertain their taste in movies just like I won’t entertain your kinda futile distractions. I’m like, so focused right now. I’m locked in. Big talk only.”

What was frustrating was that Mickey knew he would love them in real life. They had the same lightheartedness that Mickey knew he had in other situations. If the two had met under different circumstances he was sure the two would have become fast friends. Right now, Mickey wasn’t sure that Simon would do anything other than strap Mickey in a straitjacket. Right now, Mickey wasn’t feeling super positively about Simon either. “If there was a ghost gaslighting olympics you’d have the gold.” Mickey groaned. He ignored the doctor comment, partly because it was another attempt at diverting the conversation and mostly because he hated feeling like he was bragging. “A glitch in the matrix sounds even less likely than you formerly being a ghost and coming back to life.” Which he also didn’t believe, of course, because that implied he had been dead and a ghost and Mickey had seen him. Which he hadn’t. Obviously.

Crossing his arms, Mickey had to acknowledge that this felt like an immovable object. They were clearly not willing to share their secret here. Banishing Mickey to the shadow realm version of ignorance. Especially annoying since Mickey had often described himself as an unstoppable force. “Okay, fine. This alleged other version of yours always hangs out at the hospital. I guess I could just check our medical records then. See if I recognize someone that looks suspiciously like you.” It was a shot in the dark and something that would take days or weeks to do. Mickey was stubborn as hell though. He certainly wasn’t above doing it. 

—

“This is big talk! This can definitely be big talk!” Baz insisted, trying to keep the distraction alive. It probably wasn’t going to work. People were a lot harder to distract when they knew you were trying to distract them. They’d seen that in play recently, even with Luc; no amount of changing the subject had kept him from the truth, even if Baz maintained he’d have been far better off without it. They doubted they could keep Mickey from uncovering something, even if they were reasonably certain they could maintain at least some control as to what that ‘something’ might be. 

Baz considered Mickey’s statement with a thoughtful look. “I do love gold,” they said, humming quietly. “But, no. I’m afraid this is one Olympic sport I’m no champion of! No ghost gaslighting here.” Technically true. Baz was gaslighting a bit, perhaps, but not about ghosts. They definitely weren’t a ghost, though they’d admit that they occasionally felt a bit like one. Baz was just… a different sort of haunting. Not one they had any intention of explaining to Mickey, of course. “Is it? It doesn’t sound less likely to me. I’ve heard stories about glitches in the matrix before — people seeing things that didn’t make sense with no explanation provided — but I’ve never heard of someone dying, becoming a ghost, and then coming back to life.” It was true enough. Necromancy was a thing, but Baz had never personally known anyone who’d gone through it, nor had they ever heard a story that matched this exact situation. And they doubted they would, because this situation was a bit ridiculous. 

They didn’t particularly like the idea of Mickey digging further into this, either, though. They doubted anything could really lead back to them, but… They thought, again, of Luc. They thought of how things could blow up in your face so easily, of the delicate balance they’d built for themself here. They liked this town. They didn’t want to be forced to flee it. “Now, hold on,” they said, shaking their head. “This feels like it violates one of those hippo laws, doesn’t it?” They knew what HIPAA was, of course; this was another distraction attempt. Surely the doctor would feel the need to correct them here, right?

—

With a groan, Mickey covered his face with his hands. This was the first time in a long time that Mickey actually wished he could turn tail and run away from this conversation. The irony was that Simon would have welcomed it. Neither of them wanted to be here right now, but Mickey’s stubbornness was winning out over the nauseous feeling telling him to get out of there. He needed to have some kind of answer. He needed to know why this person was different from all the other spirits in his head. “We figure out this mystery we have and I’ll give you all the big talk you want Simon.” Mickey never promised anything, not after his family told him about his sister and mother’s true identity. But Mickey would still stand by what he said.

If Mickey wasn’t so focused on the real question at hand, he might question Simon on which Olympic sport they did think they were champions of. Since they claimed that this was just one they wouldn’t excel at. They were clearly humble too, considering all the ghost gaslighting going on in this conversation. Maybe they’d make a new top trophy and give them platinum. “Well agree to disagree, I guess, but I know it’s not a glitch in the matrix either. Still not sure exactly what it is, but not that. And if there was a glitch in the matrix, it would totally be cooler than me seeing some random dead person not being dead. I don’t even know you. And no offense, you would certainly not make my top ten list of alternate universe people I want to see.” He couldn’t claim that he had ever heard of someone coming back to life after death either, but couldn’t outright deny the possibility. Witchcraft and all that. He didn’t like to think about it though. Considering the what ifs of something like that only lead him down a depressing road on memory lane he’d rather not frequent.

At least the hippo law comment pulled a quick chuckle from Mickey. His sense of humor wasn’t completely lost, which felt at least a little grounding. He didn’t like the way he was acting right now, causing a scene and nearly panicking. It was a relief to know that he was still here, in parts. “Rest assured that Moo Deng is completely safe and legal” Mickey quipped, “No HIPAA laws are violated by a doctor that has access to that information looking into it. It’s not like I’m sharing the information with anyone.” He didn’t even know what he would do with the information in all honesty. It wasn’t like he could take it to the police or his parents. They’d both think he was insane. “Besides, you shouldn’t even be worried about it. From what you’re saying there’s nothing to find there anyways, yeah?”

—

“I don’t think there’s any mystery we need to figure out,” Baz replied, picking each word carefully to avoid the burn of a lie. There were several parts working together to make it true — the I don’t think, which made it the doppelganger’s opinion, the we which included them in the ‘investigation.’ It was more than enough to satisfy the pesky rules a fae had to abide by, though it didn’t seem to be quite enough to get Mickey off their back. They wondered absently what he might do if they turned around and took off in the other direction. Would he follow them? Try to track them down later? The latter would have little effect, of course; Baz doubted they’d revisit this face again now that they knew its original owner was haunting some poor sap around town.

They would have never borrowed this face to begin with if they’d known it would lead to this sort of trouble. Baz liked to take the easy road when possible, though there were some exceptions to this rule. It might have been easier, for example, to use a face other than Sebastian’s in Wicked’s Rest, especially after Luc made his appearance. But Baz’s emotions were the only driving force bigger than their desire to make things easy on themself, and they couldn’t quite give up their friend’s features. The same problem didn’t exist with the face they wore now, of course; Baz would be happy enough to dump this form and never touch it again. “I’m not sure how else you’d explain it!” Careful words, once again: Baz didn’t know how Mickey would explain the situation before him, even if they knew the truth. “What do you think it is, then? Because I’ve told you what I think already.” About a lot of things!

There was a quiet chuckle, but the distraction attempt didn’t seem to have much more of an effect than that. They weren’t sure digging into the medical references of this face would have any way of blowing back on them, but it still felt like a risk they’d rather avoid if possible. “Well, I don’t give you permission to look at my medical records,” they tried, because maybe that was something. “In fact, I’m doing the opposite. I’m saying expressly that I don’t want you looking at my records. And it’d be awfully unprofessional for you to go peeking now that I’ve done that, yeah? It’d be an abuse of power!” Would it? It certainly sounded damning to say, though Baz wasn’t quite sure the term applied here.

—

Of course the mystery would think there was nothing mysterious going on. Mickey groaned at the lack of progress. Was this what it was like talking to him when he got his mind set on something? He could only assume Simon was just as annoyed by Mickey’s tenacity as Mickey was with theirs. It didn’t help that Simon was being especially wishy-washy. I think. Not sure. Being intentionally vague did little to make Mickey feel better or make him less intent on getting to the actual truth here. Even the hallucinations Mickey saw all around him were less infuriating than Simon. He never figured he’d reach a day where he preferred them.”You’re making this so much more difficult than it needs to be. I don’t even want to do anything about it. I just want to know why.” He wasn’t lying exactly, Mickey hated doing that, but he probably wasn’t being entirely honest either. In the moment, he did think he was happy with just an answer to the question. Mickey twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two, etc. hours from now Mickey was an entirely different story. “Clearly, if I had an idea of what it was I wouldn’t be pulling my hair out right now trying to figure it out. I think that if I know why I can see and touch you right now then maybe I’ll feel less crazy in the future.” 

Mickey half considered for a moment whether Simon actually had any say in the matter. Sure, if they didn’t want their medical records dived into the morally acceptable thing would be to leave them alone. He’d have to check with the hospital lawyers on the actual legality. “Unfortunately for you and many of my coworkers, being professional has never been my best strength.” Simon had clearly picked the wrong doctor to test it on. If anything, this year had proven that Mickey’s morality was questionable at best and mildly fucked at worst. “It does sound like you’re implying that I will find medical records for you if I look, though. Love that.” With a sigh, Mickey tried to reign in the crazy and center himself, “Look, I’m really not trying to lose it here. I’m actually usually a super chill person. Which probably seems hard to believe right now because of the whole losing my mind vibe I have going on. And I’m not trying to lose my mind. I’ve just got a lot of questions because this is a first for me. And I have to have answers. There’s actually not a line I’m not willing to cross at this point.”

—

It was a bit laughable, the idea that Mickey wanted to know just to know. Not because Baz thought people would automatically prove to be some sort of threat if they had the truth in their arsenal — they liked to imagine people were a bit more trustworthy than that — but because it wasn’t a promise one could make with only half the pieces of a puzzle. Mickey couldn’t say for certain what he’d do with an answer if he didn’t yet know what that answer was. There was every chance that he’d think nothing of it and walk away, sure… but wasn’t there just as much a chance that he’d investigate further, or tell someone something he oughtn’t, or do something, even unintentionally, that could put Baz in danger? Satisfying a stranger’s curiosity wasn’t worth any sort of personal risk for Baz, who put their own safety and well being above just about everything else. “What if I can’t tell you why?” They could, of course, but let Mickey make his own assumptions based on a question that sounded rhetorical. “What if I’m every bit as lost as you are? It’s not as if I know everything, either, you know.” Carefully chosen words, woven together in a way that wasn’t quite a lie even if they weren’t quite honest, either. “If I had any idea what was going on, don’t you think I’d say? Even if only to get you to sod off.” The stress was getting to them; they didn’t even realize they’d slipped something a little too British for their accent into the sentence.

Of course, Baz actually had no idea whether or not Mickey would find any medical records. Anything he found wouldn’t belong to Baz, but rather to the body they were currently wearing. He’d find out, at the very least, that the name Baz had given him was false, but that might not be much of a surprise. Nothing about Baz’s demeanour seemed to imply that they wanted this conversation, so giving a fake name was almost an expected result. Things would probably be fine, even if Mickey did find the medical records that went with this body. Baz shouldn’t be so worried about it; they weren’t entirely sure why they were. Residual stress from Luc, probably, or worry at the idea of having to uproot themself again, or concern that this might bring hunters to their — and, by extension, Joel’s — door. “You’re not coming across as super chill at the moment, no. I’m not sure what answers you want from me.” Would Mickey even believe the truth? It was easier to assume he wouldn’t, if only because it saved Baz from having to say it.

—

Mickey felt like he was beating his head against a wall. How many times has he considered leaving this conversation now? If Simon turned and left, would Mickey even chase him down at this point? Probably, because whatever gorilla glue had been holding Mickey’s sanity together regarding spirits and ghosts all these years seemed to be cracking and breaking apart at the moment. He probably wouldn’t have a public meltdown here on the spot, right? “What if you can’t tell me?” Mickey laughed incredulously. Playing dumb didn’t suit the stranger. “And what if I was a cowboy?” He wasn’t, for the record. He had just dressed up as one for Halloween once. And also more recently to a club. Through the annoyance, another word caught Mickey’s attention as well. “Sod off?” Mickey questioned aloud. He had heard the term before, but not from an American. He had assumed Simon had been American this entire time. “Well that’s bloody preposterous, innit?” Unable to help himself, Mickey mirrored the accent with his own flare. 

Unlike most moments in his life, Mickey was ready to give up. In a lot of ways, it was probably a miracle. If his parents had known such a thing was even possible they’d probably drive across town to give an award to Simon or the keys to the city or something. But this was clearly going nowhere. Besides, if Mickey reframed this a little, it wasn’t even necessarily giving up now was it? It was simply redirecting his curiosity in another direction. Since Simon himself wasn’t budging, his new avenue would be medical records. If he truly got desperate - and he’d really have to be fucking desperate to stoop this low - he could keep an eye out for ghost Simon by the hospital. If he reappeared, Mickey could ask the intangible version himself. “I don’t know what answers I want either, but I know that whatever you’re not answering definitely answers whatever I want to know!” another heated reply before taking another calming breath. “But you know, what? It’s fine. I’m done wasting both of our time. You, wasting mine with misdirection and unclear answers and me wasting yours with the general psychotic episode.” He held his arms up in surrender and backed off a few steps. “I’ll just find the medical records on my own time and maybe find you around the hospital or something. Have a nice before, present or after-life. Not really sure what category you fall under, honestly.” Of course Mickey was seething. It pissed him off more feeling rage like this. He wasn’t meant for this kind of anger anymore. He thought he had gotten rid of it all. “Also, I’m so fucking chill for the record. And we totally could have been chill and friends together!”

—

“Well, I’m certain you’d look very handsome in the hat, at least!” Another attempt to change the subject, because didn’t everyone like being complimented? Wasn’t that a good way to distract, to throw off the scent, to bend someone like putty into what you needed them to be? It would have probably worked on Baz, who would throw everything away for a compliment if the person delivering it seemed sincere enough. They were uncertain it would work on Mickey, who seemed to be losing himself little by little as time went on. Maybe he’d have a breakdown right here in the street, and Baz could slip away while he fell apart. The thought made their stomach churn more than they thought it ought to. They didn’t particularly like Mickey, if only because he was asking them questions they didn’t want to answer, but they weren’t sure they wanted anything unpleasant for him, either. They mostly just wanted to be left alone, which was a new thing for them. It didn’t seem like it would be happening. Mickey wouldn’t even let their brief slip into Britishism slide! “Sorry. I was raised by an English nanny!” The lie burned on their tongue, tying their stomach into knots, but maybe it would explain away the slip anyway.

Maybe they needed to cut their losses here. There was a chance that Mickey’s search might turn up something that could make Baz’s life more difficult, yes, but wasn’t there also a chance that it wouldn’t? Wasn’t there some shot that this wouldn’t blow back on them at all, that Mickey would drive himself mad looking for answers in all the wrong places and tire himself out? If Baz saw him again, they certainly wouldn’t be wearing this face. This face was one they’d retire for giving them a bit too much trouble, like that of the woman who had inspired a banshee to hold a knife to their throat for the crime of cheating fate. Maybe they should let Mickey do his digging. Maybe that was the only solution here. “You know what? Fine!” Baz threw their hands up, frustration clear. “You want to search for my medical records, you have at it! But you’re certainly not chill! And I don’t make friends with people this level of not-chill, so I doubt we would have been friends at all!” A bit childish, maybe, but Mickey deserved it a little.

—

“Don’t flirt with me now, Simon” Mickey was almost positive that this wasn’t flirting at all to begin with. He wasn’t great at flirting in the first place. People always thought he was when he wasn’t and admittedly, he rarely knew when he was actually flirting. It had something to do with him not knowing if he actually liked someone until he spent a billion hours with them. He blamed it on the fast way he made regular friends with strangers. He sped up the friendship process at the cost of the romance process. That was the working theory at least. He was certain there were no romantic feelings towards Simon. He didn’t even have friendship feelings for them, and that was truly a bad indicator for Simon, Mickey could befriend anyone. “An English nanny? What? That has nothing to do with any of this.” A bit hypocritical of Mickey to claim, considering his rambling with people hardly ever stayed on track for more than a few minutes. But now, in the heat of the moment and desperately trying to stay on topic, the constant fluctuation was infuriating. “You’re driving me around the twist, Simon.” He was pretty sure that was English slang. Maybe.

It seemed the potential relationship between the two ended here. With Simon refusing to budge on their stance of ignorance and silence and Mickey unwilling to let things go. Mickey hated this. He could be confrontational when needed, but more than anything else he didn’t like disliking people. It was such a waste of his energy that was much better served being focused elsewhere. “If you actually knew me you’d eat those words by the way! You’d be like ‘Oh you know Mickey? He’s SO cool and SO chill.’” Out of everything messing with his head today, Mickey might have taken Simon’s last comment the most personally. He probably wouldn’t on normal occasions, but today was an odd conglomeration of all the other stresses. “And once you figure out how cool and chill I am it’ll be way too late. And I’ll be off being cool and chill somewhere else with cooler chiller people. Like maybe your English nanny! I bet she’s cooler and chiller than you!”

—

“I can’t really help that, can I?” That much was true. Baz liked people. Baz often liked people a little too much, which led to a little too much flirting and a little too much of… the things that flirting led to. They didn’t really want to sleep with Mickey — at least, not now that he was making such a fuss about this whole thing. He was handsome enough (everyone in this town seemed to be attractive, though this could have been due, in part, to Baz’s tendency to find everyone they met attractive), but anything they got up to in the bedroom would probably end in Mickey dissecting them for scientific research, at this rate. And dissection wasn’t something Baz loved. They couldn’t even really stomach Grey’s Anatomy scenes that took place in the surgical suites! “Well, I don’t know what anything has to do with anything when you’re rambling like a madman!” Also true, though arguably not Mickey’s fault. Baz had never been particularly skilled in staying on topic. “Stop that. You’re being very disrespectful, you know. To my English nanny.” Who didn’t exist. Baz’s stomach twisted further with the lie.

Baz let out a laugh that was sharp and bitter and didn’t really sound much like their usual fare at all. This really wasn’t the sort of person they wanted to be. They were very laid back, most of the time! Mickey had just… gotten to them. Somehow. With his… unchillness. Yeah, that was it. Baz was frustrated at just how unchill Mickey was. “I doubt it!” Their voice came out higher than they intended it to, almost shrill. “I very much doubt that I’ll ever think of some bloke who’s spent the last ten minutes accusing me of being a ghost in the streets as chill! And my English nanny would never hang out with you, by the way. My English nanny has no interest in that!”

—

Had Mickey just made an enemy? He hated the feeling forming in his gut, spreading like vines through his stomach and up his chest. He felt nauseous and angry, but also a bit sad. As much as he didn’t like Simon, he hated the idea of hating anyone. It wasted too much energy and far too much time. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Go home and sit on his couch and stew while thinking about how mad he is at Simon? That had to be the most boring way to spend an evening Mickey could possibly imagine. This was all Simon’s fault. And obviously some of Mickey’s too but the rage was clouding that judgement. “Your English nanny would totally love me for the record. I am exactly what nannies love. I have a childlike wonder and sometimes I look a little sickly! She’d pinch my cheeks and make me soup. And a cuppa!” He desperately needed to get away from here and maybe call his sister or Oliver or literally anyone that could distract him and make him forget about the first person he’s decided to hate in like 15 years. 

—

It wasn’t often that Baz went through the trouble of binding people. They’d do it when it suited them, of course, but it was often more trouble than it was worth. People got so weird about the whole thing. They acted as though their free will had been threatened, even though they were the ones who’d made their promises to begin with! The nerve, honestly. It was astounding. In any case, it tended to turn Baz off from the habit. They rarely cared about something quite enough to risk the fallout of a bind. 

But… sometimes binds were fun. And mostly harmless. Like, for example, when they made a stranger promise not to stab them at brunch! Odds were good that the stranger would never even know Baz had bound her, and they got to eat pancakes with no fear of stabbings! It was one of those ‘everyone wins’ sort of situations! With pancakes! 

It was enough to put Baz in a good mood as they approached the small diner where they’d agreed to meet their brunch partner, fashionably late as always. He spotted her standing out front and greeted her with a wave, opening their mouth to speak the moment they were close enough to be heard. “So, I can’t say that the pancakes here are lifechanging, but I’ve done some testing and I do believe I can confidently claim that they’re the best in town. Worth something, yeah?”

—

People back home had been nice and open, but there was something about this town that was extra special. Or perhaps Madison was reading too much into things. But someone was willing to go and eat pancakes with her even though they were both strangers, and that felt good. She knew that she’d tell Marielle about it all if it went well – and neither of them were going to stab each other! Which was also a bonus. It was also a usual sort of thing, but it never hurt to know that somebody wasn’t planning on stabbing you.

The person she’d been talking to on the internet also seemed to know all the cool places in town, and it was probably important to know people who knew the cool places, and also just to know the cool places in town. She didn’t necessarily think of herself as a cool person, but if (when) Marielle visited, then it would be good to know where to take her, and the same went for whenever her family visited. 

She’d gotten there early, and they hadn’t. Which was fine. Except that there was a sort of itchiness of worry around Madison’s neck. Maybe they had decided to cancel, though she had no messages to indicate it. There was a chance they hadn’t told her, but before she was able to worry too much, they arrived and waved at her and she enthusiastically waved back. “That’s fine! It’s worth a lot! I don’t need life changing. Really good is good enough for me! Should we go inside?”

—

She was young. It was the first thing Baz took note of, the youth that seemed to roll off her in waves. Baz wasn’t particularly old themself, of course — and could technically be any age they wished to be just by borrowing the proper face — but they suspected it had been some time since their mind was the same age that this girl was now. (Their body had probably been close to her age much more recently. The maid at the Motel didn’t seem much older, really.) There seemed to be a nervous sort of energy rolling off her, and it occurred to them that being late to meet a stranger with no indication of said lateness might be misinterpreted as ghosting. Whoops. Baz shrugged off the realization. They were here now, weren’t they? No harm done.

“It’d be nice if they were life changing, though,” they hummed, sounding a bit disappointed. It was always nice to find any restaurant where the food left you thinking of it for years to come. Baz hadn’t yet found something like that in Wicked’s Rest, though they remained on the lookout. For now, though, they’d have decent pancakes with a stranger, and it’d be enough. They offered the girl a grin, nodding their head. “We certainly should!”

Moving past her, the doppelganger pulled the door open and held it, gesturing for the girl to head inside. When she did, Baz followed, steering her towards a table by the window to sit. They pulled a menu from the middle of the table, though they didn’t really need one. They’d eaten here often enough to know the options, after all. But there was something quaint about the act of opening a menu and peering through the items listed on it; Baz had always liked it. “So, anything other than pancakes catch your eye?”

—

“Oh, I agree with you absolutely about that. But it’s okay, even if it’s not. I won’t judge a place just because of that. I don’t want to be that greedy or rude, you know? But also you might be talking poorly about yourself and maybe your recommendations are even better than you think.” Madison didn’t really mind it one way or another, but it felt like the right thing to say. After all, this nice and knowledgeable person was paying for her pancakes, the very least absolute bare minimum she could do was to make them feel good about their choices and taste in this kind of thing.

They agreed to go inside with her and Madison let out a sigh of relief. She didn’t think that they would back out now, but she also didn’t not think that they wouldn’t back out, either. She followed them through the door and to the table they seemed to already have in mind (they certainly were to be trusted with recommendations if they knew the best spots to sit and opened the door for her and found a way to make the menus show up just like that). “Thanks.” Opening the menu, she scanned it quickly, before her gaze was drawn away by their question.

“I mean, some fries could be good to split, if you wanted? Or the fruit cup? I’d like to get water to drink, I don’t want to order too much since you’re being so kind about everything. Unless there’s other stuff that you’d recommend?”

—

“I never talk poorly about myself,” Baz assured her with a grin. It was mostly true. They had self deprecating thoughts, from time to time — they suspected everyone did, suspected it was the one thing that was universal across all species with any sort of sentience — but they didn’t speak those thoughts aloud. There were more than enough people willing to speak poorly about Baz. The last thing they wanted was to add their own voice to the choir. “Though I don’t find it greedy or rude to demand the best of a place, either.” Shouldn’t everything and everyone strive for excellence? Baz did, with their art. Was it so wrong to expect the same of the people making their food?

It wasn’t something they thought would lead to any sort of argument, though. In fact, Madison seemed tremendously agreeable in the way Baz had always enjoyed. They were passionate, were willing to bicker about a topic just because they had an opinion on it, but they’d never liked arguing. They much preferred to get along, to stay on everyone’s good side even if they wouldn’t sacrifice their own thoughts or opinions to ensure it. (Being liked was always secondary to being individual, for Baz. They’d spent so long unable to express their thoughts or have them heard. Nothing was more important to them than ensuring that wasn’t the case now.)

“Fries to split would be lovely,” they agreed, nodding. In truth, they didn’t mind what Madison ordered. A short time ago, maybe they’d have been more conscious of their wallet, but the cash Eden had given them in exchange for the painting at the bonfire was lining their pockets nicely. “Get whatever you like. Soda, a milkshake. It’s fine.” They were very generous, weren’t they? They would add that to the list of words they’d use to describe themself from now on.

—

“That’s pretty amazing,” Madison admitted. She wished that she could never talk poorly about herself, but that ship had sailed a long time ago. Despite the fact that her family (and friends too, if she thought about it) had been nothing but encouraging about nearly every aspect of who she was, she still managed to think poorly about herself more often than she knew she should have.

Which was a bad thought in and of itself, because she supposed that technically there weren’t any real limits to how often you could think poorly about yourself.

But she didn’t like how she felt when she did feel poorly about herself, and Baz seemed like a good person to test talking positively about herself around. Right? They were so brilliantly confident that a part of her felt jealous, but another (larger) part of her felt incredibly fascinated and drawn in. They were the sort of person who was magnetic, as her mother would have said. Marielle was too. Madison was still working on her magnetism. 

“Amazing! Fries are just always so good, I think. So if this place is as good as you say it is, and I believe that it will be, because, again, like, you’re way knowledgeable about everything, so I’m just very very excited!” She was overselling it, but they didn’t seem to be the sort of person who would mind being praised. “Okay, well, I might like a soda, if you’re sure that’s chill with you.”  

—

“Most things about me are,” they replied, grinning brightly. They liked to think it was true, because saying it didn’t twist their stomach into knots the way a lie might have, but they knew it wasn’t so simple. Generalizations didn’t count as lies; they’d found that out ages ago, and took advantage of it often. Baz could make sweeping generalizations without it being a lie, and so they did. They could say most things about them were amazing, but they doubted their stomach would be as calm if they claimed everything about them was. It didn’t matter, though. Like everything that made them feel any sort of negative emotion, they’d simply ignore that particular thought and focus on the positives instead. It was called being an optimist! Or something!

And maybe they could do some good here by convincing someone else to see the world in the same way. Young people were practical plethoras of insecurities, they’d learned. They were bundles of exposed nerves just waiting to be poked in a way that hurt, always apologetic about parts of themselves they should have been proud of. Baz didn’t know if they’d been the same as a teenager — in truth, they hardly remembered being a teenager at all — but they figured they could help this girl feel a bit better about herself. It’d be a good deed! They were great at those!

“Depends on the fries, I’d say,” they replied with a hum. “Some places make them a bit soggier than I’d like. Others don’t use enough salt — or too much salt, for that matter! There’s a certain balance you ought to shoot for, yeah? But this place does them well.” They grinned at the way she seemed to trust their knowledge implicitly, happy to be appreciated. “Sure, go ahead and get a soda.” She ought to be rewarded for recognizing Baz’s brilliance, after all.

—

“That’s good to know. I’ll make a note of that. Not a… literal one, but just like, one so I can remember this about you.” It was important to remember things about all people, and Baz seemed to fall into the category even above that, where you were just expected to remember things about them. So Madison would. She wouldn’t disappoint them (at least not too much, hopefully) and maybe they would let her hang out with them again.

She nodded. “I’m glad this place does them well – once I was somewhere and there were fries with no salt at all. I was fairly alarmed about it all, but luckily my brother taught me a trick of pouring table salt onto a plate and dipping the fries in that after they’ve been covered in ketchup.” Her siblings might not have taught her about this weird new world (to be fair to them, Madison wasn’t even really sure if they were at all aware of it, even now. She hadn’t said too much.)

“I was thinking Dr. Pepper. What are your thoughts on that?” She didn’t like that she kept asking for their thoughts on everything, but it was practically an instinct, and she also didn’t want them to waste their money on something that they found revolting. “Looks like the waitstaff are eager to come and take our order, too…”

—

Baz grinned, pleased that Madison would remember their claim, even if it wasn’t a particularly important one in the grand scheme of things. It felt as though she was listening to them when they spoke, and they liked that. Most days, being both heard and listened to was all Baz really wanted, the thing that drove them above all else. “Let me know if there’s anything I ought to remember about you, too,” they prompted, because it seemed the least they could do. Other people ought to be heard and listened to as well, especially when they were as pleasant to be around as Madison was.

They made a face at the idea of entirely saltless fries. “That sounds like a nightmare,” they said dramatically. “Never tastes quite the same when you salt them yourself, though, does it? Even if you do it with a trick like that. They have to be salted when they’re hot for it to really taste right.” They wondered if they ought to note that Madison had a brother. Were siblings the sort of things people found important to know about one another? Baz tried not to think of their own brother most days, tried not to remember him at all. It was far easier that way. 

“I like it well enough, I suppose. I could take or leave most soda. I’d like a good cup of tea, but that’s a hard thing to get on this side of the pond.” A waiter rushed over to their table rather quickly, and Baz quirked a brow. “Eager’s one word for it,” they agreed. “Go ahead and get your soda. I’m still browsing.”

—

She would have normally said that there wasn’t anything especially special to remember about her, but Baz would probably be annoyed about that, what with them really wanting her to act more confident and all. So instead she shrugged and said, “I’ll be sure to let you know. But right now, I’m content with knowing and remembering things about you.” Madison meant it, too. She didn’t lie often – though of course some lying just happened, sometimes (it didn’t mean she liked it) – but she wasn’t lying right now.

At least, she hoped she wasn’t lying. But she’d know if she were lying, right? Right. 

“It was very unpleasant, yes. Also yes – salting them yourself isn’t the same, even though it was a saving grace in that particular case.” She nodded in agreement.

They were fine with the soda choice, and it didn’t seem as though Madison had a whole lot of space to change her mind as it was, because the waiter came rushing over (and double checked that things were good with Baz – which made sense! They had that sort of vibe around them, and they also seemed to be someone who people stared at – probably because they were beautiful). “I’d like a Dr. Pepper, please,” she began. “Um, and some fries – to share. Also some pancakes. If one of them could have blueberries, that’d be real neat, but no worries if it’s too much trouble. Thanks.” She folded her menu and waited for Baz to take their turn.

—

Baz nodded, unsure if they really cared one way or another. If Madison told them something about herself that she wanted them to remember, they’d do their best to do so. But if she chose not to, that was her prerogative, too. Baz wouldn’t push someone into letting them be kind, because kindness was never their first instinct, anyway. They’d just as soon stick with being self-serving. It wasn’t as if anyone else was serving them. (Well, aside from the waitstaff at the restaurant, who were quite literally preparing to serve them right this instant. But that was a different sort of serving! It didn’t count!)

“At least salting them yourself is preferable to eating them with no salt at all,” they agreed, though it still didn’t sound ideal to them. Baz would prefer things be absolutely perfect. They rarely were.

They looked the menu up and down as Madison ordered, only half listening to what she got. The soda, the fries, the pancakes — it was all more or less what they’d discussed. “I’ll also do te pancakes,” they said, looking up at the waitress. “Chocolate chips in mine, though. And bacon on the side, yeah?” They looked back at the menu with a hum. “How’s your tea here, love?” The waiter shrugged, which Baz took to mean not great. “Ah, figures. Water’s fine, then.”

—

She was just happy to be hanging out with someone who she hadn’t forced to hang out with her. Baz wouldn’t be spending time with her if they didn’t want to. She felt like a cool kid sitting at the cool kids’ table in high school. She’d been a jock in high school, and she’d let people copy her math homework, so she’d been relatively cool, but not naturally – not like Cindy James. Who she just might have had a crush on. It had never become anything, but it was still something, and she was really cool.

Madison wished that the tea here was better, because then Baz would be extra happy, but they didn’t seem all too fussed about it, and so she wouldn’t bother herself too much, either. She thanked the waiter again before they went away and she looked back over at Baz. “If there’s anything else I can do to thank you, please let me know! This is really really nice!” She was just being herself – and they seemed to appreciate that, and she did really hope that maybe they’d want to hang out again sometime.

The waiter brought over their drinks and Madison took a sip of hers. “Thanks for recommending this place, and for taking me here!”

—

They’d never cared about younger people one way or another. Perhaps it was because their relationship with their own age was a complex thing — Baz didn’t entirely identify with being in their late twenties, because they could choose to be any other age at any other time — but they’d never thought it daunting or flattering when a younger person looked up to them. Although… they’d never really had a younger person look up to them before, had they? There was something to the way Madison looked at them now, though. Like their opinion mattered to her, like it was important. They liked that. They were certain of that much, in any case.

That didn’t mean they wouldn’t take advantage when it suited them, though. They hummed at Madison’s offer, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, maybe we say you owe me a favor?” They offered, flashing a grin. Always good to have something like that in your back pocket, even if it was coming from someone who might not have very much to offer. 

They nodded as the waitress brought their drinks, flashing Madison another smile. “Of course,” they said. “Good to know what places are worth visiting, yeah?”

—

“Absolutely! I owe you a favor! Any sort you might need!” That felt too easy, but she’d make sure to remind them of it, if they forgot. Not that Madison thought that Baz seemed like someone who’d forget that someone else had given them a favor, but fair was fair. Except for sometimes on the soccer field, but even then she still followed the rules of the game! That was just how things worked!

She took another couple sips of her drink.

“I agree. It’s nice to get out, too.” Madison looked over toward the kitchen, eager for the fries and the pancakes too. Maybe these foods would be a little bit of extra luck to help her win her next soccer game. She couldn’t guarantee it, but maybe magic also existed, if people like her did. That only made sense.

She held up her plastic glass. “To new friends.”

—

Ah, there was that lovely bind! Baz plucked the promise from the air and wrapped it around their metaphorical finger, tucking it into their pocket for safe keeping. They weren’t sure if it would really come in much handy — Madison seemed like a perfectly normal teenager, and perfectly normal teenagers weren’t really known for being particularly useful — but one could never have too many people owing them favors. You never knew when something like this might come in handy.

“Always nice to be out and about,” they agreed with a grin, lifting their cup and tapping the edge of it against hers. “And to make new friends.” They meant it, too. Baz wouldn’t hesitate to use the promise if it came down to it, but that didn’t mean they didn’t like Madison. They liked her quite a bit. They just… like contingency plans, too. 

Baz didn’t typically notice when they were followed. It was something one might assume they’d be better at, given their tendency towards running away from their problems, but they weren’t often the most observant person around. They didn’t know their father found them in London until he was inside their flat, didn’t know Sebastian knew they were sleeping in an alley until he stood at the mouth of it, didn’t often realize someone was trailing behind them until that someone made themselves known in one way or another. It was the sort of thing they thought they might try to get better at eventually, but getting better also sounded like more work than they were interested in. 

Maybe they had improved to a certain extent, though, because he was fairly certain the pretty brunette a few paces back was following them. It wasn’t something they were particularly worried about, in all honesty; they weren’t even wearing their normal face today, had tried on another with long dark hair and a nice button nose. They’d brushed against the woman a few weeks ago and worn her face out once or twice because they liked it, because the hair was pretty and the jaw was grand and the eyes were a color so different from Sebastian’s. The woman following Baz now wouldn’t know their face tomorrow, which meant it didn’t matter that she was behind them now. Losing her in a crowd and sauntering on home to let this problem remain someone else’s would be a simple thing. 

Intent on doing just that, Baz practically skipped down the street towards Downtown, where the crowd was sure to be thicker. He doubted the woman would try anything before then, mostly because Baz also had a habit of doubting danger before it arrived. (A wiser person might suggest that this was why Baz ended up in situations like the one that had chased them from London; Baz was never much interested in wisdom.) 

—

Lady Something-Or-Other was supposed to die. Siobhan had seen it during one of her boning excursions, when the woman stomped by with those pointy-walky sticks the humans used (Siobhan had always wanted to kill someone with them; tenderize them like a slab of chicken breast…incidentally, Siobhan had missed lunch that day). Lady Something-Or-Other was going to fall into a hole. This was not an exciting death—all things considered—but a death was a death. Siobhan put it in her calendar, which was inside her calendar tent, which she lost. Still, she remembered the date, thanks to the rhyme that she came up with on the spot: at the end of May (perhaps on a Wednesday), think of your stroll, and the lady and the hole. Unfortunately, around the end of May, she was attacked, in a most egregious act, by leprechauns. So, she’d forgotten about it. Until she saw the woman, walking around, bouncing brown hair, decidedly not dead. 

Instinct drove Siobhan forward, even the worst of banshees—which wasn’t her, that was Regan—needed to act when Fate was disobeyed. The humans wouldn’t get it: this was catastrophic, apocalyptic. The thing of plagues and earthquakes and spontaneous tornados and the kind of days where it looked like it was going to rain, but then it didn’t rain, but you planned your whole day around it raining. It was her duty, regardless of who looked on (if a Siobhan does good without a family to clap for her, does it make a sound), regardless of if anyone understood it. Saving the world was a tragically thankless task. 

Siobhan sped up; the woman was moving fast. Once they arrived Downtown, it would be harder to steal her away somewhere private to be murdered (was it still murder if… Honestly, Siobhan was tired of making that point). And tired of the pain, Siobhan flicked off her heels and continued following barefoot. The click, click, click of her heels that punctuated the air vanished, leaving a heavy silence except for the woman’s… Fates, was she skipping? Once close enough, Siobhan burst into a sprint and lunged forward, snapping her hand on Lady Something-Or-Other’s shoulder. A chill trickled up her spine—rain gone the wrong way. A fae. Her grip on the woman’s shoulder tightened. “Darling,” she said. Now was the difficult part: she couldn’t just stab her here. The streets weren’t exactly bustling but even without that, cars zipped by often, and the windows around them loomed with voyeuristic possibilities. She couldn’t risk some other fae seeing either—she cared about it more than a human recounting her boobaciousness to the police—they wouldn’t understand that the woman was meant to die, they hadn’t seen it, and how much trust would any of them be willing to give her? Yes, she had to kill this fae, and also all those leprechauns. Yeah, it’d really go over well. 

“Darling,” Siobhan said again, walking around so she was in front of her, staring into her blue eyes. Her hand was still on her shoulder. What was a reliable way to get someone to follow you somewhere private? Siobhan thought about it, then mustered as sweet of a smile as she could. She asked, “want to fuck?” 

—

The footsteps behind them faded, the sound stopping in a way that allowed Baz a small sigh of relief. They hadn’t been worried, exactly, but it was nice not to be followed. What bothered them more, really, was the fact that they’d noticed the footsteps at all. Baz had met a lot of people who responded to less-than-ideal circumstances with a bit too much paranoia to be fun. They let it twist its way into their heads, let it turn them to nervous wrecks. Baz had always vowed that that wouldn’t be them. They wouldn’t be someone who jumped at their own shadow, someone who thought every stranger out there was planning on depositing a knife in their gut. That was such a boring way to be, wasn’t it? 

It was stupid that they’d noticed the person trailing behind them. It was silly. They’d have to rectify it in the future… somehow. Perhaps if they put more of an effort into not thinking about unpleasant things like their father waiting in their flat in London the day Sebastian had died, or the warden that chased them down the street and promised to find them again the moment the witnesses became too much for him to handle, it would help. Baz needed only to push those thoughts from their mind, and they’d be fine. Things still existed when you weren’t looking at them, but didn’t they matter so much less? Trees that fell in the forest when no one was there might make a sound, but the sound was swallowed up by the dirt, anyway, so who really cared? 

So — yes. Yes, Baz would spare the footsteps and the warden and their father no more thought. Baz would go downtown, still, but not because they were running from anything. They’d like to check out the clubs, like to find someone to go home with tonight, like to prove to themself and to everyone else that they weren’t the sort of dull, uninteresting person who worried they were being followed when they were just walking down the street.

They were probably already pretty successful at pushing the thought from their mind, because they didn’t realize anyone was still behind them until a hand landed on their shoulder. There was a quiet jolt down their spine, a familiar thing. Fae. Not as welcome a sight to Baz as it might have been to other fae — growing up as they had, with their father and his iron (ha) fist, had sort of killed the sense of community that some fae had with one another. Baz didn’t dislike other fae, but they didn’t feel an immediate kinship with them, either. Still, fae was a touch better than warden, so they flashed the woman a grin that stretched their borrowed lips thin. 

The woman spoke — nice lilt to her voice there. Irish? Baz loved the Irish! — seemingly uncertain of what she wanted to say until she said it. But when she got it out, any remaining uncertainty melted away. Ah, a come on. A bit forward, but maybe she was from one of those secluded, off-in-the-woods communities. Nymphs loved those, didn’t they? Others, too, presumably. Baz preferred to be amongst people, of course, and his father and the rest of their family had needed them to feed, but most fae weren’t as gung-ho about humanity, so it made sense, in a way. In any case, it saved Baz some trouble; they wouldn’t have to find someone to go home with if this woman was offering. She was gorgeous, too, all dark eyes and long hair. Those out-in-the-woods communities were usually all about… group activities, too, weren’t they? That probably meant the woman had experience! 

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” the doppelganger purred, leaning in a little closer to the woman. “I’d ask ‘your place or mine,’ but I’ve a roommate who might take offence to the intrusion. Got a spot nearby, love?” The woman they were impersonating wasn’t English, but it was difficult to drop the slang sometimes. In any case, it likely wouldn’t register as strange. Americans loved appropriating English slang! It was trendy!

—

And now would come the hard work; once upon a time it had been fun. Convincing people to sleep with her was itself a game, and was itself a dance, and was a delicate art of— “What?” Siobhan blinked. The woman leaned in and Siobhan leaned back reflexively, shocked, before she remembered that she was trying to flirt and leaned back in. The university was close; they were going towards Downtown anyway. Could Siobhan stomach a conversation of pretend interest? She imagined being touched, she imagined the woman leaning in, she imagined being wanted. Her skin burned; bile clawed up from her stomach, transforming her esophagus into the bubbling channel of a volcano. She could pretend; acting was a skill she learned before she could spell her first word: acting good, acting quiet, acting clean. Acting was breathing. Acting was supposed to be breathing. 

It was desire that was the issue; desire the thing that burned; desire that twisted her innards and made it impossible to reknit the bloody fabric of what she was supposed to be—the word, the idea, the thing that had ruined her life. Or maybe it was the lack of control? This reaction wasn’t her doing, all she’d done was ask. Or maybe it was the lie? Siobhan didn’t want to sleep with this person, she was going to kill them, and she had strict rules about sleeping with people she was going to kill: she didn’t do it. But, so often had she played this exact scenario—yes, it was easier to lead a man to his death if he thought he was going to look at your breasts. Maybe it was the simple thing instead: she was getting what she wanted, without a fight, and that never happened. How could you know you earned something if it didn’t hurt? Or maybe it was something else—the impossible thing inside of her that she has never given a name—or maybe it was all of it, or a mix of things, or maybe it was the time of day, or the season, or the year she’d had. 

No, Siobhan wouldn’t be able to stomach the walk down to the university. “How about a shag in the alley? Call me old fashioned.” She gestured to the damp, cramped space between the buildings beside them. Even from where they stood, it reeked of sun-bathed garbage. “I just can’t wait, all that. You’re familiar: blah, blah, blah, I’ve never seen a woman so beautiful before, blah, blah, horny now.” Again, she gestured to it. “Come on, love, before I dry up.” 

—

There was something about the woman’s reaction to Baz’s acceptance of the proposition. Baz leaned forward and she leaned back, even if she leaned towards them again a heartbeat later. There was a hint of uncertainty to her eyes, a quiet thing that seemed strange given her forwardness before. It was possible, Baz supposed, that she’d asked without expecting affirmation. It was possible that she’d asked the same way one might jokingly ask a stranger to share their food when walking by, possible that she’d meant it as a joke rather than a serious thing. It was also possible that she’d thought she’d need to work for it a bit more; Baz was easier to get into bed than most, after all, and if she’d prepared to put in the work only to realize it was no longer necessary she might be readjusting now.

But Baz wasn’t sure any of that was the case. They were well versed in being in a position where the thing that was expected of you was not the thing you wanted. They looked in her eyes for a moment, made note of all the uncertainty there. The crudeness of her words didn’t quite match that expression. She didn’t want a quick shag in the alley; Baz doubted she wanted to fuck at all. And they weren’t interested in someone who wasn’t interested in them, no matter what body they wore. 

So, they’d let her off the hook. They smiled, waved a hand, shook their head. “Ah, I’m not sure that’s up my alley,” they said, doing their best to sound apologetic even with the pun. “Sure you’ll find someone interested, though. You’re lovely, really. Bound to get an alley shag by the end of the night, if that’s what you want.” They emphasised the last bit a little, though they weren’t nearly invested enough to open up the conversation in earnest. Whatever had her out here propositioning strangers for things she didn’t really want, it wasn’t Baz’s problem to solve.

—

Rejection! Much more palatable. Siobhan smiled, swelling with relief; being disliked had always suited her. “Thank you.” She touched her chest, forgetting for a moment that she was here to kill this person. It was a sweet exchange, she thought, she appreciated being told that she could find someone else. She knew she ought to be acting offended, as she usually did—I’m so beautiful, gazing upon me should cause spontaneous death—but she was a fae, this woman was a fae, she could drop a layer or two. It took Siobhan a few silent seconds to remember who she was, where she was, what she had to do. She could insist on the alley again, but begging for sex was a level of pathetic Siobhan hoped she would never drop to, and couldn’t force herself to entertain. 

“I’ll cut to the chase,” she said. Siobhan pulled out a knife, it sang as she whipped it from its sheath. The shiny metal caught the woman’s reflection, and then Siobhan’s smiling face. This was much better. “I’m here to kill you. Not fuck you. Sorry!” She blinked like an innocent doll in a shop window. “It’s you, not me. And fae to fae?” She leaned in, full of interest, pressing the knife to the woman’s throat. “Being English is embarrassing, love.” 

—

The woman smiled, and Baz smiled back. Better this way, really. Random hookups were only fun when every party involved was very enthusiastically into what was happening, and despite having been the one to float the idea, the woman in front of them now seemed happier to be let off the hook than she had been at the idea of actually going through with her offer. This, Baz thought, was proof that they were a good person, wasn’t it? They were good with people. They’d recognized what this woman had really wanted, and they’d handed it to her on a silver platter. Didn’t that make them decent? Didn’t that mean they were someone who deserved good things, who had earned a life where they got what they wanted? 

Evidently not.

Rather than the universe aligning and delivering Baz all the wonderful things they deserved on a pretty crystal plate, the woman pulled a knife on them. The knife pressed against the skin of their borrowed throat, and the fear shining in Baz’s eyes was just as real as the cool metal of the blade. They scrambled back until their back hit the wall, throwing their hands up between themself and the woman as if it would make much of a difference. It wouldn’t. Baz didn’t know how to fight. But they could talk their way out of most situations. They figured they’d earned some good will, and being fae must have earned them a little more still. They could still worm their way out of this the same way they wormed their way out of everything. “Whoa, hey, let’s talk this through! If you’re after money, I’m afraid I can’t help you much, but I’ve some lovely paintings I’d be willing to part with in exchange for my life! Perhaps a poem or two? I’d be happy to sketch you, which would be rather difficult for me to do if you cut my throat. Blood would get on the paper, yeah? A whole mess.” Their smile faltered a bit. “It’s not my fault I’m English.” A beat. “And I’m not English. I’m American.” The lie twisted their stomach into knots, but the American accent that came with this body made it sound true, anyway.

—

“Darling, there’s nothing to talk through.” The more fear there was, the more desperation, the more backing up, the more meaningless barriers created by fleshy hands against her, the woman holding the knife, the better Siobhan felt. “Wanting to be English, you idiot. Wearing it like a skin. Throwing around your love and…” What had the woman said? She was English? No, she was American, like her accent. The discrepancy was probably nothing, and the sudden pained expression was a by-product of the situation. Siobhan tapped the woman’s middle finger with her knife. “Don’t you want to know why I’m doing this? Usually people ask why first and then get to the begging.” Siobhan frowned. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more irregular this was. People were confused, angry, scared, all before they turned to bargaining. Was it the fae side of the woman that felt the need to make a deal? Or had she expected this? These were the actions of someone who didn’t want to die, but not someone who didn’t understand why someone wanted to kill them. 

“How pathetic are you? You jumped right into the begging.” Siobhan rolled her eyes. “Oh, of course: paintings, poems, sketches.” Siobhan was dealing with muse; cursed forever to be tasteless and unappreciative of true beauty. The trouble all started when Siobhan was ten, and she made a self-portrait out of dead worms. A muse told her it was ugly. Siobhan had never forgotten it. Fucking muses. “At least argue a little. Do you think I want a poem? Do I look like someone that likes poems?” Siobhan did, in fact, love poetry. And the offer was, in fact, quite tempting.

—

Wanting to be English. Right. That was a little pathetic, probably, if not for the fact that the only reason Baz didn’t have the accent to match their phrasing of choice was because the face they were wearing didn’t come with one. Which they supposed begged the question — were they English at all? They’d grown up in London, sure, but the moment they took on someone else’s appearance, they took on their voice, too, and — actually, that wasn’t important right now. Focus. Yeah. Baz ought to be focusing. Namely, they thought, on the knife of it all. Focusing on the knife would be wise. And, actually, the woman holding the knife made a good point. Why was she doing this? Plenty of people had attacked Baz in the past — they thought of their father at their flat in London, thought of the way Sebastian’s neck sounded when it snapped, and then forced themself to think of anything but, because they had no desire whatsoever to think of memories that made them uncomfortable — but Baz had always at least known why. They had no recollection of this woman at all. And if she’d worked for their father, she’d have been more interested in hauling them back to England than killing them. So maybe the why was important here. “Okay,” they agreed with a nod. “Okay, yeah. Why are you doing this?” Maybe her problem wasn’t with them at all? If the mask they were wearing was an issue, Baz was more than happy to change.

They just… needed to be able to concentrate well enough to do that. Which was hard, as it turned out, with the knife between them. Baz had never liked knives much, preferred a paintbrush to a blade any day of the week, but this woman seemed fond of hers. “Oh, I’m exactly as pathetic as I need to be to keep you from using that very lovely knife on me. Do you want me on my knees? Begging isn’t my favorite thing to do down there, but I’m happy to give it a go.” If they endeared themself to her, was she less likely to stab them? Baz was good at endearing themself to strangers. It had gotten them a place to live in London with Sebastian; maybe it could get them out of this situation stab-free, too. “Everybody likes poems. The only people who don’t haven’t heard the right one yet. Come on, I haven’t done anything to you! And you’re fae! It’s not as if you’re a warden. You and me, we should be sticking together, yeah? We’d make a great team! You do the stabbing, I do the running away. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

—

“There you go! Good girl!” Siobhan smiled. “Happy you asked. Don’t you feel better now?” She threw the knife from one hand into the palm of the other. She threw a glance up to a dark window; the sun caught it in such a way that all she could see was the sheen of glass. She looked down at the cowering woman. “I’m here to kill you because it has to happen. Does that clear things up?” Siobhan slashed, catching the front of her shirt, spreading a jagged gash across the fabric. “I do like it when people beg.” She hadn’t decided on how she wanted to do it yet; she was playing with the visuals. A brick wall always brought to mind a bashed skull, but the way her shirt ripped brought to mind the tearing of flesh. Siobhan had always loved the way a sharp knife could peel layers of skin like parting theatre curtains: the show on the stage was all the beating bits inside a body—what if she ripped her heart out? What if she laid her down and butchered her like a caught rabbit? Flesh, muscle, meat. Blood, bones, sinew. 

It was easy in those moments when the world was as real as a breeze—when another body seemed to her like a character—to imagine all manner of things. In the cold realm of Death, facing the truth of murder, bodies always turned into people. Very Cinderella, she’d always thought: the magic was undone, the ball was over, there was a mess she ought to clean. And there she went! Thinking about stories! The woman’s talk of poetry mixed up her thoughts. The use of “fae” snapped Siobhan’s attention back. The word transformed into an insult inside another mouth; the emphasis was a jab, not a plea. What was the cardinal rule of a fae? What was it that Fate made impossible in their biology? Fae didn’t hurt other fae, fae couldn’t even feed off other fae. 

Siobhan lunged forward, pressing the woman against the rough brick, levelling the tip of her knife to her chest. Her smile was dead. “Give me a poem then, if you’re so keen,” she whispered, “for your sake, make it a good one.” 

—

Mmmm, bit worrying that being called a good girl still sent a thrill through them, even with the knife between them. What could they say? Baz loved a bit of praise from a pretty face, even when that face seemed to think they ought to die. “Well, I’d feel a lot better if you weren’t trying to kill me, I think.” It had to happen? What did that even mean? Baz flinched as the knife ripped through the fabric of their shirt, allowing the warm air to touch against borrowed skin. “Well, I don’t think it has to happen! In fact, I’ve got other plans today. Other things I’d like to get done. I was going to go to the farmer’s market. I’d invite you to tag along, but I’m not sure I’m enjoying your company much anymore. Sorry, bit rude, but you are being a bit of a pain. First you want to fuck, then you don’t, now you’re cutting my clothes off. Very indecisive!” They were afraid. Their heart was pounding, their blood rushing, their hands shaking. They were afraid, but they were so good at pretending they weren’t. When you grew up in an oppressive house with an angry man, you got good at swallowing your fear. But swallowing it wasn’t the same as getting rid of it entirely. The fear was still there, even when you’d pushed it down deep. 

They doubted seeing the fear would have done much to change this woman’s mind. She seemed very set on her goal as she pushed Baz against the wall, pressing the knife to their chest. She must have felt the way their heart thumped against her hand. The frustrating thing, Baz thought, was that she was still beautiful. The light bounced off her hair, her eyes shone with a quiet excitement, and they were terrified of her but they wanted to paint her a little bit, too. 

They were caught off guard, a little, when she asked for a poem. Her smile was dead, eyes still shining with that joyous thrill of a predator ready to tear into its prey, and they didn’t think the poem would make any difference. They didn’t think their words could convince her not to drive the knife home, but they were scared and they were desperate and they had to try.

“Won’t be my best work. Bit distracted by the knife and all. But I’ll give it a go.” They flashed a nervous smile, clearing their throat before launching into it.

“Death rides a pale horse, And wields a brutal knife. She stays her bitter course, And fights her bitter fight. But ‘neath resolve and boldness, Is a heart inside her chest. A beat dissolves her coldness, And allows that course a rest.”

They’d been right: it wasn’t their best work, but then they weren’t usually coming up with poems on the spot with a knife to their chest. They gave the woman a small, hopeful smile, heart still pounding. Maybe she would change her mind… or maybe Baz could find some other way to weasel out of this while she was pretending to mull things over.

—

Fear had a mesmeric quality for Siobhan; to hold it was a thrill of power, to know it was hers. She could play with it, twist it, send it away with a spank on the arse if she wanted to. Yet, a lingering pathetic impulse remained: what if she soothed the worry? What if she set her knife down, cooed like a mother—not her own, for certain—and promised things would be okay. Siobhan was certain that that was far from anything she wanted to do and yet. What if? What if she hugged her? Held her? Patted her back? What if she became someone she wasn’t, for just this one moment, for a new sort of thrill? A thrill she had long since wondered about: affection. Siobhan’s knife quivered. 

It was always a terrible thing to let her mind wander. She was happy to be distracted by a bad poem. Sorry. A bad poem, she thought. Was thinking. Was hoping for. Siobhan touched her chest. She did coo, not so much like a mother, but like an awed child. “That was lovely,” she said. She pulled her knife away. “And it rhymed! Did you come up with that on the spot, love? How darling. Truly, I am impressed.” Siobhan stepped back, half a mind to just walk away now; a queen pleased by her court jester. “I find myself… sad that I need to kill you,” she confessed. “You see, I screamed for you some days ago—don’t ask me how many days—and yet… here you are.” No one had ever made a poem for her before. Yes, it was happening under threat of death but most of Siobhan’s fondest memories happened that way. She turned her face away, chewing the inside of her cheek. “You rhymed ‘horse’ with ‘course’,” she said. “Such bold acts of simple rhyming have not been seen outside of Rhymes-dot-com and yet… transgressive. Inspired.” And only interesting to Siobhan because it was hers—Siobhan was aware of the bias. And yet… And yet…

Siobhan couldn’t quite meet the woman’s eyes. “You truly are a leanan-sidhe, aren’t you? You have such a talent for words.” Siobhan waved her knife around as she spoke. “Rhyming ‘knife’ with ‘fight.’ Honestly, I’m not sure those words even rhyme. What a bold statement! To use two words that don’t rhyme and thus break your own rhyme scheme. The foundational principles of the quatrain poem quiver; only a genius could break the rules of poetry so expertly.” Really, wasn’t it so nice that someone had made a poem just for her? The poem's actual content was completely unimportant to her. —  

Regardless of how shaky the poem had been, how far it was from Baz’s usual fare, the woman seemed to have enjoyed it. Fascinatingly, she liked it enough to pull the knife back, and Baz took a breath big enough to fill their lungs completely for the first time since the metal had found their torso. It wasn’t an obvious relief, wasn’t a gulping gasp or a loud sigh, but it was clear enough that they were more comfortable without a knife threatening to gut them than they had been with it firmly in place. They liked not facing down the threat of death. That was their preferred state of being. They liked to think it was a popular opinion to have.

“On the spot, yeah,” they confirmed. “Could do a better one with a few day’s notice.” And without a knife in the middle of it all. “Other sorts of art, too. Painting, sketches. I’m not the best at crochet, but I’d be happy to make you a hat if you promise not to kill me.” A clumsy attempt at a bind that he doubted this woman would fall for. Whatever sort of fae she was, she was an experienced one. (But why was she trying to kill other fae? Weren’t most of them all about the togetherness of it all? What was the point of this silly little sense if it didn’t even stop other fae from gutting them?)

The woman stepped back, and Baz inched away, though not enough to be obvious. They could probably outrun her long enough to get somewhere more public, but how much would that matter? What if she’d be willing to kill them, even in the midst of a crowd? Better not to risk it just yet, not when they’d just succeeded in calming her some. 

“You don’t need to kill me!” They insisted. “You – Wait.” She’d screamed for them? Wasn’t that a banshee thing? Screaming for… something. It didn’t matter much. What mattered was… “You screamed for this face? Some days ago?” Some days ago, Baz hadn’t even had this face in their arsenal yet! They’d only stumbled upon the woman recently, taken her face when they’d seen her. If this banshee (?) had screamed for her before that… 

Baz grinned, finally seeing the way through. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake here, love. See, some days ago, I wasn’t wearing this face. Happy to give you a demonstration if you’d like, but I think you’ve got me a bit confused with someone else. I’m not a leanan-sidhe. I’m a doppelganger. Do you know what those do?” If she did, she might need no more explanation, and the two of them could be on their merry ways. If she didn’t, Baz could demonstrate, and the end result would be the same.

—

Siobhan froze, her knife dangling between her fingers like the wagging tongue of a dog. “I’m sorry?” She blinked. The information crawled into her mind, settling in slowly. It made everything fit. It made everything fit very well. Now that she thought about it, the woman she remembered screaming for wasn’t a fae at all. Siobhan’s memory was fuzzy on the particulars; time had that nasty effect on the brain. “I see,” she said. Siobhan put her knife away. Then her hands snapped out, and she pinched the woman’s cheeks. No, not woman. Doppelganger. Fates, how could she have been so stupid! She pulled at their face. “Of course I know what a doppelganger does, you dimwitted British-wannabe! Why aren’t you wearing a sign? You can’t just run around with a new face without a sign! A warning! This is your fault!” Siobhan released them and wiped her hands on her shirt, frowning. “Honestly, you can’t lead people on like this. What goop raised you?” Siobhan jerked her finger at them, her cheeks inflamed. She felt as though some elaborate joke had been played on her. “I would have a word with your blob-mother but frankly, I don’t know how you lot reproduce and frankly, I don’t want to know.” She groaned and spun on her heel, pulling at her hair. “This is your fault! Your fault! I wasted my time!” Siobhan spun around again. “Where is she? The woman whose face you’re wearing? Where did you see her last?” — The knife went away, which was a lovely development. Baz found he liked the woman better without a knife dangling between her fingers. It was a bit interesting, too, that that was all it took; that she’d only wanted to kill Baz for the face they were wearing, even though it was still the face of a stranger. Maybe they ought to read up on banshees to determine why. (They wouldn’t. Information on banshees was notoriously difficult to come by, and Baz was too lazy to put forth much effort.)

They made a face as hands came up to pinch their borrowed cheeks, but they didn’t pull away. They even let the woman tug at their skin, indulging her if only to keep the knife wherever it had been tucked away to instead of pressed against them. “The face is still attached, love,” they told her, voice sounding a bit odd with her hands still pulling at their skin. “Few things there. First, I am British. This woman isn’t, but that’s her fault more than mine. Second, a sign would be a bit of a bother, wouldn’t it? I’d have to match all my outfits to it, and I’m sure the wardens would have something to say. Third, I wasn’t actually raised by goop. I’m disappointed by it, too, trust me.”

With that out of the way, Baz let themself relax a bit. The threat to take things up with their mother, blob or otherwise, didn’t bother the doppelganger much. Now that the knife was gone, nothing really could. “I didn’t ask you to chase me down with a knife, now did I?” They waved a hand, shrugging a shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know. No more than a few days ago, somewhere around town. I don’t remember now. Why? Are you looking to hunt her down and kill her? Because I don’t think I’ll be much help — I never even got her name.”

—

“Disgusting,” Siobhan said, though at exactly which part about this person she found disgusting, she did not clarify. “And I suppose not growing up in a proper goop community has contributed to your lack of decency.” Her mental image of doppelgangers was that of blubbering goo-blobs jiggling around like drops of water—as far as the image had been painted to her by other banshees, of course. They jiggled and blorbled in whatever insipid doppelganger language they had. She wondered if they had bones. How did the face-snatching work, again? They absorbed people into their goop and then spat them out? Or was it an intricate goop dance? Siobhan thought about it and then decided she didn’t care. Unless they did have bones. 

Siobhan’s cheeks lit up again, that flaming red creeping up into the tips of her ears. “You insolent—!” She reached out to pinch them again but thought better of it, her hands curled like claws in the air. “I’m trying to make sure she’s dead!” Siobhan groaned. “I would kill you now if it wasn’t blasphemous.” What did it matter to her? She’d killed those leprechauns, she was still swatting them away, what difference did killing one annoying doppelganger make in terms of her sins? Oh, but she’d already put the knife away; it would be too much work to take the knife out again. 

There were a lot of things that Baz was experiencing for the first time only now that they had left their father’s house. The freedom to do what they wanted, when they wanted fell towards the top of the list and was accompanied by a thrill each and every time. The ability to focus on their art without judgment, the way they could choose not to do something for a reason as simple as not feeling like doing it, the knowledge that there was no one to punish them when they failed… It was exhilarating. Baz had never known what they were missing until they had it in their grasp, and had no intentions of letting it go now.

But that wasn’t to say there weren’t downsides. There was one pretty substantial one, big enough that it was a practical neon sign blinking over everything they did: Baz was broke. They had enough money to help Joel out with rent — sometimes — and made sure there was enough to buy the supplies for their art, but beyond that? Their wallet was dry and dusty. It was sad, really. A damn tragedy.

Luckily for them, there were ways around it. 

Their father had mostly used them for their doppelganger abilities. It was a given, of course; that was why he’d wanted them to begin with, why he’d gotten them. He was always ready to remind them of that, always prepared to make sure they knew their place. But in order to make them as useful as they could be, Franklin had made sure they were skilled in other aspects of faedom, too. Namely, word binds. Baz was practiced in turning a promise into a pair of handcuffs, in making deals and ensuring that they were stuck to. They didn’t have to use it as often now as they had back before they’d moved to the States, but it was still a hell of a thing to fall back on. 

Today, they figured they’d put it to good use. Namely, they were hoping to get some new paints despite their empty wallet. Baz stood outside Periwinkle, carefully eyeing each passerby. This one looked too poor to buy anything decent, that one looked too stuck up to stop and talk, they refused to speak to a man in a fedora on principle alone. There was a familiar face that seemed promising, and Baz was about to head towards her when a more tempting target made himself known. 

The man looked wealthy, and plenty stuck up. He reminded Baz a little of their father, which eliminated any guilt they might have felt in binding him. With a grin, they sauntered past the woman and up to the man. “Good morning! I was wondering if you were in the mood for a game?”

—

Xóchitl wasn’t exactly sure why she was over by Periwinkle Paints, but art was supposedly good for you, even if she wasn’t an especially excellent artist, but it was a place to go and sometimes that was good enough for her. It wasn’t a bar and the universe should have been proud of her for that one. She wasn’t sure if she was exactly proud of herself, but that was something else for her to choose not to analyze. There were far better things to do with her time outside of thinking too much about what her actions meant and whether or not the choices she made for herself were good ones. That wasn’t fun, and she was determined to have fun today.

She found herself walking slowly, waiting to go inside – spotted a familiar face – the one who she’d rented out a hotel room for. They’d been more than worth it, just as they’d claimed to be – and of course, you couldn’t always take people at their word, especially when it came to claimings of how good they were in bed. But still, it was refreshing when people weren’t lying, and seeing them again here was unexpected but not unwelcome.

Except for the fact that they walked right by her and up to another man, asking if he was in the mood for some sort of game. Xóchitl’s eyes narrowed for a moment. She wanted to hear about what sort of game this might be (and why she hadn’t been asked to play), and so instead of walking directly into the store, she pulled out her phone and scrolled aimlessly through various apps, listening in to see what this person – Baz – would do next.

—

Normally, Baz might have at least stopped to talk to Xóchitl. She’d been fun enough, after all, and they wouldn’t mind a repeat of the night they’d spent together in the hotel room she’d rented out. But right now, the doppelganger was on a mission. There would be time to invite Xóchitl for round two later, when their pockets were overflowing with supplies and this stuck up rich man was a little poorer because of it. And so for now, they paid her little mind. 

The man seemed a bit annoyed at the approach, but not disinterested in their proposal. “Is it fast? I’ve got places to be,” he said, and Baz thought that he had a very annoying sort of voice. (Anyone else listening, of course, would likely find his voice normal.)

“Oh, it’ll be quick,” Baz assured him. “It’s pretty simple, really. Want to hear the rules?” The man nodded. “All right!” Baz dug around in their pocket, finding a coin. They held it up, displaying it to the man. “I’ll hold this coin in my hand,” they said, “and you try to snatch it. But first, you have to promise you won’t take it. Bit juvenile, but it’s a playground game. Meant for kids, yeah? Played it all the time in London.” The lie burned their tongue, but they didn’t let the discomfort show.

The man scoffed. “That’s it?”

“Yeah! And if you win, I’ll give you a hundred bucks. But if I win, you have to pay me the same amount. Deal?”

The man considered it for a moment, but arrogance was always going to win out. And so, he nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “Deal.” Baz bound him gleefully. 

“Great! Let’s get started.”

—

She’d been good at observing things for a long time. Acting on her observations was a different story, but she was good at looking and watching and that had to count for something. Or at the very least, Xóchitl had decided that it counted, if nothing other than because of the fact that she needed some wins. She was taking charge of herself, or whatever it was that those semi insipid self help books promoted, and that was a positive. 

Mackenzie used to love to paint. 

Maybe she would’ve studied art, if she’d made it to college.

Or maybe something completely different. Just because she’d almost always been drawing when they were little didn’t mean that she would have held onto that all up through and to adulthood.

It shouldn’t have even really been a blip on her radar, but the word promise shot her right out of her thoughts (and daydreams, where Mackenzie was alive and Emilio hadn’t disappeared on her and Wyatt would see her in person, and so much more she couldn’t even voice it) (but she was happy here, wasn’t she?)

Promising was what fae did. Or, well, promising was what fae made other people do. Xóchitl continued to listen. The word ‘deal’ finalized it for her. She had to go over and try to say something. 

“Hey Baz, nice seeing you here. Didn’t know we had a mutual friend….Magnus.” That was a rich person’s name, right? It was also from Matilda, but that was beside the point right now. “Magnus” gave her a look of confusion, though he didn’t disagree. “What are you up to, exactly?”

—

Rich people tended to be arrogant. It was hard not to be, when you could buy your way into — or out of — anything you wanted. They always seemed to figure that the world was theirs to use as they pleased, and that people were the same. And perhaps Baz was something of a hypocrite for disliking that, because they had certainly carried a larger ego when their wallet was fatter, and they had no qualms bending people to their will with binds and tricks now, but they disliked it all the same. They liked the attitude of rich people largely because they could no longer have such an attitude themself, let their envy wrap its fingers around their ribs. Scamming the rich was a victimless crime, really; Robin Hood was a folk hero for it. Baz would be just the same.

At least… that was the intention. It was complicated by Xóchitl’s approach, of course. Normally, Baz would have been thrilled for her to join the conversation. He’d liked sleeping with her, and round two wasn’t something they were opposed to. But right now, They were working! Couldn’t she see that? She was going to ruin it, what with her… knowing people. It was very inconvenient. 

Magnus seemed a little lost, but that didn’t matter much. He was already bound to play, after all. It didn’t matter what Xóchitl had to say, they game had to happen now. But… it would be easier if Baz got rid of her first. “Lovely to see you, Xóchitl! Magnus and I were just about to play a game, weren’t we Magnus?” Magnus, still bound by the deal, nodded vehemently. “And it’s really sort of a two player game, so you’ll have to excuse us!”

—

At least Baz didn’t seem to think that Xóchitl knew anything about what they were doing. She could feign jealousy at the fact that they weren’t including her (not that she felt it, if anything she was lucky that they hadn’t attempted to play a game with her). At least she was a good enough liar that he believed what she’d said about the rich guy’s name. It was a small thing, but there was a certain sort of satisfaction to it all. Satisfaction that was short-lived, however, given the fact that they didn’t back off right away and she didn’t really know what sort of fae they were (assuming she was right, but she liked to think that she was pretty good at putting clues together).

“Pleasure to see you too.” She looked between Baz and the man who she supposed just had to be called Magnus. “A game?” She wrinkled her nose. “But I think it’s not necessarily set up to be a fair match.”

Which was absolutely downplaying it all. But she still wasn’t an expert, no matter how much she’d asked around about fae and no matter how much reading she’d attempted on her own. Xóchitl had counted on having more practice before she’d have to deal with fae again. 

Except she shouldn’t have. They were tricky liars, after all. She’d just wanted a bit more time.

“I don’t like to be left out, though.” She put on a fake pout. “Besides… Baz, aren’t you an artist? I need help figuring out what supplies I should buy at the store, and Magnus looks like he has to go sit in a… Rolls Royce and talk about stocks and bonds.” Xóchitl figured she deserved a prize for not making a face of disgust. “So, we can let him go on his way, right?”

—

Xóchitl wasn’t so great at taking a hint, was she? Baz wondered if they’d unintentionally saddled themself with someone a bit clingier than they would have liked. She certainly hadn’t seemed it during their encounter, had seemed happy enough with a quick and casual tryst that ended well for them both, but then… Baz was a catch, weren’t they? Perhaps they’d done too good a job charming Xóchitl, and some sort of obsession had grown. It was a shame, but these things did happen, didn’t they? Baz sighed.

On the surface, the match was skewed towards Magnus. After all, the challenge Baz had presented him with wasn’t a difficult one. Only someone who knew the ins and outs of promise binds might suspect anything different and, had Baz been a bit more capable of objective thought, they might have considered whether or not Xóchitl meant the game was unfair to Magnus or to themself. But Baz was not skilled in objectivity. Baz assumed that Xóchitl was worried for them. “Nice of you to worry, love, but I know what I’m doing.” 

And yet, she continued to push. Now it seemed like she wanted Magnus out of the picture entirely, and Baz was beginning to have some regrets. They couldn’t be tied down to someone they’d only slept with once, even if it had been a nice sort of sleeping together! 

Luckily, the promise bind kicked in before they could come up with some excuse, and Magnus shook his head. “No, no,” he said, sounding a little desperate but looking a little confused about it. “I want to play. I have to play. When can we start?”

—

She didn’t like to let onto it, but Xóchitl ran into some regrets over who she slept with more often than she would like. Not that often, but it was absolutely happening right now. She wished that she had a way to tell if someone was fae before she slept with them. No matter how enjoyable the time might have been, it was a betrayal to herself and to Mackenzie to get so intimate with those who’d been related to her undoing (which was an extreme over-exaggeration or perhaps romanticization of the idea of death). But she was human, after all, and humans made mistakes.

“Right, but still, do you have to?” She needed to find someone and ask how to break a promise. Fae-wise, Xóchitl had plenty of experience breaking promises – that was what had to happen when you didn’t want to get too close to people after all, wasn’t it? She didn’t take particular joy in it – she couldn’t find it in herself to take particular joy in any form of cruelty, after all – but she did break them, and she also didn’t get hung up over her one night stands. But Baz had an ego, and she had to play into that in order to even somewhat get them to pay attention and…

…well, she wasn’t sure what her plan was, once she got them away from Magnus. She didn’t really… have one. Just heard ‘promise’ and heard ‘deal’ and jumped in without thinking. “You don’t have to do anything. Trust me. Other than like, breathe, or whatever. Is this person making you do things? Because we can call the cops.” They were useless, but it was the only card she had to play. “Or, well, I think I should at least get to watch, don’t you?”

—

She was a bit pushy, wasn’t she? God, Baz hoped she wouldn’t break out a ring! They had little real desire towards marriage (frequent online teasings aside), but they found it especially undesirable with someone who didn’t seem interested in allowing them to have fun with other people. They weren’t even trying to sleep with Magnus! Rich white men tended to be a tad bit boring in the sack, in Baz’s experience. When someone had spent their entire life having everything they wanted handed to them, they didn’t tend to be particularly skilled in giving back. The only thing Baz wanted out of Magnus’s pants was his wallet.

Xóchitl continued to make that difficult, though. What was she on about, anyway? Baz wasn’t making anyone do anything at all! Magnus had agreed to the game! And, anyway, binding someone wasn’t quite the same as forcing them at knifepoint. Magnus had agreed to the game. He could even walk away if his will was strong enough! It’d just come with the sort of consequences he might not enjoy. (Deserved consequences, really; if someone didn’t want ramifications, they ought to keep their promises.)

“Oh, come off it!” Baz scoffed, throwing their hands up in the air. “Call the cops for what, exactly? I’ve asked him to play a game, and he’s said he wants to! Isn’t that right, mate?”

Magnus looked hesitant, but nodded all the same. “I – I want to,” he agreed, though he didn’t look like he believed it now. And that was Xóchitl’s fault. If she hadn’t stepped in, it could have been a pleasant enough experience for Magnus. He’d have lost some cash, but he might have had fun with it. That was out the window now. He’d likely be traumatized, or whatever. None of it was Baz’s fault. 

“If you want to watch, you can watch. I don’t care. But you’re being awfully clingy, you know. I wouldn’t have slept with you if I’d known you’d follow me around like this after. You really should be more upfront about those sorts of things.” He looked to Magnus, shaking his head. “People always say they can handle casual! Unbelievable.”

—

She didn’t especially care about a rich white man’s feelings, but Xóchitl had started on whatever journey she was on, and she couldn’t really just back down now, even if she was having some regrets. Mostly that she’d acted before she’d thought, and she didn’t know how to deal with that on the spot. It was a personality flaw, surely, but she’d have plenty of time to go around thinking too much about that later. 

God, fae really could be the worst, couldn’t they? It would have at least been better if Baz had gone after someone who didn’t deserve their comeuppance as much as Magnus probably did. Not that she was siding with fae, because she wasn’t about to lose herself that much, but at least Baz hadn’t made a target out of someone who couldn’t possibly deserve it. She hated that she respected it, even for a moment. But she’d never thought of herself as an especially good person, had she? Xóchitl had figured, at first at least, that her decision to take on fae was making her better, but maybe that had been a complex lie she’d come up with to trick herself.

She’d done a good job of it, were that the case.

At least she could say that. She was spectacular at screwing up.

Magnus did at least seem to be wavering on how into all of this he was. So that was something. It was small, but small wasn’t always bad.

“Harassment. You can call the cops for that.” Not that she wanted to. She didn’t trust them, and calling them around would only give Magnus even more power and more of an ego than he had. “But I won’t. For now.” She wondered how many cops were still around from when she was a child.

“I’m not being clingy.” Xóchitl rolled her eyes. “I’m down for casual anything, I just don’t like what you are getting this guy into. “I don’t – whatever. Not the point. How about you just… leave. Go away from us. Maybe Magnus wants to take me to lunch?” Magnus nodded, and Xóchitl rolled her eyes again. “Also, if there’s anybody who can’t handle casual, it’s you.”

—

Harassment? Baz scoffed, crossing their arms over their chest. “I’d say you’re the one doing the harassing, actually! Magnus and I were just fine before you came bursting in. We were having fun! Maybe you don’t recognize what that sort of thing looks like?” Except Xóchitl had been fun before, both when they’d first spoken to one another online and when they’d met in person for a quick roll around in the sheets. There had been no warning signs leading to this at all, though Baz wasn’t often the most skilled in picking up on such things. They often had no idea a thing was a problem until that problem was impossible to avoid… and that was exactly what Xóchitl had made herself. An impossible to avoid problem. 

She said she wouldn’t call the cops as if she was doing them a favor, and Baz rolled their eyes. “Not calling the police on someone for talking to a stranger on the street? My, we should give you a good citizen award of some sort, shouldn’t we?” It wasn’t as if calling the police would do anything. Baz had done nothing even remotely against the law; they doubted it even constituted as harassment, considering they’d only asked Magnus to play a game that he’d agreed to play. 

They raised a brow as Xóchitl insisted there was nothing clingy about her behavior. What did she call this, then? Accosting them on the street when they walked by her to speak to someone else instead, doing everything in her power to make sure they couldn’t talk to said other person. “What I’m getting him into? It’s a game. I haven’t forced him to barter away his soul or anything.” Just his wallet. With a sharp laugh, Baz’s brows shot up impossibly higher. “Is that right? What have I done that makes it seem I can’t handle casual, then? Because you’re the one who’s ambushed me on the street. Jealousy’s not a good look on you, love.” 

They turned to Magnus with a shrug. “If he wants to go have lunch with you, I won’t stop him. But I think he’d like to play the game.” And I don’t think he’d like what happens if he doesn’t. At this point, Baz really didn’t mind the idea of allowing Magnus to scamper off with Xóchitl, even if only to see what might happen if he broke the deal he’d made. It certainly wouldn’t be fun for him, and the idea of Xóchitl witnessing it wasn’t something Baz hated, after everything.

But Magnus’s will wasn’t quite strong enough, and he shook his head. “I don’t want to have lunch with you,” he said, still looking mildly confused. “I want to play the game so I can go.”

—

“Oh, I am plenty of fun. You would know that, and I know you thought that, because the body doesn’t lie.” How was that for some sort of line that could just as easily be about everything that the body went through after something horrific. But then again, life and death were interlocked in many ways, and so perhaps the body’s response to sex was linked to how it responded to more concerning things. Not the same, of course, but similar. 

So maybe becoming a psychologist had been the right choice for her, even if the reasoning behind her choice was complicated and didn’t make her feel the best. In another life, she was something else. Something powerful and important, but perhaps not a therapist. 

There were times in this life that she wasn’t so sure she should have become one. But at least now, she could use her job to help people avoid situations like the one Magnus had run into with Baz.

Xóchitl shook her head. “Your reactions are truly something, that’s all.” She was making it up now, and she could tell that they could probably tell that too. She’d just about run out of ideas on what she should do (and what she’d done so far wasn’t much), but at least she was pretty positive Baz wasn’t a leprechaun. He didn’t look like one at all, and she didn’t think leprechauns could look human. 

(If they could, she really and truly was screwed a couple thousand times over).

Magnus was being difficult, and if there was one thing Xóchitl had less patience for than fae, it was overly entitled white men.

“Fine, whatever. Do your little game, but I’ve got nowhere else to be, so I’d like to see how this all works out.” She paused. “Rather, I will be seeing how this all works out.” Taking control of her own path and all that.

—

“I thought you were. Having second thoughts now.” Because this certainly wasn’t fun. Baz didn’t like the way she was speaking to them at all, didn’t like the implication that they’d been dishonest when they hadn’t. They’d own up to a lie when they told one — they had no other choice, what with the fae thing and all — but they’d been perfectly honest with Xóchitl. They’d shown her a good time, and now she was ruining theirs. “Bodies don’t lie,” they agreed, “and neither do I.” They didn’t like the stomachaches.

What was she talking about? Their reactions? Their reactions to what? To being accosted in the streets by someone they’d slept with once? How was someone meant to react to a thing like that? Was she expecting a thank you, or a my mistake, or some equally ridiculous response that no one would ever give to something like this? Irritation swam in Baz’s chest, and they crossed their arms over their chest to display it. 

At least she seemed willing enough to let them get on with it. Baz didn’t mind an audience, either. They did some of their best work with someone else’s eyes on them, after all. If Xóchitl hadn’t ruined her shot at a second go round, they might floated the idea of finding a third person to join in the fun just to prove it. That ship had sailed, though! Baz would sleep with just about anyone, but they had enough standards not to sleep with someone who’d try to ruin their fun this way.

(That was, of course, until they inevitably forgot this interaction and ran into Xóchitl again without remembering her name. Their attention span was too short to allow them to hold a grudge.)

“Right, then.” They turned back to Magnus and held up their coin. “Do you remember the rules?”

Magnus nodded. “I promise I won’t take your coin,” he said dutifully, and Baz bound him to it the moment the words were spoken. Then, they held the coin out. Magnus reached for it, hand coming to a halt just before he grabbed it. His brow furrowed, and he tried again with the same result. Then again. And again. 

Baz grinned, giving him a few more tries before closing their hand and pocketing the coin. “All right. That’s the game, then. And it looks like you lost. So… wager was for a hundred, yeah?” And they’d bound him to honor that before the game even began. It paid to be them, sometimes.

—

She brushed off the comment about them thinking that maybe she wasn’t so fun. They were fae, so why should she care about their opinion? Besides, it had been casual (and that was part of the beauty in it), though if they started to comment on her skills, she had half a mind to pull up some imaginary Yelp site that showed just how satisfied everyone was. Maybe that was part of their continued trickery. To make her too focused on superficial things like their thoughts on her in bed and distract her – she needed to work on that trick not working, because Siobhan could also use it against her, and she actually had felt close to Siobhan, once upon a time. So it would be more effective. Xóchitl had to get better at not showing weakness.

Weakness and softness could (and would) be her undoing, and she wasn’t about to get undone anytime soon.

She stepped back (barely, but enough to make a point to Baz if they continued to claim that she was too clingy) and regarded the next steps of the interaction. Even if she’d screwed this up, she could use it as a learning opportunity. A mini internship of sorts, of how to not fuck up around fae. One day, maybe, she could lead such a course.

Xóchitl’s fists clenched at the use of ‘promise’ again, but she didn’t let any evidence of her reaction show itself on her face. Unsurprisingly, Magnus lost at whatever game Baz had made them play – but what was interesting was the man’s inability to even touch the coin in Baz’s hand. That was something to make note of in her password protected Word Document later this evening.

She watched Magnus hand over the hundred dollars.

“Are you done now?” She finally spoke out, again, directed at Baz. “You can’t be this fascinated by a man who irons his underwear, probably.”

—

Baz was good at getting under people’s skin. It came with the ability to wear said skin, they’d claim, as if it was something they did intentionally. More often than not, though… it really wasn’t. They never meant to make their father hate them, never intentionally turned their brother away. Half the arguments they got into online came because Baz, like a big stupid dog gripping a bone, thought that they were playing. This time, though, with Xóchitl… this was intentional. And maybe it did feel a little good, the way her face twisted in irritation she was pretending not to feel. Maybe it was nice to be good at something, even if you didn’t always mean to be.

Xóchitl took a step away, and Baz nodded. The game went off without a hitch, and Xóchitl watched. And maybe Baz should have been a bit worried about her watching — they wondered if this was the sort of ‘danger zone’ they ought to be avoiding, the kind of thing that, like helping the nix hide their victims’ deaths months ago, might get a warden on their trail. They couldn’t bring themself to be bothered by it, really. They had a single-minded focus, and that meant they wanted this man’s wallet more than they wanted to convince Xóchitl that nothing odd was going on.

And the wallet was theirs — or, at least, one bill from it was. Magnus was the sort of man who carried a hundred dollars minimum in cash, so Baz felt no guilt as they pocketed it. They took a bow in Magnus’s direction. “Better luck next time, mate,” they said with a wink. Xóchitl reminded them of her presence then, and Baz turned towards her with a quirk of their brow. “That’s an odd snap judgment to make. Or have you seen his underwear? Is it ironed? Take off your pants, Magnus.”

Magnus did not take off his pants, which Baz had figured. Their game was finished now, which meant the bind Magnus had been tied with was completed. Magnus, still looking a little confused, seemed to take this as his cue to leave, hurrying off down the street. Baz waved at him as he left. “Goodbye! See you next time!”

Then, they turned to Xóchitl. “What was that all about? You really think men like that need defending? We were only having a bit of fun, you know.”

—

They seemed so cavalier about everything, and that only made her disgust grow. It had, in fact, now transformed from general frustration to straight up disgust, but maybe her poker face could be better regarding that. Xóchitl knew that she could hold up a pretty incredible poker face if need be, and this seemed like one of the situations where ‘need be’ applied without a doubt. 

Baz asked her if she’d seen Magnus’s underwear and she couldn’t keep a poker face for that moment, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Thankfully, Magnus didn’t have anything more to say about any of that, and he was off scurrying down the street, and she couldn’t say she was sad about him leaving.

Xóchitl was just about to leave herself when Baz decided to ask her more things. “Fuck no. I don’t think he needs defending. I’m just a bit concerned about what your words might do to him. That’s it.” She shrugged, acting as though it didn’t matter as much to her as it did. “How’d you know you were going to win? Or does a magician,” fae, “never give away their secrets?” She checked her nails while she waited for them to answer. “I think you need to give me that, on account of calling me clingy and not so fun.”

—

It was clear that Xóchitl was no longer Baz’s biggest fan despite how agreeable she’d been in their last encounter, and Baz couldn’t quite figure out why. If she really did know Magnus — and Baz was no longer certain that that was the case, given the fact that she had an obvious distaste for him, too — then there seemed to be no love lost between them. So why was she so offended that Baz had relieved a rich man of his money? If not in defense of the rich man or in envy for Baz’s attention being placed elsewhere, what could it be? They couldn’t settle on any answer that made sense, and so they fell back on the one that best fueled their ego: Xóchitl was jealous. Either of Magnus for earning Baz’s attention, or of Baz for their skills. Either way, the doppelganger came out on top of the situation.

“What my words might do to him? Haven’t you ever heard the old saying about sticks and stones?” Sure, a promise bind could hurt, but only if someone broke it. Magnus had had no intention of doing that, and likely wouldn’t have even considered it if Xóchitl hadn’t stepped in. 

They tilted their head at the implication that they somehow owed her something. They didn’t, of course. She had acted clingy, and she certainly hadn’t been much fun. But Baz liked to think of themself as a giver (and, really, Xóchitl could attest to that already), so they shrugged. “How does anyone know they’re going to win? I’ve played the game before.” It wasn’t a lie, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. That had always been Baz’s favorite line to straddle. 

—

At least Magnus was gone, and she really did need to think about her approach so that rumors didn’t start that she loved defending old white men. Again, fae were terrible, but that was something even worse. They didn’t need defending, and rarely deserved it, either. But she had a mission, and she wasn’t someone to back down from things so easily. Xóchitl just needed to figure out a smoother way of going about all of it so that she didn’t mess everything up in the end. She liked success, she liked satisfaction, and messing all of this up wouldn’t amount to either of those things.

“I’ve heard about sticks and stones, I used to play on playgrounds. Like most normal people.” Even the word made her feel sick, but she didn’t want to show that. Or the fact that she hadn’t really played on one in years, to the point where she’d had to get a note excusing her from recess for the last couple years of elementary school.

“Yes, but you seem to have some sort of insider knowledge on how it was going to end. I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty good at figuring things out about people. It’s kind of my job.” In far simpler terms, but it got the point across. “Like how people will rig dice when they’re playing poker.” You seem to be able to rig your words.

—

Baz didn’t counter that they, too, used to play on playgrounds, because it would have been a lie. But that wasn’t anything to do with them not being a normal person, was it? That was because they’d grown up wealthy. Rich kids didn’t play on playgrounds. Rich kids had elaborate parties where giant structures were erected especially for them. (Baz hadn’t had that, either, but that was only because their father hadn’t particularly liked them. He’d always had shoddy taste.)

“Insider knowledge?” Baz repeated the words with a blink, tilting their head. “For a game? This isn’t the stock market, love. The rules were laid out and simple. I didn’t break them, and neither did he. I knew I’d win because I’m good at games.” And that, too, was true. Games were something fae excelled at, and Baz might not have been good at playing human, but they were good at being fae.

They clicked their tongue at her implication. It wasn’t exactly far off, because of course Baz had rigged the game. Fae were good at that, too. But admitting to that would feel a little too much like losing, so they only shook their head. “You don’t use dice in poker. It’s a card game.” That’d show her. “Are we finished here? I really do need to run. Places to go, money to spend. I’m sure you understand.”

—

She had to admit (albeit begrudgingly) that Baz was good at finding loopholes. She shouldn’t have had any respect for it, but she did, and that made her hate herself and the whole situation all the more. Xóchitl didn’t want to focus too much on all of this, at least not until she wasn’t around Baz any longer. She apparently needed to be extra on her toes around them. Thankfully, they didn’t seem to know that she had her suspicions that they were fae, which could (and would) work to her advantage. That was, if they’d actually see her again in person. “I don’t care about the stock market, and fine. It just seemed like you had a leg up on all of this.” He had, but she couldn’t prove that. She’d have to figure out a way to prove that they were rigging things and that it wasn’t skill, but rather schemes, that got them where they were.

“Whatever. I don’t gamble.” That, at least, was a bad habit that she wasn’t even the least bit tempted by. It wasn’t a lot of fun in her opinion, and it didn’t really seem worthwhile. “I guess we’re finished. Yes, places to be, money to spend, people to scam. Right?” She crossed her arms over her chest once more. “Tell Magnus I say hello if you run into him again.” Xóchitl made a face. “And that he owes me. Because I stood up for him.” Or, well, she’d tried to. It was practice. She’d get better in time. She had to.

—

At least it seemed she was finished pushing things for the moment. Baz didn’t even particularly care if she found out they’d rigged the game, but they could do without her being so high and mighty about it. Not everyone had a fancy degree to earn cash, now did they? Maybe if Baz had been able to finish art school, they wouldn’t have had to resort to such measures, but they had been a bit too busy fleeing the country and changing their name and face to make it to the stage for graduation! Excuse them for having other things going on! “Well, it seems like he’s got a bit of a leg up in life, doesn’t it? Born with a silver spoon up his arse, and you’re defending him like he’s the victim!” 

They rolled their eyes again, letting out another sharp laugh. “Is that what this is, then? You’ve some grand moral issue with gambling that makes you step in every time you see it?” Probably not, but Baz was still trying to understand the situation. It didn’t matter, and they knew that, but some part of them was still curious. She’d been fun before, so what happened? They weren’t much of a fan of it. “Oh, yes, I’m sure he’ll remember it fondly! I’ll bet you’ll get a thank you card in the mail! Men like that are so generous when people have helped them, aren’t they?”

—

She’d figure out Baz’s weak spots eventually. They had to have them – everyone did, though of course some people had more weak spots than others. But Xóchitl had time. Not all the time in the world, but she had time and patience to work through things however necessary. With Baz, it seemed, it would take a bit more work than she’d been planning on, but if she worked harder, perhaps eventually she’d be rewarded more fruitfully. Something had to go her way, and she was determined to make it to do with all of this. After all, that was what she’d been looking for for nearly her whole life (after all, when Mackenzie died, her life and both ended and began anew).

“No! I don’t really give a fuck about if people gamble or not.” That much wasn’t her place to judge about. “Whatever.” Xóchitl rolled her eyes. It wasn’t important, and thankfully Baz seemed to get that idea too. “I’m sure they’re so generous.” He wouldn’t be, and they both knew that, especially since, in the end, she hadn’t done much to help him out, he probably wouldn’t even remember her. “Are you leaving now, or should I go first?”

—

They were bored of this now. This back and forth, this petty arguing… it wasn’t something that interested Baz, wasn’t the kind of thing they were into. They’d liked Xóchitl better before whatever this was; they didn’t care for her much at all now. Maybe some part of them remained curious about the sudden change, but not enough to genuinely pursue answers. They had much better things to do; mainly, spending the cash they’d just earned for themself.

Baz was not lost. That was a silly notion, actually, because Baz always knew exactly where they were, at any given moment. For example, right now, they were in the woods. They’d been out looking for inspiration, which they’d found in a lovely mangled old tree that they’d sketched in their notebook. They’d paint it when they got home, turn it into something a bit more abstract, maybe. They’d managed a few lines in their poetry notebook as well, though they were less certain about those. They’d have to ask Jenny her opinion on it later, once they got home. Which they would. Because they weren’t lost. They were just… taking a new and exciting route.

A new and exciting route that they were beginning to think might be leading them further from town instead of closer, but that was all part of the adventure, wasn’t it? Baz made a face to themself, glancing up at the setting sun. Winter’s short days had really bitten them in the ass here. It was barely four in the afternoon! At least… they were pretty sure it was barely four in the afternoon. Their phone had died somewhere between finding the tree and finishing the sketch of it, so they didn’t know for certain. But that was all right, really. They’d be home in no time at all! They just needed to…

Oh! A bridge appeared ahead of them, and Baz sauntered towards it easily. They just needed to cross this bridge, and they’d be back in Wicked’s Rest. They were certain of that! As they neared it, they felt the faint tingle of something in their gut, a quiet indication that they weren’t alone. Was there a nymph nearby, perhaps? A nix? Some other nature-type? Baz glanced around, searching for the source. They caught a flash of movement, someone else in the trees. Stark white hair stood out among the dreary winter scenery. Baz offered a wave. “Hello!” They greeted. “I’ve found a bridge! Do you know where it goes?”

—

“Eyes bright as blood under Luminol…” Regan crossed out the line. That wasn’t it. The fluorescence faded too quickly. “...Like a beetle-cleaned bone…” No, no, she wanted something with browns and greens. Natural, earthy, Jade tones. “...A syringe of bile.” There. Regan underlined it and then closed her notebook. She rose from the log, sensation creeping back into her legs as she stretched. Some dry pieces of bark flaked off her pants, but she didn’t mind being out in the winter. There wasn’t enough snow to keep her from her spot. And with how often things seemed to shatter around her these days, Regan was making an effort to do this more frequently. Scream. Not the journaling, which is what she had been doing (strictly journaling). Though that, too.

She expected to hear the Voice share its opinion on her writing—that her only competencies were corpses; that she could only slice things apart, not stitch them together. But it never followed her out here. There were only a couple situations that reliably made it scatter: screaming and sex (independently or not). Well, fine, three things; it seemed to grow bored after a point when she was up late at the morgue, plugging away at a pile of autopsy reports. The Voice had a short attention span.

Regan brushed herself off and tucked her journal in her bag. She wasn’t done here yet. She was walking toward her usual position by some birches—ground worn of topsoil and all vegetation—when she felt it. Something nearby made the skin of her neck ice over, even beneath the scarf. It wasn’t the yearning pull of something dead. Which meant… 

Her chest squeezed casket-tight. She hadn’t even gotten around to really emptying her lungs yet, which was, ostensibly, the reason she came out here. Whoever or whatever this fae was, Regan would send them away.

“I am not interested in games,” Regan grumbled, turning toward the offending source. She paced in that direction, through snow-dusted brush and a startled flock of grey birds. Now it felt like her hairs were being plucked at, one by one, leaving her fleshy and naked. The fae was probably satisfied; Cliodhna skinned her rabbits clean. Regan called out. “What are you? A pixie? Come forth so you do not distract me while I’m preoccupied. You do not want to do that.” But when nothing revealed itself, Regan pressed on. She could hear the quiet burbling of the stream, not yet frozen over.

When the familiar water and familiar bridge came into view, there was something decidedly unfamiliar about the picture: the person standing there. The fae, probably. About 5’7”, well-kempt, trim facial hair, slim build, medium skin tone. And most jarringly, a neon orange and yellow coat that assaulted her eyes. It was the color of crime scene warning tape. Regan was too rigid to come closer; her legs knew what was good for her (running, usually, like a coward). “Are you aware it is not deer-hunting season?” 

Regan crossed her arms as the person waved at her. Too bad; she could not wave back. “Hello. I was busy.” And perhaps she was being unfair—they couldn’t have known she was about to scream their ears bloody (still might, every breath a swelling risk). But not once in a decade had she met a fae and had it amount to being a positive addition to her life. “The bridge goes over the river. I suggest you take it.” Regan sighed. Her lungs pushed too much. The sound whistled harshly through the trees and across the water. 

Ah, feces. That was why she should not have been interrupted. Before Regan could apologize—she was going to, really—something vibrated against her boots. And a deep voice rumbled from—was it coming from under the bridge? 

It bellowed. “Thong sleeping.” There was a weird scratching noise like granite on granite, then heavy, thumping steps. Two bright yellow eyes peered from the shadows. “Thong sleeping and now loud fae wake Thong. Loud fae fix. Loud fae make Thong sleep.”

Regan looked at the more human-looking fae who had greeted her. “You woke Thong.”

—

The fae — at least, Baz assumed she was a fae, given the quiet flutter in their chest at the sight of her — did not seem entirely pleased to see them. This was somewhat disappointing, though not as much of a surprise as it should have been. In theory, fae enjoyed running into other fae out in the proverbial ‘wild,’ where they were more accustomed to running into humans instead. But this had not always been Baz’s experience. They had grown up around fae who hadn’t particularly cared for their presence, and met a few in town who hadn’t seemed to enjoy having them around. (Kieran came to mind, which was something of a disappointment if only because Baz knew Kieran would enjoy knowing he’d infiltrated Baz’s mind, and allowing him to do so felt a little like allowing him to win whatever invisible contest they had going.) Still, they couldn’t bite back the acidic taste that coated their tongue at the woman’s twisted expression of displeasure. Baz wanted to be liked, even if they rarely confessed this desire aloud. To be disliked even before they’d had much of a chance to speak — or, they supposed, to feel disliked, as they couldn’t really be certain — felt like a failure they didn’t know how to put to words.

But no matter. If this fae didn’t like them, Baz would just have to convince her otherwise! They’d done it before, hadn’t they? (Actually… they weren’t sure they’d done it before. Everyone they could think of who had disliked them at first glance disliked them still; there were even a few who had liked them at first and had since changed their tune. Best not to focus on that for too long, though; they had much better things to think of!)

Her question caught them off guard, their brow furrowing. “Well, I’m not much of a deer hunter, so I suppose that’s all well and good. I’m not a faun, either, if that’s what you’re asking. Or…” They glanced down at their jacket, the bright orange stark against the dead leaves and dark forest, and something clicked. Baz had really only seen deer hunters on television here and there, but they remembered that orange was thing they often wore when they weren’t clad in their adorable camouflage outfits. “Oh! No, this is called fashion, love.” It wasn’t meant as cruelty, or even mocking; Baz’s tone was genuine. There were many fae, after all, who knew nothing at all of the human world. This woman wore… well, they were clothes in the most technical sense, albeit profoundly boring ones. That meant she had at least likely encountered humans at one point or another. That did not mean she knew much about style. 

Her being someone who knew little about humans would make sense. Either she was ignorant or rude, they figured, because she didn’t wave back. Feeling generous, Baz decided ignorant was more likely. After all, who wouldn’t want to wave at them? (They hadn’t spoken the thought aloud, but their throat itched as if they’d told a lie all the same. Force of habit, maybe.) 

When the woman spoke, her voice was shrill and loud. Baz winced a little. “Well, I know it goes over the river. I’m not sure what’s on the other side of the river. What if there’s something terrible over there? Like fire, or knives, or plaid? You’d better go first. You have less to lose!” If her scarf was ruined, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It might even be a good thing! It wasn’t a very nice scarf. Baz’s jacket, on the other hand, was the best money could buy! (Or… the thrifted version of the best money could buy.)

Before they could insist further that the other fae make her way across the bridge ahead of them to ensure stain-free safety, another voice joined the conversation. Booming and echoing like something being spoken from the depths of a cave, but close enough that Baz doubted it came from anyone far away. It belonged, apparently, to Thong. Baz tilted their head. 

“I woke Thong up? You’re the one shouting about bridges! I think you woke Thong up. Bit rude of you, really. Poor Thong doesn’t get nearly enough sleep as it is.” Baz had no idea who Thong was or how much sleep they might or might not have gotten, but it mattered very little. “Don’t worry, Thong! My loud friend here will sing you a lullaby, yeah?” They looked to the other fae, brows raised.

—

It was just like a fae to turn things around and try to blame her. Regan fixed her scarf, whipping it over the front of her neck again, and looked—she thought—very nice and fashionable as she faced down this annoyance. “You have intruded on Thong just as you have intruded on me. I was perfectly content in the woods by myself, but then I felt you just standing around.” They sounded so arrogant. So posh. “Your accent will not work on me,” Regan added. Okay, she was being unfair. She did know it. Later, there might be a drop of guilt. But nothing put Regan more on the defensive than being around multiple fae. 

Only two parts of the fae’s statement were correct. Regan was not their friend, and she did not wake Thong (probably… alright, she was fifty-fifty on that one). As for loud, yes, that was accurate. Regan glanced at those narrowed, yellow eyes still assessing the two of them. “They woke you up,” she pointed at the fae, “they…” she looked questioningly at them now, realizing she didn’t have their name. “Anyway, hypothetically, if it had been me who woke you, which it was not—but if it had been, with my voice, or…something—then I would be, um, sorry.” She swallowed what felt like her own teeth. And then the fae mentioned Regan singing a lullaby (singing! A lullaby!), and anything in her anatomy that formerly felt apologetic hardened to atherosclerosis in her veins. “I am not singing anything. Speak for yourself, you—”

The voice roared. “Thong not believe! Thong meet lying fae!” Something big stomped out from beneath the bridge, sun and shadow catching every crag and snag on its body. “Thong not let fae leave until Thong back to sleep. Thong dream.” The creature, Regan observed, had both bulk and height—difficult to tell at a distance, but she thought it stood higher than she did, and it had an uneven, rocky shape to its rounded body. Its entire face looked like it had been smashed and fractured multiple times. The nose was a sanded down snub with a visible vomer; there was not a single hair on its leathery scalp. Obviously, it was not human. The pins pricking up and down her arms told her all she needed to know about what it was.

Regan looked to her side at the other fae, and realized she’d stepped closer to them. Well, if she must choose between the two fae present… her body had already decided. She lowered her voice. Poorly. “Listen. I do not know what you are, or what that thing is, but I am not interested in having any more fae after my skin. And organs. And bones. So do what you must do to appease the thing, and we will be on our way.” She glanced back in the direction of her clearing. “Separately.” 

Twigs snapped and rocks crunched under Thong’s weight as it further removed itself from its bridge. “Thong make soup of fae. Thong need dinner if not sleep. Thong have child to feed.”

Regan took a cold, shaky breath. This was the first time something had threatened to make soup out of her. Who was she, Rosemary? (Thank Death, no). Change of plans. She would leave now. “Yes, yes, I understand,” Regan said, and her stomach ached with the lie, “but I have my own matters I must attend to. Very important, my work. So this… individual, is going to remain here with you and help you sleep, while I depart.” Regan gave the fae’s shoulder a small pat and then stepped away. “You seem congenial already. I will not intrude. Unlike someone.”

She turned toward her path of escape, familiar and sunlit, but something stopped her—the creature, Thong, was growling. It was an ugly sound, like grinding teeth. Was the other fae in actual danger right now? Regan’s lungsq burned with a groan, and she returned to the other fae’s side. She crossed her arms and didn’t meet their eyes. “You would make poor soup. We do not need Thong vomiting.”

—

She was a bit abrasive, this other fae. Certainly not the friendly sort, with her baseless accusations and her terrible scarf. (Actually, that was a little too harsh. The scarf wasn’t so bad. Baz wanted the scarf a little, actually, if only because she seemed to be having so much fun whipping it about. They’d love a scarf to whip about in the wind, to be able to toss it behind them when they — wait. Bigger fish.) “I’ve intruded on you? You’re the one who approached me! And Thong, for that matter! Thong and I were having a grand time before you came over to muck it all up, weren’t we!” Baz had not known Thong was there, but that hardly mattered. They had been having a much nicer time then, so it wasn’t a lie. “And my accent is lovely, I’ll have you know. People love my accent!”

But it seemed this fae, whoever or whatever she was, would not be swayed. She would continue to insist — incorrectly — that it was Baz who had awoken poor Thong, even though her voice was remarkably loud and Baz’s was… okay, remarkably loud, but in a much more charming sort of way! “Lovely apology,” they said dryly, channeling a little more Joel than they’d meant to. “I’m sure that makes everything better. Thong’s all set now!” Really, the least she could have done was sing a lullaby, but she seemed offended by the mere thought of it. And Thong…

Well, Thong was certainly not all set now. The booming, stony roar caught Baz off guard a bit, and they flinched as the other other fae — the much larger, less human looking other fae — stomped a little closer. It was a massive thing, towering and terrifying with boulders for limbs and pebbles for skin. It certainly wasn’t the sort of thing Baz wanted to end up on the wrong side of, but something told them they were already there. Thong seemed remarkably displeased to have had his nap interrupted, and this scarf-wearing fiend had placed the blame for that directly at the doppelganger’s feet. 

In spite of that, there was some quiet comfort in the way the woman stepped a bit closer to Baz, because being next to someone (even a stranger with a dubiously fashionable scarf) was far better than standing alone in cases like this one. “Why do I have to appease him?” They hissed, trying to keep their voice low enough to avoid Thong hearing. The two of them — mostly the scarf woman — had already woken him up with their (her) loud voices. The last thing Baz wanted to do was make things worse. “He didn’t wake up until you started talking, you know. I think you should be the one appeasing him. You seem like a good appeaser.” 

Thong moved in closer, and Baz positioned themself behind the scarf woman a little, placing her between the rock fae and themself. It wouldn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, of course — Thong could probably crush them both at the same time — but it made Baz feel a little more secure. “Oh! Congratulations, big guy! What’s the little pebble’s name, hm? I’d love to meet them! I’m sure they’re beautiful.” Their stomach twisted itself into knots with the lie, but it wasn’t any more uncomfortable than everything else happening here. It certainly wasn’t any more uncomfortable than the scarf woman turning to leave. 

Baz turned to scramble after her, but the low, stony growling from Thong stopped them in their tracks. When they looked back to the rocky fae, it was glaring at them, stone teeth exposed in a bitter scowl. A stony hand reached out; Baz swallowed. But before the hand could close around them, the scarf fae was back at their side, and Thong pulled back a bit. “I’d make delicious soup,” Baz argued, a little hoarse. “But I’d rather not prove it. Let’s, uh… Let’s figure this out together! Say, Thong, do you like tea? I could make you a lovely sleepytime blend!” With… leaves and twigs from the forest floor. Maybe it’d do the trick, somehow.

—

“You've intruded on me very much.” Regan frowned at the other fae, but there was no heat in it. She was of the mind that all fae were intrusive, but given the third presence with them (not the Voice for once), the warning tape fae was regrettably closer to an ally than an enemy. Until they were out of the woods. “Why you? Because you have better… you obviously enjoy socialization. And you like things like…” She wasn’t sure what to call the creature. But of the two of them, it had been Regan trying to flee the sensation of other fae scratching at her skin. “I have many skills, but appeasement is not one of them.” Despite that “gif” of ‘whipped vanilla’ Jade occasionally sent her.

They were doing well enough now, rambling about tea and pebbles. Was it too late for Regan to slip away as she’d initially planned? It looked like the situation was under control. They’d just have some tea and—

“Thong soup need!” The creature roared and stomped its feet. Regan could feel the vibrations climbing up her tibia and fibula rattling her femurs. “Bring Thong soup! Bring!” The stomping continued, and Regan backed away from the creature’s rugged, gnashing teeth. She glanced at the other fae. “I didn’t bring soup with me today. I assume you have some. Not your various bodily fluids.” She couldn’t in good conscience leave after all. “Look, um, Thong…” She flinched at the leanbh weakness in her own voice. “We’re going to get you some soup. They will, mostly. I will watch. You know, monitor. I am an examiner, you know—medical, but I believe my skills would extend to… soup examination.”

“Make Thong soup now!” The creature picked up a boulder that could easily crush both of them in one throw. Its arm didn’t even shake. Regan’s lungs flared in alarm, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. Going home and returning (or not) with soup was not going to be an option, and Regan didn’t want this to escalate further. What would Jade do? She would… she’d find a way to make soup, even out here. Especially if Regan were the one asking her for soup (not that Regan desired soup, especially soup brewed in the woods).

So, Regan glanced around. They would make soup. She swallowed the swell in her lungs, small enough to prevent it from escaping. “Y–you,” she instructed the too-bright fae. “Whatever your name is. Something better than Thong, sur—” Thong growled. “Find something that will work as a bowl. I’m going to get broth.” Because if Regan could find anything, it was wet decomposition.

—

While it was true that Baz often intruded, they didn’t think they’d done so in this case. Most of the time, when they were intruding, they were well aware of it. They placed themself firmly in places where they were not invited because they yearned to be close enough to other people to feel the heat of their skin, and they rarely asked before doing so because asking meant running the risk of someone saying no. But that hadn’t happened here, had it? Baz had been here first, and then the other fae had come along. And, sure, they’d taken the opportunity to engage her in conversation, but that was just being polite! Americans were meant to love that sort of thing! They were always doing small talk! She ought to have been grateful, really, ought to have been glad to have Baz around for conversation when her only other option was Thong. 

Thong seemed more averse to small talk than the woman herself, after all. He was disinterested in Baz’s polite questions about his child (did he actually have a child, or was he just saying that for sympathy points? People lied for sympathy all the time! Baz wondered if they should pretend to have a child. Would Thong believe it if they said they needed to get home to a smaller, less composed Baz?), wholly focused on the concept of soup. 

Now, Baz had no soup to spare. At home, maybe, but not on them. They glanced over to the other fae hopefully — she seemed like the type who might carry soup around — but were disappointed to find that she, too, was utterly soupless. “I haven’t got any soup, either,” they replied, “and I’d much rather not use… bodily fluids. Uh, for your sake, Thong! It’s a bit unsanitary, yeah? Need to keep you nice and healthy for the little guy! Can’t have you getting sick, not when you’ve got a mouth to feed!” 

Thong was… insistent. A lot of stomping, a lot of shouting. Baz wasn’t particularly fond of it, felt discomfort curling in their chest at the volume level they were experiencing now. Could they make soup in the woods? They’d been ready enough to try their hand at making tea, but they knew more about tea. They’d been looking into things like pine needle tea since their last chat with Daniel, just to satiate their curiosity. But soup… Soup was different. Wasn’t it? It had all sorts of bits and bobs that were absent in tea, more solids and less liquids. 

They were pulled from their thoughts by the other fae because, yes, they had an ally here! Or… something resembling an ally. In any case, the pair of them were in this mess together, so they’d need to work together to get out of it. “It’s Baz,” they replied. “And yes! We’ll be making Thong some soup! Don’t you worry, Thong! Soup is coming up! It’ll be hot! It’ll be soup!” They flashed a thumbs up to the troll, then scurried off to find something bowl-shaped.

It turned out, finding a bowl in the woods under the watchful eye of a hungry troll was much easier said than done. Baz could feel Thong’s eyes on them as they searched, discomfort crawling up their spine. This stick was too sticky. That leaf would never hold water. But… oh! That rock had a sizable dent in it! Baz picked it up, inspecting it. Not a perfect bowl, but it could certainly hold soup. They moved over to the other fae, holding it up. “Will this do?”

—

“Regan. And it won’t be hot,” Regan hissed toward Baz, but she had never been good at being quiet. Thong made a rumbling noise, and Regan raised her palms (his eyes were tiny; he wouldn’t notice the scars). “Not all soup is hot! Have you heard of vichyssoise? And my grandmother made this soup from tooth enamel that—” the growling eased up and Regan decided to stop talking while she was ahead. She wasn’t like Jade, who could get whatever she wanted with a few words and a winning smile. (Or maybe this was whipped vanilla.)

Why was Baz asking her as if she were some expert on bowls? She was an expert about a lot of things, and skull caps were indeed relatively bowl-shaped, but only her grandmother ever used them in such a manner. “I am an expert on fluids, not bowls. That is an object with a depression in it, so I can only assume it would be capable of holding liquid.” Which, speaking of liquid, she needed to find something decomposing. “Keep it and follow me.” Regan let her eyes slip into her death sight, and a superior version of the woods glowed for her. She could see what her skin had already been telling her: something substantial had died not far from here. But Thong roared as soon as Regan took a step in the other direction.

She looked toward Baz expectantly. They were better with people. Or whatever Thong was. They were good with Thong. (Regan was also—) Okay, she needed to explain this one before Thong actually tackled and crushed one of them. “There’s food over there. I can… tell. So I am going to get it for you. For your soup. But I must walk over there.” It felt like she was talking to an animal, like trying to convince one of the cats to move out of her way when they blocked the front door. (This seemed to be coincidental, though; the cats just existed wherever they pleased at any given moment.)

“Thong need promise!” The creature bellowed, and his foot stomped the ground, sending a squirrel darting back up a tree. “Give Thong. Thong children need soup. Thong children sick!”

Regan grimaced at Baz. “Give Thong your wallet.”

—

“We could make it hot!” Baz insisted. “I’m sure Thong has a microwave.” Thong seemed to want hot soup, and Baz wanted to please the troll. It wasn’t even entirely about saving their own skin, though they’d certainly be lying if they claimed that that played no part in things. There was some part of Baz that wanted Thong to like them, just as there was some part of Baz that wanted Regan to like them. They wanted to impress the other fae who were present, even if they couldn’t quite comprehend why they wanted such a silly thing. If Thong wanted hot soup, he ought to have hot soup. Hot soup that… wasn’t made from tooth enamel, because that didn’t sound very good at all, did it? Regan had an odd way of talking, come to think of it. She reminded Baz a little of the brief, stilted conversations they’d had online with Jade’s bone partner, who insisted upon her superior stomach. They wondered if the two of them would be good friends, or if they’d fall into bitter bickering over whose grandmother made the best tooth soup.

Regan certainly didn’t seem impressed by Baz’s stone bowl, which was a bit of a disappointment. It was a relatively good find, wasn’t it? Not the best makeshift bowl in the world, but almost certainly the best they could ask for under these circumstances. It wasn’t as if there were thousands of perfect bowls just ripe for the taking, was it? Baz tucked it under their arm and moved to follow Regan, head tilting as her eyes blackened. That was an interesting trick. They weren’t sure they’d seen anything like it before, which begged the question of what sort of fae Regan might be. Not any kind of nymph or nix, that much was certain. Probably not a doppelganger, either, or a muse. Certainly not a faun — faun were at least a bit of fun, most of the time. 

Thong protested the pair’s attempt to walk away, and Regan looked at Baz with an expression that made it clear she expected them to deal with it. Not a bad idea, really; they winced at the way she spoke to the troll, slow and even as if talking to an animal. It was lucky that Thong didn’t seem quite smart enough to find such a thing condescending; Baz offered him a reassuring smile. “Mate, we can’t find your soup ingredients just standing here, can we? If there was soup just laying about in this spot, you’d have found it by now! You’re an observant bloke.” Their stomach churned; they were pretty sure Thong was not an observant bloke.

Of course, this wasn’t enough for Thong. Thong wanted something more substantial, something more solid. Baz winced a little at the mention of Thong’s evidently sick children. (Hadn’t it just been one child a moment ago? Was Thong making this up as he went? The nerve!) 

Baz was just about to offer some sort of reassurance when Regan spoke instead, beating them to the proverbial punch. “My — my wallet? I’m not giving Thong my wallet. Look at him! He doesn’t even want my wallet, do you, big guy? What about your wallet? Or…” They trailed off, eyes brightening. “Oh! Thong, how about you keep Regan’s scarf, yeah? Look at it! Isn’t it lovely!” They reached out quickly, snatching the material and holding it up for the troll to see. “If you hold onto this, you can be sure she’ll be back round for it. Nobody’d let this go, would they?”

—

Regan should have walked away from this when she had the chance. Now Baz was saying they could warm up the soup (they could not) and they were beaming with overconfidence the two of them would never be able to deliver on. All deliveries should be left to Jade. Regan elbowed Baz. “With what electricity? You can’t just—now Thong is going to think we have a five star meal on the menu. There is no microwave!” Even if Baz’s head needed to be dislodged from their own lower anatomy, they were suave enough to convince Thong that a scarf was proper currency. The problem was that it was Regan’s scarf. 

Regan jerked the end of her scarf out of Baz’s hands and swished its grey fabric away from Baz, in case they were going to try that again. “My scarf is not less important than your wallet!” But Thong’s dull eyes shined briefly as it realized Regan cared about the scarf. Not that Regan was some sentimental creature, of course. But—but it had been a gift from Jade, and sure, they could go to Just Scarves and pick out a new one, but—

“Scraf!” Thong demanded, “Give Thong scraf! Make Thong scraf soup! Scraf soup feed Thong’s growing family.” 

Great. Regan’s eyes flooded black and she glowered at Baz, because now they had yet another problem, and Regan was not giving up her scarf without a fight. “I thought you were going to talk us out of this.” 

She shook her head and turned her attention back toward the larger fae, because she didn’t think Baz would attempt to eat her while she was turned away, and she could not say the same of their other company. “If we leave it here, you are just going to… eat it. Despite the risk of intestinal blockage or airway obstruction. But… oh! Observe the coat.” She gestured toward Baz’s unmissable crime scene tape coat, which felt appropriate given the circumstances. “Do you like the color? Do you—hold on, do you have cones? Which ones? Nevermind.” She looked at Baz. “Bees and hummingbirds are attracted to vivid colors. So…” She raised a brow at them, pointing toward Thong. “Thong will be enamoured. Go ahead. Or there is always your wallet.” She secured her scarf with both hands. Try it again, gan cnámha. 

“Thong take both! Thong need scraf and coat for dying family!”

“Feck,” Regan muttered.

—

“We’ll set something on fire,” Baz hissed back, as if it was obvious. Fire was hot, and plenty of people set fires in the woods, didn’t they? Boyscouts did it, and Baz was certain that they (well, Regan, really) was more capable than a Boyscout! Anyway, they doubted they’d have to get the meal too hot. Thong didn’t seem bright enough to tell lukewarm apart from steaming, and probably had skin so thick that he’d have to pour the bloody soup down his throat to tell the temperature of it at all. By that time, the deal would be done and Regan and Baz would be well on their way.

Of course, all this hinged on them being allowed to find the ingredients to make the soup, and that meant a bit more bargaining. Regan wasn’t thrilled with the idea of risking her scarf, for whatever reason. It wasn’t even a very nice scarf. It was all… dull and colorless and soft and Baz only wanted to steal it for themself a little bit, and that was mostly because Regan seemed so keen on keeping it. 

Thong seemed to feel the same way. In a sense, at least. Thong, it seemed, wanted to eat the scarf, which differed from Baz’s feelings towards it quite a bit, but that was all right. Not everyone thought the same way, after all. So long as it meant Baz got to go home tonight, Thong could eat as many scarves as his heart desired. “I am talking us out of it,” they replied to Regan, under their breath to avoid Thong hearing it. “A scarf soup is better than an us soup, I’d say. You’re welcome!” 

But Regan was not grateful. In fact, Regan was the opposite. A grateful person would not have thrown Baz — or, perhaps more importantly, Baz’s jacket — under the proverbial bus. They wrapped the jacket a little tighter around their thin frame, shooting Regan a dark look. “Thong doesn’t want my jacket,” they protested. “Thong is a scarf-only sort of bloke. Look at him! Does he look like the sort of…” They observed Thong with narrowed eyes, trying to determine the proper noun and coming up short. “...Thong who wants a jacket? No! Of course not! Thong has no interest at all in my jacket.” 

Except Thong had an interest in Baz’s jacket. And in Regan’s scarf. Trolls were, apparently, a bit greedy.

“They’re dying now?” Baz exclaimed, growing more and more suspicious about the state of Thong’s possibly nonexistent family. “Never mind that. Look, Thong, if you take my jacket, I’ll be cold, yeah? I’ll be shivering too hard to make your soup properly!” It wasn’t really that cold, and they were wearing a thick sweater beneath the jacket, which was more decorative than it was anything else, so their throat burned a little with the lie. “Oh! What if Regan promises not to run off until your soup is done?”

—

“If you’d just given Thong the jacket, we wouldn’t be having this debate!” Regan adjusted her scarf, fitting it more firmly around her neck. It was not going anywhere. Especially not in soup. “I could have walked away before.” Her stomach clenched tight. Physical capability did not mean she could do it; that had already been tested and the results would remain unpublished.

“Oh, a you’re welcome. How magnanimous! I didn’t thank you,” Regan said, because Baz did not deserve her rare manners when they were trying to barter off her scarf and promises and her. She turned to Thong and tried to keep any revulsion off her face. She had seen uglier than Thong, but those were degloving injuries. “Thong. I am very sorry to hear about your, um, family. I am not promising anything, though, because I cannot stay here. I have a medical condition. But this does not matter, because Baz here is going to give you their boots. Look at them. The treads, the laces, the general boot qualities. They will not get far without boots. So you can be assured we will return with your soup.”

She decided she hated Baz. First of all, because her skin was still tweezer-plucked near them, and second, because they did not have the right to demand a promise from her. Promises meant something to all fae (not that she was truly one of them, human that she was), but she wasn’t sure most learned through the kind of lessons her grandmother exacted. Maybe Baz would have hesitated, had they known, or maybe not. Regan never expected kindness from fae; that particular lesson had been a promise from fae to her, learned over the course of a decade.

And so, in turn. “This is the plan,” she said, side-eying Baz but speaking foremost to Thong. “Baz gives you their shoes, their coat, and—” she glanced at Baz and didn’t see anything else they could easily remove “--one hundred dollars. They will give you all of these. It is unnecessary for me to provide you with my scarf or promise anything, because you will have not one boot, but two, and money to purchase your own scarf. In the meantime, we will look for, uh, soup. And return. Probably…” She trailed off quietly at the last word, insurance against a lie. “And then you will return Baz’s possessions to them.” She paused. “Probably…” That last part was doubtful, unless they held the soup hostage. 

“Or I could leave Baz here. I would surely return with soup then, wouldn’t I? And look. You would also get… the coat, the boots, and everything in their wallet. They smell better than I do—some might say. Their knowledge of pathology is likely on the thin side, but I’m sure they have other… talents. I suppose. You will enjoy their company, or at least tolerate it. And I will be far more effective at preparing your soup if I do so alone.” And she could reckon with trying to leave Baz with Thong again, and being just as depraved as they were. But at least she wouldn’t have them promise.

Okay. She reckoned with it. “Baz does not care about your dying family.” Thong’s ears went flat, his lips curling. “I know. So it is imperative I go. Baz would spoil the soup with their carelessness. Thong, what are the names of your offspring? I am demonstrating my engagement with the topic and thus indicating it is worthy of my time. Wait. Tell me when I return. They must not be kept waiting long.”

—

“I can’t give Thong my jacket,” Baz protested in a sharp whisper. “Do you know how much this jacket costs? It wouldn’t even fit Thong.” The answer to their rhetorical question — do you know how much this jacket costs? — was something in the realm of seven pounds at the thrift mart, but Regan didn’t need to know that sort of thing. Regan, Baz would argue, needed to know nothing at all, because it wouldn’t have stuck in her mind, anyway. They were clearly dealing with someone whose brain held information just as well as a pasta strainer held water! Otherwise, she’d have obviously agreed with everything they’d said thus far, because Baz was making perfect sense!

They scoffed as she pointed out that she hadn’t thanked them, rolling their eyes with a huff. “Well, maybe you would have if you’d any manners to speak of.” As if to display her lack of manners, Regan turned back towards Thong and began speaking, letting the most dreadful things fall out of her mouth. “My boots?” Baz demanded, incredulous. They had been polite in their demands of Regan! Her scarf was hideous and terrible and Baz had only been a little envious of it. Regan would trap them here with a hungry troll! (Never mind, of course, that Baz had attempted to do the same to her. It was all right when they were the one doing it.)

Regan laid out her plan, and Baz sputtered in protest. “I haven’t even got a hundred dollars!” They screeched. “She’s offering you things she can’t deliver on, Thong. I would never do that to you. I respect you and your poor, dying family.” Their stomach tightened with the lie, but they were good at pushing through that sort of thing. They had a lot of practice. “I’ve only offered you something easy to give — she doesn’t even need her scarf, does she? Not to make your soup. But I can’t very well be off into the woods to collect soup ingredients without shoes or a jacket, can I? She’s hindering you, mate. She’s putting the status of your soup into jeopardy. She’s the one who doesn’t give a rat’s arse if your family starves or not! I’m offering solutions. She’s offering platitudes. Which will fill your children’s stomachs?”

The answer to that question, of course, was neither. Baz’s solutions were no more nutritious than Regan’s wild claims of Baz’s boots belonging to Thong. But trolls weren’t known for their intelligence, and Baz doubted this one was any more highly educated than the rest of them. If Regan wouldn’t help them get out of this together, Baz would get out of it alone. Turning Thong against the other fae wasn’t their ideal solution, but they’d have plenty of time to scamper off while the troll turned Regan into minced meat, wouldn’t they? They’d find some way to explain it, if it came back on them! They’d find a way to claim they’d tried to help her without lying! They were good at that!

But Thong, for his part, seemed interested in neither Baz’s solutions nor Regan’s platitudes. He roared, the sound splitting through the trees and echoing through the woods around them. The frustration in the sound was clear, and Baz couldn’t help but wince at just how long the roar lasted. Thong really had a set of lungs on him, didn’t he? Baz might have voiced how impressed they were if they weren’t relatively certain doing so would get them wadded up like a paper ball and tossed into the middle distance. 

“THONG TIRED OF TALKING!” The troll roared, stomping a massive foot and shaking the ground. “THONG NOT WANT HEAR ANY MORE! THONG! WANT! SOUP!”

—

She’d had enough. Regan was not going to stand here and let this interloper of her private afternoon insult her character! She had done nothing wrong here! (Yet.) She’d gone back for Baz, hadn’t she? (What was one more regret?) She faced Baz and decided defending her honor was more important than keeping an eye on Thong. “I’ve known you for twenty minutes and it’s clear you do not respect anyone other than yourself! Do you even care about the names of Thong’s children? Would you allow them to die so your arms and feet can be moderately warm? That material does not even look insulating. It is the epidermis of fabrics.” Regan narrowed her eyes and muttered, “are you in gastrointestinal distress from all those lies?” She was sure Thong heard too, but that was fine, because Thong should be livid as livor that Baz had the gall to lie about his dying family. Regan nodded and crossed her arms, waiting smugly for the detonation at Baz, which was surely coming, and surely not going to involve her. 

There was a detonation but it was not only directed at Baz. Thong’s roaring breath assailed Regan’s nose, and even with her high tolerance for strong stenches, it made her turn her head away. Before Regan could form a thought, she felt the pressure in her chest rising up to challenge Thong’s bellow. Feck. She whipped her eyes to Baz. Too close. She needed to rein this in. Her lungs seized, and she trapped the building screech behind her teeth. They vibrated in their sockets. She probably should have ran when she had the chance. Regan heaved forward, hands gripping her thighs, as she tried not to open her mouth. Breathing exercises weren’t worth a whimper and every banshee knew it; she refused to fuel her lungs at all. The feeling subsided, shrank away, but she didn’t have long to appreciate it before fast motion hooked her peripheral vision.

Thong grabbed something—a boulder. He roared again and raised the massive rock above his ugly head. Regan reached toward Baz and grabbed at their crime scene tape sleeve. “Move it, amadán,” she panted, “I think we’re the soup. Go. Move.”

The rock crashed and exploded into pieces only a couple of feet from where they were standing, and Thong was already searching for another boulder. “Thong make human soup! Thong hate human! Thong chew human bones!” 

Human? Regan froze despite the new boulder now raised high in Thong’s claws. Being acknowledged as human by something that must have sensed she was not, was one of the most flattering things she had ever heard. And the creature must have been fueled by epinephrine right now too—so the sentiment came from the most earnest anatomy of Thong’s brain. Her cheeks warmed. “That’s correct,” Regan said, “I’m a—” The second rock was coming down.

—

Baz had wanted to be a great many things throughout their life. They tended to change their mind on a whim, following one dream one day and a new dream the next. The first time they’d gone to a coffee shop alone, they’d dreamed of being a barista; the first time they’d gone to a pub, they’d thought they’d have made an excellent bartender. Art was the mainstay dream, of course, the thing that hung on at the forefront no matter what else they thought they wanted on top of it, but there were few things they’d seen in action that they hadn’t dreamed of becoming themself. It was a natural consequence of spending the majority of their life outside of those brief instances of existing outside of expectation as nothing at all, the sort of thing one might expect of someone who was only ever meant to be what other people needed them to be. Baz wanted to do everything; Baz wanted to be everything.

But they’d never wanted to be soup.

In fact, on the list of things they thought they might like to do with their life, becoming soup ranked somewhere towards the very bottom. Above some more gruesome fates, sure — being soup might be better than being tortured, they supposed, though becoming soup was sure to feel a bit like torture when it was happening, they were sure — but certainly below every odd job they’d briefly looked at with wide-eyed idealism. They certainly didn’t want to be soup for a troll who they were now about fifty percent sure was lying about the existence of his many starving children. And to be put into soup alongside someone like Regan, with her colorless wardrobe, on top of it all? Oh, maybe torture would have been preferrable! Maybe soup was truly at the bottom of the list!

Regan seemed to be suffering from some sort of ill-timed indigestion, but even she recognized the dangers of Thong’s outburst. Baz didn’t need to be told to run, of course, but perhaps Regan needed a reminder. She froze in the spot as Thong went on about human soup, though Baz wasn’t entirely sure they could blame her. They’d never thought it an insult to be called human, but they didn’t really enjoy it coming from another fae. Thong, of all people, ought to know better. He could sense them, couldn’t he? That flutter in the gut, those quiet butterflies? Had he mistaken it for hunger, was that it? Was he so focused on soup that everything in his life seemed soaked in its broth? Was he —

Okay, there was a boulder above their heads. Now was not the time to get philosophical about soup.

Without thinking properly, Baz grabbed Regan by the arm and yanked, pulling her to the side just as the second rock came down mere inches from where she’d stood. Thong’s aim wasn’t the best, but it probably didn’t have to be. There was a relatively large margin of error when you were tossing massive boulders about. Their only saving grace, Baz thought, was that there were not an abundance of boulders to be tossed. That and the fact that Thong didn’t look nearly as aerodynamic as the pair of them did. Baz took off, dragging Regan along behind them. “We just need to outrun him!” They shouted, not one for ‘sneaking’ away. “Should be easy enough, yeah? He won’t chase us for long. He’s got children to get back to. Allegedly!”

—

Regan was asking a lot from her lungs. She’d just tied them off moments ago, kept the force trapped down, and now she needed them to help her run. A moment to rest would have been nice. She didn’t get one. Baz yanked her sideways and her breath spilled out, and Baz should have considered themselves lucky they weren’t bleeding from the ears. “Watch it, amadán! Hey, watch—yes, yes, okay! Fine. I’m running, I’m—”

Baz stopped and Regan nearly tripped over them. Thong was roaring, and even with some distance between them now, Regan could see the shape of Thong crushing through the brush, straight for them like an oncoming truck. Baz’s plan to run was objectively the right decision now, and Regan would avoid the temptation of being contrary (barely). “He’s also not very fast. We could have done this twenty minutes ago. Not that I would have. I have morals. Unlike—” Another roar split the woods. Right. Fine. Some things were hard to excise though, and the loss of that brief, flitting moment—human, Thong said— burned worse than her simmering lungs. Baz took it from her. In the process of attempting to save her life. But they took it.