#irma tempest

Irma’s office had once belonged to Al at Monroe Fashions, though “belonged” was generous. He’d treated it like a decorative afterthought, a place to abandon paperwork while he haunted the workrooms and design floors where the real magic happened. Irma, practical as ever, claimed it without ceremony. On paper, Alphonse Monroe ran the business. In practice, Irma Tempest kept its pulse steady so he could dream without the building catching fire.

Now she sat behind the desk, posture immaculate, fingers steepled, watching Al unravel into a stream of anxious words about Benni and Stan. His voice filled the room, quick and fraying at the edges.

She lifted a single finger.

Silence dropped instantly. Even the air seemed to behave.

“Benni sees Stan’s transformation into a better person as a kind of insult,” Irma said, her tone level, precise. “They were a child. Parents are supposed to love and care for their children. That isn’t a lofty ideal, Al. It’s the bare minimum. So when they see that he can change, it forces a much uglier thought to the surface, that he was always capable of being better… and simply chose not to be when they needed him most.”

The words settled heavily, like dust that refused to be brushed away.

Alphonse exhaled and drifted toward the window, teacup in hand, the city stretching out below him in indifferent lines of light. He stared out as if the answer might be written somewhere between the buildings.

“I understand that, Irma. I do,” he said, quieter now. “But how am I supposed to explain Stan’s past to them? His first real love, his children… slaughtered by humans. And not after he failed them, but after he fought—truly fought—against his own kind to keep them safe. It broke something fundamental in him. After that, he didn’t just grieve. He curdled. He became cruel, hollowed out, convinced he was incapable of love, unworthy of it. For centuries.”

He paused, thumb tracing the rim of his teacup.

“And that’s not even touching the rest of it. The torture. The manipulation. People taking his pain and reshaping it into something they had the audacity to call love. Even with me…” A faint, humorless smile flickered. “For a long time, I wasn’t anything more than a convenience. A source of comfort. It took everything I had to carve out something real in him. Something that could last.”

Irma didn’t soften.

“I don’t think Benni gives a fuck about any of that, Al,” she said plainly. “And frankly, they shouldn’t have to. They didn’t enter this world cushioned by tragedy they could contextualize. They were born straight into the aftermath of it.”

She leaned back slightly, gaze unwavering.

“You didn’t even know they were your child. Stan never told you. You had to piece that truth together yourself like a detective with half the evidence burned. And yes, you tried. You stepped in as ‘Uncle Al,’ brought them joy, protected them where you could. That mattered.”

A small pause. Not gentle, but deliberate.

“But you couldn’t rewrite what they learned early on. That they weren’t worth staying for. That love was conditional, inconsistent, or absent altogether. And if I’m being fair… your love doesn’t always land the way you think it does. It’s bright, it’s generous, but it’s also… polished. Sweetened. It can feel like you’re trying to fix their emotions instead of letting them exist.”

Alphonse turned from the window, something wounded flickering across his face.

“…So you’re saying I can’t fix this? That I’m somehow incapable of helping Benni understand—”

“It isn’t your mess to fix,” Irma cut in, clean as a blade. “This is between Stan and Benni. Their relationship, their damage, their repair. Every time you step in to defend Stan, you’re not helping. You’re driving the wedge deeper, reinforcing the idea that their pain comes second to his redemption.”

She tilted her head slightly, expression sharpening.

“You also have a tendency,” she continued, “to come across like some desperate housewife utterly devoted to a man who can do no wrong simply because you love him. It’s not endearing. It’s annoying.”

The room went still again.

“Benni is supposed to be a Being of Balance,” Irma went on, quieter now but no less firm. “Or at least, they’re meant to become one. That means they have to navigate this themselves, define what balance even means while dragging around the weight of being the child of two ancient, catastrophically flawed beings. You and Stan know too much about the world… and somehow not enough where it matters.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the window, then back to Al.

“Time does strange things to people like us. It layers pain until it dulls, blurs, becomes indistinguishable from everything else. You forget what it feels like when it’s sharp. Immediate.”

A faint, dry edge slipped into her voice.

“That’s why Benni doesn’t just lash out in small, harmless ways. They don’t spritz you with water like a misbehaving cat.”

A beat.

“They pick up a crossbow.”

“I don’t know, Stan… Benni is such a good kid despite everything. And I feel like they’ve been… outperforming even me lately. Maybe I should retire.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “For real this time?”

“Yes, for real this time. Besides, I can still keep up with my hobbies.”

“Your hobbies become jobs. You like the praise and attention your work gets you. I don’t think you’re capable of fully retiring.”

“Well, Irma has a contingency plan for when, or if, I do. Honestly, I think it’d throw her through a loop if I actually went through with it.” Alphonse sighed and stared at the ceiling. “When Cadmus finally settled into being a functioning adult, I worried he’d never find something to excel at. Then he got into big business, finance, and whatever else he does around the realm. Then the triplets came along and started carving out their own paths. Artisanal workmanship practically baked into them.”

He paused.

“And I think Benni finally found their spark. Despite the life they were handed… we were never great parents, but I’m proud of them. Proud and a little devastated that they’ve surpassed me.” He snorted softly. “Also mildly annoyed that the fashion genius turned out to be Karnus, who refuses to actually create anything.”

Stan frowned. “What are you getting at, babe? You’re rambling.”

“…I think our time is slowing down. We’re not the main characters in our own lives anymore.” Alphonse’s eyes darted away, suddenly sheepish. “I think we should try to put things right before we’re… written out.”

Stan looked at him for a long moment. “What exactly do you have left to put right?”

“I said we. And it’s not like we’re leaving anytime soon, so we still have time to ask forgiveness and break a few generational curses.”

“Generational?”

“We’ve lived for generations, Stan. You more than me. Our baggage is generational by definition.” He rubbed at his face. “Point is, we should work our shit out now so our later years are easier to live with.”

“What’s easier than this?” Stan gestured lazily around the room. “You keep us comfortable. We spend half the winter fucking to the annoyance of our children.”

Alphonse laughed despite himself, then quieted again. “That’s not the same thing as being at peace with ourselves. Honestly… wouldn’t you rather have a better relationship with Benni?”

“I do have a relationship with them. I get along with Karnus, and the grandkids love me.”

“…Stan.” Alphonse turned to him flatly. “Do you not see Benni as a separate person from Karnus and Syliph...Do you even talk to Syliph?"

“Well, they all came from the same kid..…”

“They’re triplets, We need relationships with each of them individually. Or at the very least, one where I’m not getting shot at with crossbows.”

It was a lovely evening. The last leaves of fall clung to the trees, hesitant to give way to the official start of Yule. A few hours later, Alphonse sat in his lounge wear, working on his laptop, while Stan rested his head on his shoulder, nearly drifting off to sleep, soothed by the rhythmic tapping of keys. Across the room, Irma lounged in an armchair, focused on her own laptop as she prepared for an upcoming fashion show.

Stan let out a contented sigh and murmured, "Hey, babe... make sure you come to bed soon. Irma, please make sure he does." He pressed a soft kiss to Alphonse's cheek.

"Don't worry, I will," Alphonse replied, his voice calm. "I’m just finishing up some work for the decorators. I’ll be asleep with you soon. Goodnight, love."

Stan nodded, giving a small wave before heading down the hallway. Once he was out of sight, Alphonse snapped his laptop shut and shot Irma a wild, panicked look.

"Fuck. I forgot tomorrow is the start of the season! I have so much to prepare. Irma, I need you to—"

"Alphonse," Irma interrupted, her tone exasperated but fond. "We’ve been through this for over three decades. I already know what to do. I’ll handle the decorators and the show. You go primp and prepare as you need. And by the way, you knew it was a mistake to eat that steak tonight. You should’ve had the salad."

Alphonse blushed. "Still, I might have some notes."

"Then write them before Stan wakes up. I’ve got this. Now go."

Without another word, Alphonse bolted to the bathroom, where he began his meticulous preparations for the season: showering, shaving, applying ointments, and completing other necessary rituals before finally heading to bed.

The next morning, he woke to find the usual shadows that lurked in the home’s alcoves and corners had deepened. The darkness in the rafters had grown nearly opaque, an unnatural blackness that felt alive.

Alphonse sat up, reached for the two happy little blue pills on his nightstand, and swallowed them with a glass of water which worked nearly immediately. He quickly jotted down a note:

'I’ve decided… blue, yellow, purple.'

Turning to where his husband should have been, he found the bed empty.

“Fuck,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the side.

As he stepped out of the room, a sound from the rafters made him freeze—something slithering, animalistic, and... hot. Heart pounding, he rushed to the living room and tried lighting the Yule log the traditional way, but the thing in the rafters crept closer. Desperate, he shot a small burst of fire at the log, igniting it just in time before sprinting to Irma's room.

He slid the note under her door but froze as he felt a tendril of shadow coil around his leg. A mix of resignation and exhilaration crossed his face as he let out a sigh and a delighted squeal.

Alphonse let himself be taken by the darkness, surrendering to what his husband became during the winter—something insatiable.

She took a deep breath. "He hasn't slept and frankly I don't think he should be darted again, at least not for another month. His tolerance is getting higher." She squinted "Wait...Stan I need you to think on this. Has Alphonse been designing that hat with really old looking equipment. Because it might Mercury poisoning."