#kilixofc

The marketplace is empty aside from those readying their commodities for sale, busy with their backs turned, so no one seems to have noticed anything happen in your little corner.

                “Uhm…?”

                “Shh!” It’s more desperate than harsh when it reaches your ears, muffled as it is.

                “I—”

                “Please, m’lady, I will offer whatever you wish simply to pretend I don’t exist.”

As you’re about to open your mouth to reply, two rough-looking dwarves charge into the center of the marketplace, chests heaving and faces so red, you’re sure a volcano is about to erupt out their ears.

                “Very well. Never saw you.” You decide to play along, straightening your skirts and trying to look as casual as you do on most mornings. Which, you realize, is rather difficult when you’re suddenly forced to pay attention to what casual looks like on you.

The two dwarves prowl around the space, going from stand to kiosk to pen, grunting like boars and snarling questions. A lady of Men strikes one with a ladle she was using to thin her ointment - heating in a cauldron over an open flame - when he grabs her because she refuses to acknowledge him. 

You can’t help but snort when the dwarf yowls like a cat that’s tail is stepped on. It certainly doesn’t help the menacing aura he’s trying to project.

Across from your table, to the right of the gates, you glimpse Bofur at his kiosk, hanging trinkets and toys. When the two surly dwarves make their way over to him, you see Bofur answer their interrogation with a cheeky smile and a lot of pipe-waving. Your eyes narrow when you notice that he looks entirely too at ease. As if he’s done this countless times before.

               “So, who are you exactly?” You ask while the dwarves have their backs turned.

               “No one of import.” Comes the reply, tight through a clamped jaw.

               “Hm. Well, you should tell that to the two sons of swine looking for you. Seems like you’re quite important to them.”

               “Must you ask questions now?”

               “Will you stick around long enough to answer them later?”

               “I – ”

The dwarves turn around, panning the marketplace with beady eyes as if they suddenly developed the ability to spot your intruder through walls.

               “They’re coming this way so do try to answer quickly.”

               “Yes yes, fine, I’ll answer whatever you ask just please don’t say anything!”

Just as his voice silences abruptly, the dwarves approach you, scowling. Perhaps, had your eyes not settled on the rather impressive bump forming on one of their heads, you’d be a little nervous. As it is, you are trying to bite back a grin.

               “Where is ‘e?” One barks, stalking along the length of your table.

               “Who?”

               “The idiot who went through ‘ere, we know someone saw ‘im.”

               “Aye, perhaps, but that someone wasn’t me, I’m afraid.”

They’re obviously losing patience since the one closest to you grabs you by your collar and hauls you forward until your noses are scrunched together uncomfortably. Oh no, that won’t do at all. Before he can say whatever intimidating thing he’s about to, he finds himself with the edge of your dagger on his throat.

               “I humbly suggest you release me, sir, for I’m expecting a rather good crowd today. Something that will undoubtedly be hindered by your rotten carcass on the ground at my feet …”

You can feel the rise and dip of his throat against your blade as he considers your threat. Seeing no lie in your expression, he slowly loosens his fists and helps tip you back so you’re upright, brushing out the wrinkles in the fabric at your shoulders.

               “Thank you.” You say, as politely as you can, “Now, please get your foulness away from my table.”

He nods to his friend and they march away, disturbed but undeterred, to their next victim. You watch, mirth twinkling in your eyes, as they get their arses bellowed back through the gates moments after they reach Bombur and his assortment of cheeses, both dwarves failing to pull the same stunt on Bombur as they did with you. 

One of the buffoons drops a plate of Bombur’s best in the scuffle. It’s a miracle they make it to freedom after such a grievous crime.

                “You can come out now.” You tell the table, crossing your arms under, lips puckered in dry intrigue. Whoever this fellow is, it’s clear he drags trouble behind him like a cape and you don’t have the time or patience to deal with that, thank you very much.

A groan accompanies the shuffle of a body against the ground as the stranger pulls himself out from under the table rather clumsily. You don’t know why but you imagined he be more feline in his movements, given that he’s someone who probably has to tuck himself into tighter spaces to avoid being pummeled. 

              “Are you a criminal?” You ask, direct. No sense in beating around the bush, is there?

              “Uh. No?” He says once he’s found his feet, dusting off dirt and stuck pebbles from his bottoms. 

You raise an unconvinced brow. “You aren’t sure?”  

              “No.” He repeats more firmly. 

He’s. Quite handsome, if you’re being honest, with strong, dark features and fairly fine clothes. His eyes are soft and warm, crinkled at the corners as if permanently smiling; below them sits a long, straight nose that bulbs at the tip and flares into round nostrils. Generous lips are spread in a cheeky, boyish grin that you find your mouth responding to, the excited energy he’s emitting contagious like a child’s when they’ve found something neat to bring home. 

If you weren’t so suspicious of this dwarf – and if he hadn’t just been cowering under your table – you’d assume he was from the court. As it is, though, you’re pretty certain he stole his garb from some unsuspecting nobleman whose now shivering in the palace halls in nothing but his drawers, and he’s nothing but an overgrown dwarfling with the sensibility of a turnip. 

              “You’re awfully pretty,” He says, voice cutely dopey, slicing through your examination of him with his own of you. 

              “You’re awfully forward.” You reply, rearing back onto the heels of your boots but not moving away entirely. 

              “Kíli, lad!” You hear Bofur call from across the market and doesn’t that just crack through your mind like a whip? “All right?” 

              “Fine, Bofur!” The cowardly-criminal-stranger, Kíli – who you know very well is the second heir to the throne, Prince of Durinsfolk, not a clothes-snatching jackanapes! Because there aren’t any other bloody Kílis are there!? Oh dear... – answers blithely, tipping his head in Bofur’s direction while keeping his gaze with yours. 

His grin practically splits his face in two now that he’s been revealed and sees you visibly trying to remain unaffected by this information. 

              “Uhm  – ” Since, really, what else can you possibly say? 

              “I would—that is ...” Kíli sucks his lip between his teeth and chews for a second before finding his courage to ask you whatever it is he wishes to ask. You’re still flustered, hopefully only on the inside, and can’t help but want him to hurry up so you can take a moment to yourself to wrap your head around the bizarreness of this morning. “It would be my honor to invite you to a meal? With me? As thanks,” He makes a few mad gestures that you figure are the result of nerves, “for ... for helping me?”

His nervousness puts to rest your own unease and suddenly you feel light, unburdened by the strangeness of the situation. Kíli is looking at you expectantly, brows ticked up in the middle with worry, as if he’s already prepared for rejection but can’t help but to hope. 

              “I’d be honored, Master Kíli.” You say though you let a little humor drip into your tone. “Perhaps this afternoon, if you’re so inclined?”

Remarkably, Kíli’s whole being brightens further to rival The Lamps and you fall into the warmth of it with glee. 

              “I reckon we could head to the brook? The—”

              “The one at the base of the East Slope?” You nod, knowing it. 

He only gets brighter. 

The bell clangs above, signaling the market’s opening to the public. Kíli whips his head around, glancing over either shoulder to see the crowd plowing through the gates eagerly. 

              “I’ll go.” He chuckles. “But I’ll come back for you! This afternoon!”

You shake your head, already fond of the bugger, “I can hardly wait.”

With a wink and a shallow bow, Kíli sweeps away, disappearing into the crowd and leaving you to smile at the empty air where he stood moments ago. 

Currently, you’re leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping sparkling water from a skull-shaped plastic cup while you listen to Gimli’s mother talk about her day at the market. Her stall boasts some of the best local produce in the area and is always busy with a queue of people from the city looking for farm fresh vegetables. 

Kíli’s nearby, rummaging through the fridge for something with a bit more bite to add to his own cup. He pulls back, a bottle of white wine held above his head like a trophy, and barks, “Ah-ha!”

You chuckle and decline his offer when he tips the bottle in your direction. 

                “One of us has to stay alert.” You tease with a roll of your eyes. 

He wiggles his eyebrows in response, leaning into your space and chuffing your nose with his, “Come on, love, after everything we pulled off today, we deserve to celebrate!” He says the last part with gusto, pouring a generous amount of the wine right into your sparkling water. 

                “I guess I like spritzers now.” You mumble to yourself, trying hard to keep the smile Kíli is coaxing out of you to yourself. It’s not working if the warm gaze Kíli relaxes on you is anything to go by. 

Gimli’s mother clears her throat, breaking the spell that you didn’t realize had settled over you and Kíli. You’d completely forgotten she was there as soon as Kíli caught your attention. According to the unsubtle jibes you received from most of the parents tonight, you guess it happens a lot when they come to collect their kids from the daycare. 

Oops.

🎃

The party ends with Hocus Pocus in the sitting room, blankets and pillows laid out on the carpet for the children to curl in to. Most of them are already starting to droop sideways as they watch the Sanderson Sisters return from beyond, their costumes dismantled, accessories strewn all about. 

Parents filter in, a couple at a time, to collect their child from the pile, grabbing their Halloween loot before saying their thank yous and goodbyes. Maeven is curled up in her mother’s lap, squished between the arm of the recliner and her mother’s swollen belly, dozing sweetly. Some of her blue face paint transferred to the collar of her mother’s scrubs. Her mother doesn’t notice, her own head tossed back in welcome repose after a difficult day at the hospital. 

You snicker to yourself and snap a picture on your phone; they make an adorable picture that you’re sure Kíli will appreciate later. 

When it’s quiet, save for the last few stragglers - their parents huddled in the kitchen over a bottle of red Kíli found in his pantry - Kíli finds you lounging long-ways on the couch, enjoying the movie. 

He lifts your legs without preamble and sits down, dropping them over his thighs once he’s comfortable. You’re stunned, eyes saucer-wide and lips pressed white, at this unexpected display of familiarity. Sure, he’s been flirting nonsense at you all day, and yes, he’s managed to find ways to be tactile with you, but this feels like something couples do. 

                “Thank you,” He says earnestly, drawing you from your thoughts. “Really.” His face is open and sincere, eyes soft, mouth curled in a smile you just want to kiss the shit out of— 

                “Anytime.” You say easily. 

He squeezes your calf and turns to the television. 

🎃 

Much later, after you’ve helped Kíli clean up, after you waved Maeven and her mother to the guest room upstairs to sleep, after you’ve finished another glass of wine courtesy of Kíli’s well-stocked pantry, you and Kíli are on the floor in front of the loveseat, Rocky Horror playing on the screen for you to laugh at and sing along to. 

Kíli tells you that he was in a production of Rocky Horror, his first semester of uni in the city. He shows you pictures and, damn, yeah, alright, that man’s ass is stunning wrapped in lace, accentuated by the sky-high hooker heels he wore. 

                “Surprised?” He laughs as you turn crimson. 

                “Not even a little.” 

You’re so transfixed on the image that you don’t notice Kíli’s weight against your side, his hand sneaking under your chin to turn your face toward his. Before you have a chance to register what’s happening, he leans in. It isn’t fireworks. It isn’t heat and passion and redredred. 

The kiss is the featherlight tease of his lips brushing yours before pressing in firmly, locking you together with your lower lip sucked between his teeth. It’s hot, oh yes it is, but it isn’t urgent. He dips his tongue in to lick the tip of yours, retreating immediately to pant a breath and then lurching forward to start all over again. Nips and wet smacks and satisfied groans. 

Your cheeks are flushed and your breath is quick when he finally pulls back, cradling your jaw in his hands, staring at you like the 8th Wonder of the World. 

                “I’ve wanted to do that for awhile.” He admits, his forehead against yours making it hard to focus on his face, all blurry from his close proximity. 

                “Yeah?”

                “Definitely.”

                “Well,” You say, voice filled with laughter, “Don’t think you can just go around kissing me whenever you want. Just because I let you this time doesn’t mean I will every time!”

                “Is that so?” 

                “Mhmm.”

And, crack-kaboom, there it is, the thing you forgot about in the heat of the moment. When Kíli’s tilts backward his eyes are huge and glossy, his lower lip pursed out and somehow reminding you of a helpless little mouse. His chin wobbles faintly, adding to the overall effect. 

Damn puppy-eyes, you curse. You take his face between your hands and scoff, leaning forward slowly, “One day, those might not work, Mr. Durin.”

                “Well, I’ll be happy to keep proving you wrong, Miss.” He says in a low gravel and closes the distance.

🎃

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

                "C’mon,” Kíli begged, thick brows pinched above his nose; his warm eyes, that you knew would be matched in intensity if you chanced a look down to his hip, were glassy with despair. “Please. I’m begging you. It would mean the world!” 

You snapped your head down, chin to your chest, eyes fixed on your bare toes to try and evade the gut-clenching reaction to Kíli’s expression. Honestly, it felt like watching those late night SPCA commercials and you were already one trembling mange-puppy away from adopting, that’s how thin your resolve was by then. 

                 “Kíli — ” 

As you spoke, you trailed your gaze back up, following the line of Kíli’s admittedly very fit body from socked feet to knees to dangling pipe-cleaner legs in navy blue and olive green polkadot, up the frilly off-white pinafore and around the large, well-worked hands under wiry arms bent like a steeple in front of a Muppet body, all with a sense of trepidation and impending damnation.  

The violent shattering of your will power wasn’t as painful as you’d imagined under Maeven’s pitiful, dramatic pout.  

                “Pleeeaaase?” The little creature in Kíli’s hands wobbled (for effect, as you were aware).

The entire class behind her chorused, beseeching, “Pleeeaaase?” 

Your eyes narrowed into unimpressed slits, cheeks puffed out with the air you had to drawn in to give yourself strength, when you met Kíli’s eyes above Maeven’s head. He grinned, all goofy, his stupid face aggravatingly adorable and hot as sin all at once. 

Defeated you may have been but you weren’t going down without some negotiation. Smoothing out your frustration, you looked at Maeven and smiled, your voice a calm breeze as you said, “Alright, sweetheart, I’ll help.” 

Kíli bent forward to gently set Maeven on her feet, pleased with himself. Maeven squealed in victory and clapped her hands, her classmates cheering behind her though you weren’t sure if they really understood what they’d won. They scattered, skipping either to their cubbies or to the projects they’d been working on before Maeven rallied them. By then, more parents were filing in to collect their children, nodding at you in greeting but diverting to discuss the day with your colleague when they saw that you were busy with Kíli. 

                “Alright, Mr. Durin,” You said, crossing your arms and jutting your hip out to impress upon Kíli that you weren’t going to be messed with. “I need money for supplies, access to all the rooms of your house—” 

                “My hou—” 

                “Yes, your house,” You interrupted, “Where did you imagine this was going to happen? Here? No. The school is closed weekends and Halloween is tomorrow so you’d better make sure you hide anything you don’t want played with by tomorrow afternoon.” You let one brow rise in challenge. You were met with none, so you continued listing your demands, “And you’re going to assist me in putting this whole thing together since you were generous enough to spoil your daughter rotten. I mean, seriously Kíli, do you know how to say no?” 

                “Do you?” He counters. 

                “When the occasion calls for it, you can be sure I do.” 

                “Right.” Kíli scoffed playfully, twinkling at you, “So a five-year-old demanding your time and energy to pull of a last-minute evening of activities for all of her classmates wasn’t the occasion?” 

                “Uh—” 

Kíli shrugged, voice still light and teasing, “Maybe my girl’s just talented then. We should see how she does in politics.”

                 “Oh God, she’d take over the world.” You gasped and you weren’t sure if it was as mocking as you meant it to be.  

Your breath leaves you completely when you look at Kíli and see him biting his lower lip, stifling a laugh with his head cocked to the side, watching you as if you’re the best thing since the invention Netflix Kids.  

                “Yeah, with the right support, she probably would.” He agrees.

And that’s how you find yourself here, unloading the backseat of your car with Kíli’s help after a full morning of darting from one end of town to the other, pillaging every party and children’s store in the area of their Halloween paraphernalia and swiping the credit card Kíli gave you with gusto. And if you went to Lush and bought yourself a few colorful bath bombs, who was he to say anything? 

Consider it compensation. After all, it isn’t as if you didn’t have to rearrange your whole schedule to accommodate Kíli’s favor. Which it is. A favor. As in he owes you so hard for this. Saturdays are usually for coffee and some project-planning at Rosie’s café til noon, and then a visit to your dad’s where you tend the vegetable garden and try some of his newest tea fusions. It’s simple but it’s enjoyable and you like the routine.  

Your dad was very understanding and you know Rosie isn’t exactly expecting you but, still, it’s the principle of the thing and Kíli just traipses in like he did back in Secondary and gets his way because. Because what? Because he’s dreamy as fuck, that’s what.  

Prick.

              “Everything alright?” Kíli asks, leaning over the open car door that you’re ducked into, and have been hovering in for probably longer than it takes to reach in and grab a bag of party supplies.  

              “Fine. yeah, thanks.” You say as mildly as you can. You pull yourself out, bag in hand, and turn to step away from the door. Hard heat meets your back barely a step after, sending tingles up the length of your spine and through your chest. “Oh!”

A large hand cups your hip gently, hot, damp breath puffs against the back of your neck and the sensitive shell of your ear, tickling the short, downy hairs at your nape and raising goosebumps. 

              “I’ll take that,” Kíli says in a low, gravelly tone that brings a blush to your cheeks.

               “Sure.”  

              “Is there much more?” 

              “Just one more bag.” You utter in something a fraction louder than a whisper.

He inhales, nose lightly brushing the skin behind your ear, before he removes himself from your personal space. 

              “See you inside then.”

Oh, sweet Peter and Jemima.  

🎃 

You’ve had the pleasure of knowing Kíli for most of your life. Dale is big but it isn’t a sprawling metropolis; everybody pretty much knows everybody, if not familiarly then, at the very least, by six degrees of separation. 

Back in high school you - and the majority of the student body (and, if rumors were true, some of the staff) - harbored quite the crush on Kíli. He was funny and reckless and intelligent; generous with his laughter and kind to everyone, even the dickheads who made fun of him for being flamboyant when he elected to take Drama. 

Not much about him has changed, his personality just as enormous now as it was then, filling all the empty spaces in a room as soon as he walks in.

You know his ex, Maeven’s mother, the same way: She and Kíli were high school sweethearts who split amicably four years ago. They’re both completely and utterly devoted to their daughter even though they maintain separate lives, Maeven’s mother now remarried and pregnant with her husband’s first child. 

It startled you to find out that Kíli remembered you, by name, when he first dropped Maeven off at daycare. Everyone knew Kíli, sure, but hardly anyone from school outside of your group of friends remembered who you were unless they were reminded.  

(It also startled you speechless to find out that he’s still every bit as gorgeous as he had been in school; more so, in fact. Time had been nothing but kind to Kíli. Taller, broader, more rugged; a head of chestnut hair that rivals an Herbal Essences model and a stubbly jaw that you want to feel pressed in every crevice of your body, holy hell—)  

He blatantly flirted, you stuttered. You spoke briefly, mostly about Maeven and what Kíli could expect from her lessons; how Kíli could continue to help her when she was staying with him, all the regular things parents speak to teachers about.  

However, one day, the conversation stopped being entirely about Maeven and started dipping into other topics: What you studied in uni, why you decided to become a daycare worker instead of pursuing something more lucrative, whether or not you were attached and why. 

The conversations were nice, a welcome break from having to simplify every thought and explanation to its barest state. Within two weeks it was obvious to everyone that Kíli sought you out when he came to collect Maeven (sadly, it wasn’t as often as you’d have liked, as Maeven spent more time at her mother’s) but no one seemed curious about it.  

You aren’t naïve, you know the man is flirting with you ninety percent of the time he’s around but you can’t seem to make yourself trust that it’s anything more than casual, friendly, just for funsies. The boy you knew in school was also a shameless flirt - Christ, he had all the mums wrapped 'round his little finger - and you don’t know the man well enough to say that he’s changed and that the attention he gives you implies anything serious.

Of course, you’re feeling pretty damn inclined to ask since Kíli’s body keeps finding an excuse to press up against yours while you decorate his sitting room, his hand always landing on your hip as if magnetized. It’s strange how easily you respond to the intimate touch, as if you’ve shared that sort of closeness forever. 

            “What time did you say everyone arrives?” Kíli asks, stretching above you to attach the Happy Halloween sign across the window, caging you between the bulk of his chest and the wall, his muscles rippling along your back as he works.  

            “‘Round five. Your ex said she’d drop Maeven off a little earlier, though.” You twist around, pushing him back an inch or so to give yourself some room to breathe. His presence is stifling and not because you’re feeling suffocated.  

            “Plenty of time then.” He grins, a lopsided, boyish thing that turns your knees to mush.  

            “Plenty of time for?”

He lets the question hang between you for a moment before taking another step away. His biceps bunch as he lifts his hands and declares, “To hide all of these.” referring to the box of Halloween-sized chocolates he’d picked up off the couch where you’d tossed it earlier when unloading. 

            “Right.” You choke, “Yes. Plenty of time.”

Kíli winks and reverses out of the room, chuckling as he turns on his heel in the hallway and disappears behind the wall on his way to the kitchen. 

You’re beginning to question what your motivations really were when you agreed to help pull this off. If you’re actually annoyed about having had to go through the effort of rearranging your weekend. If it even matters to you that Kíli deliberately used his daughter to manipulate the shit out of you as a means to get you involved so he wouldn’t have to do any all the work alone. If it was even Maeven and her weaponized puppydog eyes that convinced you agree. 

It wasn’t, in case you’re wondering. 

🎃 

ONE ׀ THREE

Yet, Maeven hasn’t sat for a Time Out since the day she brought three toads in from the garden - (it was remarkably hard to punish the girl when her argument had been so spectacularly sound: “They need a vacation, Miss!” Maeven had insisted very rationally, “They only see the bushes and grass and that’s boring”) - despite being involved in a few suspect incidents with the toy blocks and the mod podge thereafter. 

You’re convinced Kíli has been teaching his daughter all the tricks he used to use in school. If that’s the case, you can only pray for the souls of her future peers. The world is not ready. 

You’re abruptly torn from your musings when you feel a tug on your jeans. With his chubby fist curled into the denim, you see Pippin’s sweet pink face staring up at you, fairly hidden beneath a mop of mousy brown curls. 

                “Miss?” He says, blinking owlishly. “Is it true there’s not gon'be Halloween'iss year?”

Ah. Right. That: A topic which you and your colleague managed to avoid since the public announcement was made four days prior. You’ve been keeping the kids preoccupied with crafts and Halloween-themed games; today they were encouraged to wear their costumes and were allowed to eat candy at snack time, and paint instead of read. But it isn’t really Halloween without the main tradition, is it? 

You’d kind of hoped that the parents would deal with this part. The disappointment on little faces always sprains your heart. 

                “Afraid not, Pip,” You say in sympathy, cupping the back of his soft head and ruffling his curls. “Everyone has to stay indoors this year.” Which, fair enough, if there’s a chance something could happen to the children, best do what you can to avoid it. “But that doesn’t mean that we can’t celebrate, right?”

Pippin doesn’t look convinced. In fact, his face is scrunching up and his eyes are squishing closed and you can feel the air shift the way it does at the edge of a tantrum. 

Just as Pippin hiccups a sob, a chipmunk voice chirps, “Miss is right, we can do other stuff that’s even better than trick-or-treating!” 

Maeven has taken Pippin’s hand from your jeans and is holding it in hers, staring at Pippin with such conviction, like she has the answer to the debacle that is a child’s lost Halloween. Her expression is one of determination when she lifts her head to look at you. 

                “You have ideas, right Miss?”

You crouch down, weight resting on the balls of your feet, so your eyelevel with the children. Mustering every bit of creativity and belief you have, you say, “Absolutely.” 

Having been close enough to overhear the entire encounter, your colleague raises an eyebrow at you, the cynicism in it loud and clear. When you catch her eye, she simply throws her hands up and returns her attention to Frodo and Sam who are now covered in orange, matching the pumpkins they’d been painting on the squat canvases you’d set up for the day. 

Maeven gives you a gummy smile and nods once, it’s settled, and starts chattering away about how Miss is going to make Halloween better than ever. 

Thankfully, you do have a few ideas up your sleeves. Although the daycare is closed over the weekend, you think you could still pull off a belated Halloween that the children would enjoy. It would be a nice way to start the week for everyone involved. 

                “We can do it at my daddy’s house—” You hear Maeven trumpeting as if the plan is already underway, the words slipping out of her cinnamon-heart mouth and smacking you in the ear. 

                “Oh, hold on a sec, Maeven,” You chuckle breathily, “I don’t know that this is something we would do outside of the classroom, okay?”

                “No,” Maeven yips, head snapping around to you so quickly her pigtails bounce. She has her hands fisted on her hips to punctuate her seriousness over the matter. You recognize the stance, having seen her mother do it enough times at the Saturday market to know where Maeven’s picked it up. “It has to be a real Halloween so it has to be on Halloween!”

You smile gently and place a comforting hand on her shoulder, voice an imploring but calm lilt, “Sometimes, when you can’t celebrate the day-of, it’s okay to celebrate on another day. It’s not about the date, it’s about the people you’re with and how you feel.”

Maeven appears not to be satisfied so you plow on, “For example, last year my family couldn’t make it for my birthday.” Maeven and Pippin both look scandalized, “So we celebrated two weeks after. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t on the actual day; I knew they were thinking of me and we were together when we could be. It was still very special. Do you understand?”

                “Yes.” Maeven says carefully. You’re about to stand again when she continues, throwing a proverbial rock through your metaphorical window and smashing your relief into a thousand pieces, “But this is Halloween, not a birthday. It’s for everyone.”

                “It. Yes. It’s for everyone.” You’re not sure where she’s going with this but you’ll let her talk you through it. 

                “So if everyone wants to celebrate it on actual Halloween, then we should celebrate it on actual Halloween. And we all want to, don’t we?”

Apparently Maeven’s plotting had been loud and exciting enough to draw a crowd because all the other children are now gathered around, staring at you, nodding, their pudgy faces bright and hopeful. And you’re about to be the Bad Guy because you have to strike down the gavel and put an end to Maeven’s dreams. 

Everything is so much simpler in a child’s mind, you understand, but unfortunately for the adults involved, it’s never easy. However, it’s also not your place to parent the children you’re entrusted with, only to guide them; you peek over their heads at your colleague who shrugs in response and you make your choice. 

Kíli can explain why Maeven’s idea, as darling as it is, takes a lot more than saying it will happen to make it happen. 

When you glance back down at Maeven, about to tell her that she should wait for her father’s input, you can practically hear the crack of it through the room. Those puppydog eyes have physical force, you’ve learned, and there they are now, on full display, in all their righteous glory: Round and glossy over a guppy-lipped pout and prayer hands. 

                “What’s all this, then?”

You hear the question come from behind you, the sound of the voice easily recognizable but in no way reassuring at the moment as you face-off with Maeven’s impossible-to-resist pout. 

Kíli’s footsteps are softly padded on the rubber ground of the play space. His socked feet appear in your periphery when he stops beside you to absorb the sight of his daughter leading a revolution of preschoolers. 

Unfortunately, you’re unable to rip your gaze away from Maeven’s, already entranced. You release a deep, long breath through your nose and rise, lifting a hand to place consolingly on Kíli’s shoulder without breaking the spell Maeven is laying on you. 

                “Your daughter wants to save Halloween for the whole class.”

Kíli audibly chokes on air at the declaration, head whipping between you - the professional who should know how to handle situations like these with ease - and his daughter - a different kind of professional altogether, possibly some sort of magical creature with hypnotic abilities. 

Somehow, with great deal of strength, you break yourself free of Maeven’s enchantment and level Kíli with a look that tells him you absolutely don’t empathize with the fact that he’s now in charge of disappointing a cluster of young minds that still believe in magic and just want to keep Halloween. 

                “Good luck.” You say drily. 

His eyes shift wildly, back and forth, to you and Maeven and back again until he hisses at you, “What do I do? I don’t want to be responsible for letting an entire generation down, do I? What’s she expecting?” 

It’s obvious the children can hear you both, you aren’t suddenly enshrouded in some soundproof bubble, but they don’t say anything at all as Kíli flusters at you for advice. 

                “Well, Kíli, if that’s how you feel,” You positively beam at him, “Looks like you’re hosting Halloween.”

🎃 

TWO