Chapter Text
Life can be strange.
Every day is a cornucopia of new experiences. As you grow older these events tend to lose their newness, the magic that makes them special and embeds the moments into your mind, for good or bad. Hunter is used to change, by now. Used to the constant travel, and uprooting, and messiness that his upbringing wrought. All he’s ever known was a life with his uncle, moving from town to town, doing the Lord’s work in eradicating monsters from human civilization. Uncle had always said the work was thankless, and that the reward of doing Good should be reward enough for their deeds. That most people wouldn’t understand, their souls having been corrupted by the very evil he sought to destroy, but he would claim Hunter still had a chance. All he had to do was listen to what he was told, and maybe by the time he was ready to depart this world, he would have repented enough for the sins of his parents to earn his own place in Paradise.
For though his father had once been a man of pious faith, his beliefs had been warped by the curse of a witch and her evil brethren. His uncle claimed the she-devil seduced him from his faith, and in the dark of the night had turned him into a monster. A curse which was passed down to Hunter, born into Evil as he was, and which he must overcome if he ever wants to have true peace in the eternal afterlife. And for a long time, Hunter believed in that truth. He did as he was told, and he listened to his elders, and he took his penance without complaint. He wanted so very badly to be Good, but his uncle was right, and it was just in his nature to be Bad. And he couldn’t help himself back then, so he sneaked books from his uncle’s pyres, and asked questions that left him with a smarting cheek and no answers. He snuck out sometimes to feel the air on his face when the moon sang for him to join her, and told himself he’d do better next month only to fall prey to his own sinful desires yet again. He was a child then, after all.
He learned better.
He learned to keep his questions to himself, and to push that beastly part away enough to tell its impulses from his own thoughts. He learned to always listen to his uncle, even when his misguided instincts said otherwise, because he was already corrupted and foolish and that indecision was the Devil speaking through him.
Then, he learned it was all a lie.
There was a girl, and she was a child. A little banshee, who screamed and cried and wailed long before they got there. She lived with her father, in a modern little house far away from the city to keep his little girl apart from the people there. Her father met them at the door and refused to move when Belos bade him to step aside, who then managed to knock the gun from his hand but not the knife. Belos ordered Hunter to attack, as he was a good boy who did as he was told. She wailed louder, even as her father’s blood spread across the wooden floorboards, ignoring his uncle’s demands for her to cease. She couldn’t, even as she curled up miserably and wailed into her knees. And as Belos raised his knife, lips reciting the Lord’s prayer to cleanse this homestead of its evils, Hunter saw himself in that little girl’s fear. He knew it was wrong, that she was not the witch his uncle saw in her, calling death to her neighbors with her demonic wailing. She was a child, who couldn’t stop herself from crying out, who didn’t know better. Who could Learn.
Hunter stepped in, staying his uncle’s blade, and let the silver burn into his palm as he pleaded for her life. Surely she’s just too young to know any better, his uncle would listen to reason, lead her into the light. But he realized the anger in his face would give no quarter, and Belos turned the knife back on him instead, cursing him for his insolence. He bore the sting in his hand with shame, head lowered in respectful submission, and stepped aside. He knew whatever fate befell the girl, that his would be much worse, and closed his eyes to the coming scene. He realized then that, to Belos, there wasn’t anything that would outweigh her nature in his eyes—and what does that mean for him, even after all his penitence?
It was only when her wail tapered off that he realized they weren’t alone. Witches poured through the door, surrounding them in seconds. Hunter was weak with relief, that maybe her father would get help before he passed on, and was almost glad to think (to hope) her wailing might have been for him instead. But it wasn’t so. Through the door strode a man they both recognized, who his uncle had trusted as an ally. Who Hunter had looked up to, who he still admired. And he was weak for this man’s praise, for his relief that the little banshee would be alright, and just so, so tired. So, Hunter ignored his uncle’s orders, his bleeding hand clenched tight to his side, and kept his gaze lowered as a troop of witches hauled his only family off while he did nothing to stop them.
Which is how he found himself seated in the front seat of Darius’ sleek little purple car, fiddling quietly with the drawstring of his old white jacket. The drive is nearly over, he’s been assured, which is great since he’s long since started to feel the ache of sitting in place for hours in his back and hips. Connecticut is just as green as Pennsylvania, but there’s a richness to the colors he can’t put into words. And there’s a lot more water, too. Wide, lazy rivers and lakes, cheerfully reflecting the heavy late-summer clouds. He’s never travelled so far at once. Darius pulls into a quaint little town, with old stone houses and even older trees lining the outskirts of the roads. Hunter thinks it looks like a step into the past, mismatched with modern amenities like telephone wires and haphazard vehicles.
He spies a dark-haired man exiting one of the stonework homes, a single horn emerging from his forehead, and sinks lower into his seat to avoid notice. Hunter can feel Darius looking at him and bites his lower lip against an uncomfortable snarl, refusing to look back at him. His skin crawls at the thought of meeting the man’s gaze. He isn’t used to this sort of constant attention, not without knowing what’s expected of him, but the last time he asked Darius was frustratingly vague in his answer. He’s too unnerved to ask again, deciding to stay content with the knowledge that—for whatever reason—Darius isn’t interested in throwing him out of the car to fend for himself. In the interest of keeping things prosperous he stays quiet, and watches the small town pass by.
They arrive at an elegant two-story home, crafted from an intricate mixture of wood and stone. There’s a single yard between this house and the edge of the forest, decorated in dozens of plants and garden sculptures. There is a low, dry stacked wall surrounding and separating both yards, the rocks likely having been stacked for decades if the layer of debris around the base is anything to believe. Darius turns off the car and Hunter is quick to step out, his legs cramping from the sudden exertion as he clutches his single bag close. The air here is crisper, so close to the ocean. With autumn well under way, the smell of the area has that unfathomable quality of change to it. Falling leaves and the threat of rain, and the thick aroma of growing vegetation thanks to the neighbor’s gardens. Hunter finds himself breathing deep, face tilted into the breeze as Darius flicks through his key fob. His ever-present rings glint in the sunlight, creating a glittering dazzle that has Hunter squinting his eyes. The click of the lock is loud against the rustle of leaves, and both men grimace as the door creaks its way open.
“… Well.” Darius sighs, stepping inside and looking around the boxes in the main entrance. The items were delivered the day before, and wait to be organized. “Home sweet home, I suppose. For the moment.” He slides a finger along a windowsill inside, looking pleasantly surprised to find it relatively clean. Darius looks back to him as the boy shuts the door behind himself, giving him a tired smile. Hunter straightens under the attention, eyes carefully off the pointed witch ears he’s still getting used to seeing on his would-be custodian.
“Do you want me to get started moving the furniture?”
“No, not yet. Go upstairs and pick a room, I think perhaps we’ll freshen up a little and then get some lunch.” Hunter nods agreeably and is quick to make himself scarce. He isn’t sure if that was a dismissal, and doesn’t want to risk making the wrong choice by lingering. They’ve been stuck in the same car for hours now, after all. There are only three rooms to choose from upstairs. The master suite closest to town—obviously not, he isn’t the one paying for the house—a secondary room with a deep closet and built in shelving and thick carpeted floors, and the final room furthest from the suite with a window seat and a small balcony. He chooses that one, carefully setting his bag by the window and looking out over the forest.
Just out of sight he can see the neighbor’s window too, covered in even more plants and hanging vines. Hunter opens the window and leans out for a better view, letting the breeze replace the smell of dust in the room, and listens to the birdsong coming from the trees. It’s so quiet here… He realizes his fingers are tapping anxiously against the sill, and he forces them to stop. There’s nothing here to make him nervous. It’s a new start, he chose this, agreed to come with Darius. (Where else could he have gone?) He takes a moment to stretch out his sore muscles and center his thoughts, pushing that energy back down. His bag is stashed in the closet, and Hunter creeps back downstairs just in time to find Darius changing his jacket for one less wrinkled. His shoes are still on.
Down on this floor he realizes he can still smell the people who helped move their items inside, the sour tang of their sweat and a waft of cigarette ash. His lip curls, disgusted. Hopefully it fades quickly. Hunter skulks past Darius into the kitchen, opening the windows as he goes. His hands itch to Do Something, but he doesn’t have a project, or ingredients to begin lunch, or … anything, here, really. The cabinet handle in his hold creaks dangerously, and Hunter slowly closes the small door before he cracks it, wondering why he's so worked up. Everything is so Different, and he’s furious. But there’s nothing here to Fight. Nothing here to Bite. Or Claw, or Rip, or— He’s so tired, but he’s sure a hundred nights of rest wouldn’t help. Hunter rubs his palms down his face, fingers trembling.
Darius’ boots clack against the tile, and he straightens as his new guardian enters the kitchen. Hunter glances back over his shoulder, flattening his hands on the counters and feeling the cold laminate against his skin. Darius leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms as he meets Hunter’s gaze. Something dark and angry rolls under his skin at the eye contact, and he shoves it back down before it rises into his face. Hunter looks away, eyes dropping to the floor as he clenches his jaw. A part of him wants to Scream and Howl even if he knows it’ll get him nowhere. Nothing here is his and he feels like an intruder in his own “home” and it doesn’t sit right. He’s restless to claim some ground. He just needs to Do Something after sitting so long. After leaving everything else behind…
“Are you alright, Hunter?” Darius murmurs. Hunter breathes deep, then releases some tension in a sharp breath that blows a strand of hair out of his face. He shakes his head. “That’s okay. How about we go get some food, then? See if eating helps. And if you’re feeling up to it afterward, we’ll find some groceries for dinner too.” Hunter nods and straightens back up, heading for the front door. Darius double checks his keys and wallet as Hunter waits, eager to have direction to point himself. Even if it’s just a simple grocery run.
“The store is just a few blocks away, but we could still drive—”
“Please, no more car,” he interrupts, eager to just go. “I’ll run there myself and meet you if I have to get in that stinking gas machine again.”
Darius chuckles in response, pocketing his key fob. “Oh, all right. We’ll walk. You’re lucky the weather is so nice, or I’d just send you with the list yourself.”
“Oh. Well, if you have the list I don’t mind just—”
“Settle down, boy. It was a joke. Of course I’m not going to make you shop by yourself in a new town, I’ve seen how twitchy you get around strangers.”
“I won’t attack anyone, if that’s what you’re implying,” Hunter growls, insulted.
“It was not. You’ve already proven you have great restraint when it counts.” Hunter eyes him with suspicion, but Darius doesn’t seem to have layered the words over some sort of insult. He… isn’t sure what to do with the compliment, so he leaves it for now. There aren’t a lot of people out at the moment, but what few they do pass tend to stare. Darius will give them a nod or ignore them, depending on how likely they look inclined to chat, but Hunter makes sure to watch them out of the corner of his eye. Something is off about them all, he can just feel it. And he’s pretty sure it isn’t just the small-town nosiness he’s heard so much about, either. Neither is he paranoid, thanks very much. He grew up with these instincts, he knows better than to ignore them. (Or maybe he just hates being stared at. Hunter tugs his hood higher, hiding his scars and obvious witch-born ears. It blocks his sight a little, but he can still hear anyone coming, so it’s fine.)
They stop in at a small deli for sandwiches, and he’s unprepared for Darius to ask him what he wants. He gives Darius a long enough blank stare for the man to roll his eyes and motion toward the options board. “I’m… not allergic to anything?” Hunter tries, wondering what the older man wants from him.
“That’s good to know, but what do you want to eat. Just pick something.” His ears flick uncomfortably as he eyes the menu. It feels like a trap, or a trick question, and he doesn’t have a proper answer. He doesn’t even know what half of these names are. Darius seems to have some pity on him, though, and shrugs after a minute of silence. “Alright, I’ll order two and you can pick which you like best.” He then proceeds to get the two most expensive options, a roast beef on rye with extra beef and a steak filet with gouda melt, whatever that is. Hunter shuffles his feet with nerves, horrified at the total that’s called. That’s way too much. And it’s too late to ask for just a bag of chips or something, isn’t it? Yep, that’s their sandwiches being served right now. How is he going to pay Darius back for that? (What is Darius going to want from him?) Hunter bites his tongue and follows his guardian obediently, taking a seat in the corner of his chosen table. Darius sees right through his nerves, and points at the roast beef sandwich pointedly.
“Eat,” he commands, unwrapping his own meal. Fine. He’ll just… deal with the repercussions later. Hunter bites into the food, mouth watering at the rich scent, and refuses to make the noise of appreciation that desperately burbles its way up his throat. The meal is gone in less than a minute, sitting warmly in his stomach as he drains the bottle of water that came with it. Darius seems unhurried, in turn, scrolling through his phone in one hand as he eats daintily with the other. Hunter isn’t fooled, though, and catches him looking past the screen at him throughout the meal. He wishes he’d remembered to bring his own phone along, if for nothing else than to fiddle with it, but he forgot the new device in his bag at home. It isn’t like he’d ever been allowed one before, after all. His disposition has improved with the food, however, and Hunter is used to waiting for hours while keeping himself busy. He watches the street while Darius finishes, finding more people coming outdoors as the evening wears closer. And as the groups wander by he figures out what made him so uneasy on the drive in.
None of them are human.
Elves, ogres, satyrs, a naga, a number of proper witches, and more creatures hidden behind concealment stones that make their species hard to decipher. He’s never seen so many in one place, and for a moment finds himself sinking back into that awful headspace from Before—where he’d push himself down and start analyzing what he sees, to relay the information for— He doesn’t have to do that, any more. Hunter closes his eyes, giving himself a mental shake to throw that feeling away. These are People. Not Prey.
Hunter sighs heavily through his nose, opening his eyes and forcing himself to see them as such. People. That witch? A person. A gorgon? Person, just like the other girls in her group. A—what was that. (Who, he corrects with a scowl. Not what.) A kitsune? Or a witch with a spell gone wrong—no, definitely a kitsune, maybe half witch with those ears. He has the right shape of eyes but much darker skin, which translates well to his black fluffy tail. The boy is clicking quickly through his phone, waiting for someone outside the grocery store. He isn’t waiting long until another witch exits, her eyes a verdant shade of glimmering green. She’s tying one of her black braids off and smiling, eager to see her friend. The fox’s tail wags excitedly as he pushes himself into her space, showing her something on his phone that has her laughing. Hunter only realizes he’s staring when her gaze sweeps past him and his breath catches. She’s on the side of his most noticeable scar, and he squishes down into his seat to avoid notice. He isn’t ready.
Darius has raised an eyebrow in his direction when he pries his gaze away from the people outside, a sardonic smile slowly growing over the man’s face. Hunter scowls at him, distrusting that expression.
“See something you like, Little Prince?” The two share some sort of look between them, probably with a lot of confusion on Hunter’s part as he isn’t sure what the older man is trying to communicate. He considers the question, looking around for an appropriate answer.
“… Am I… supposed to?” he asks, baffled. Darius just sighs and sits back.
“Never mind. Are you ready to shop? I think I’ll look for a few more clothing options for you, as well.”
“I have clothes.” He snorts, tugging his jacket in emphasis.
“Four shirts and two pairs of pants is not an appropriate selection, and I’ve seen exactly one jacket.” Darius frowns at said article, tilting his head in consideration. Hunter shrugs in response. He wouldn’t really know, he supposes.
“I don’t have any money for more.”
“Luckily I have a few dimes to spare,” Darius drawls, folding his trash together as he stands. Hunter’s ears pin back as he does the same, following his unspoken cue. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to refuse, or if he wants to. That feeling of discontent settles into his gut once more, uncomfortable like fur being rubbed the wrong way or a too-tight collar choking him off. Like settling into a house with unfamiliar scents. (And how he hated that pungent incense, that clings even now so very faintly to his jacket. He still finds himself burying his nose to the cloth in the middle of the store, using the familiar aroma to soothe his frazzled nerves. He vows to wash it the moment they get home, to burn that wretched solace out with vinegar and bleach.)
“Darius,” he growls, ripping the neck of the jacket away from his face. “Nobody needs these many clothes.” He gestures to the growing pile in the man’s arms, all of which have been meticulously chosen with him in mind. He lost count twenty minutes ago how many items Darius had chosen.
“Need, maybe not. But a gentleman should have options.” He tosses a pair of jeans Hunter’s way. “Now try these on. I think they should fit but I want to check the drape.” Hunter groans and stalks his way to the changing rooms. At least the only ones witness to his embarrassment are Darius and the single salesfloor clerk who’s eagerly calculating their expenditures with his gaze. (A manticore, he thinks, but he hasn’t met one personally. It doesn’t matter.) Hunter changes quickly, shoving open the door to find Darius waiting with three more pairs.
“No.”
“Oh calm down,” Darius scoffs, pulling him out of the changing room and spinning him around. “These are more of the same. Hm, oh I like this fit. It works with those ridiculous boots you’ve demanded to keep.” He pulls one of the belt loop to check the fit, humming in approval as Hunter nearly loses balance.
“They’re efficient! And comfortable.”
“And cracked and caked in debris. Probably four years old.”
Hunter flushes, shoving his hands away. “Three,” he mutters, ears pinned back.
“As if that’s any better. These will do.”
“I can do without those stupid silky shirts. They’ll just rip if I wear them for any actual work.”
“Because they aren’t meant for work, they’re meant for leisure or impressions. Honestly, child.”
“I am not—”
“I know. Sorry, I didn’t mean it as an insult. Really.” Darius guides him back to the changing room, stopping him just outside to check the faded size on the tag of his jacket. Hunter bites back a growl at the casual handling, but reluctantly allows it. “Get changed back, and we’ll finish up here. I’ll meet you at the register with those pants.” Darius twirls his finger, and the chosen clothes are whisked away in a casual show of magic that has Hunter tripping over his own feet in surprise. (He shouldn’t be. He knew Darius was a witch. The man told him before offering him a place in his home. But Knowing and Seeing are different beasts when… well, he’s seen people hurt for much less.) Hunter shuts the door a little too hard behind himself, wincing at the loud bang. He hurries into his threadbare pants, folding the new jeans with efficiency. Darius has added a few new jackets to the pile, and he doesn’t even want to glimpse the price tags.
Hunter sneaks out of the store before the final count is totaled, swallowing a lump of guilt. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He’s just fine with what little he has now.
Darius exits the shop looking pleased enough with himself, however, with no bags in sight. Hunter eyes his empty hands and raises an eyebrow, then feigns wiping his forehead in relief. Darius waves him off with a flamboyant flick of his wrist. “Oh, do shut up. They’ll be delivered later; you aren’t getting out of a proper wardrobe so long as I’m around.”
“Did you even save enough money to actually feed us this month?” he snarks back, irritated enough to forget his manners for a few precious moments. Hunter feels his blood freeze in his veins the moment he realizes what he said, but Darius just laughs, oblivious to his internal conniptions.
“I was wondering if you had any fire left in you. Don’t worry about my accounts, Hunter, they’ve been padded by a thoroughly interested third party.”
“What? Who?!” Who could possibly care that much about a broken, cursed kid raised by a nutjob? Was that why Darius was helping him—because he was getting paid? It would make sense. That would be fair, he tells himself, even as a hard knot drops from his chin to his belly. (Darius had promised—it doesn’t matter. People can lie.)
“It doesn’t really matter. You’ll likely meet them eventually, if they have any say in the matter. I, for one, am happy to put that off, however. They can be… a bit much. And I want to give you a chance to settle into our new home first.” Darius taps two fingers against his spine, coaxing him toward the grocer’s next. Hunter still jumps forward as if he’d been prodded with a spear, curling his arms around himself defensively as if daring the man to say anything more about his jumpy behavior. ‘Our,’ he’d said, and a foolish little spark kindles in his chest again. Hunter smothers it.
“I hate secrets,” he mutters, glaring at the sidewalk.
“Mm. Your face is going to get stuck like that, you know. I’m going to have to introduce you to moisturizers when we get back, or you’ll risk wrinkles. At your age that’s just a travesty.”
“My face is already a travesty,” he snorts, pulling open the door for them both.
“I’m also going to find the largest roll of newspaper I can, just to smack you with every time you depreciate yourself like that.” He wags a finger in Hunter’s face as he passes, which Hunter would snap at if he wasn’t stuck on his best behavior in public. “Grab a basket, please. We’ll have a lot to carry.”
“You aren’t just going to have them ‘delivered’ then?”
“Not so long as some of it is refrigerated. Come on, then, we have a lot of store to cover.” And for the first time Hunter realizes that the spacious interior definitely does not match the dimensions of the quaint exterior. Not big enough to match a supermarket, but definitely large enough to outpace most grocery-only stores. The produce isles alone span more than he’s used to, with a wider variety of foods on display. In fact…
“Uh. Darius?” Hunter steps back from the pile he was examining, holding his basket tighter. “I think some of these are moving…?”
“Oh! The gnomeradish. Of course they are, those need to be as fresh as possible, so it’s recommended to butcher them just before cooking.” He casually picks one up by the pointed tip, undisturbed by the way it’s many, er, limbs? (there are so many lumps how can he even tell, are they all just roots) wiggle aimlessly in the air. “I suppose you’ve never seen witchfoods sold wholesale, then?” Hunter shakes his head, grimacing as the vegetable is put back.
“Are these all witch items here?”
“Oh no. There are plenty of human foods too, and a few items for other supernatural needs. I’m sure if there’s anything you want specifically there’s a decent chance they’ll have it, or we can order it in.” Okay. He can deal with that. Just… don’t look too closely. At anything. (He fails that task the moment they leave the produce, but honestly. Who isn’t going to stare at a nest of eggs bigger than his head? He thought for sure Gryphons were extinct.)
This shopping trip is noticeably shorter than the other, and Hunter exits with as many bags as he can carry in his arms. (They’re purportedly sealed with sigils, to keep cold foods in temp and fragile foods cushioned. And he’s seen firsthand how they can hold an increased capacity.) Even with the increased capacity he’s still weighed down with numerous bags, but it’s nothing compared to what he’s used to carting around. He can do this. Hunter finds himself tracing a sigil with his thumb, entranced. So useful. (So illicit. Belos would hate them.)
“If you hurt yourself…” Darius warns, a few steps behind as Hunter leads the way back home.
“Psh, this is nothing. I’m barely even breaking a sweat.” Breathing hard? No way, it’s just humid. Mid autumn, after all. Definitely warm.
“I’m sure,” he sighs. Letting it go. Hunter does, indeed, make it all the way back to the house without putting them down. And if his arms are shaking a little by the end of the walk, nobody needs to know.
He steps aside to let Darius up the stone steps first, to unlock the door, when a flash of movement in the neighboring window catches his attention. Hunter’s head snaps around to catch it, registering the movement before he can process what he’s seeing, and to his surprise he finds a familiar pair of brilliant green eyes peeking out toward them. Her hair frames her face, emphasizing the delicate curve of her cheeks. Absurdly, he feels his face heat at her gaze, and nearly trips over his next step up. Darius looks back and raises both his eyebrows, making Hunter blush even harder at his ineptness. Hunter straightens back up and glares somewhere to the left of his ear, mouth pinched, but has noticeably not dropped a bag. So there! (He peeks west out of the corner of his eye when his guardian turns back around. She’s giggling into her palms, as if trying to stifle her mirth.)
Hunter stalks past the open door and kicks it shut behind him, decidedly not embarrassed. Why would he be? She’s just some… silly witch girl, who happens to live next door. He isn’t here to make impressions despite what Darius has claimed, good or bad. So what if she thinks he’s some ungainly weirdo? He has more important things to worry about.
Like how the heck is he supposed to prep some of these items for dinner when he’s never seen them before in his life? Hunter grimaces as an onion analogous plant twists itself out of his hold and goes wriggling across the floor. … Maybe he’ll let Darius handle that part. He should probably start unpacking the dishes anyway, if they want to have them clean for dinner soon. Hunter uses disinfectant in each cupboard as the dishes soak, ignoring Darius’ glances his way when he hauls himself onto the counters to clean. He’ll wipe them down too, after. If the clean dishes end up in the wrong locations, then it isn’t his fault.
Darius hadn’t said a word when he finally dried and put them away, busying himself instead with cooking some sort of soup. It smells delicious until Hunter sneaks a look into the pot and finds the broth a strange blue color. He’s careful to keep his expression neutral when Darius portions the bowls out, but apparently doesn’t do a very good job.
“And what has you looking so sour?” Darius asks as he puts the bowl in Hunter’s hands, shooing him away from the stove.
“… Nothing.” He turns away from his guardian, poking at the broth suspiciously with his spoon.
“Don’t let the ingredients fool you. They’re very healthy for a growing young witch.”
“I’m not… a witch.” He grimaces, ears flicking down. He does look the part, though, doesn’t he? With his pointed ears and strange eyes. Hunter sighs.
“Aren’t you?”
“I don’t have any magic. So, no.”
“Hm… I do have my doubts for that. For all we know you’re just a late bloomer. But that can be a discussion for a later time. Go eat that, and if you really don’t like it, we’ll figure out something else.”
“I can eat it,” he reassures him, holding the bowl tighter. “I just wanted to make sure it won’t… I dunno, turn me colors, or something.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s soup, not a potion.” Darius rolls his eyes, and Hunter takes the chance to slip away into the living room. The furniture has been moved, boxes lining the walls still waiting to be unpacked. Hunter settles himself into a corner by the computer desk, spooning food into his mouth after a suspicious sniff of the broth. It tastes just fine, so as long as he doesn’t look at it… And it’s easy to eat, too. He sips from the bowl, ignoring the heat of the liquid.
Darius follows a moment later, pausing by the entrance to give Hunter a flat stare. He hesitates, spoon halfway to his mouth, and stares back nervously. His guardian settles a hand on his hip, bowl in his other hand, and Hunter worries he’s done something wrong in the brief moment he was alone.
“What are you doing?” Darius doesn’t sound mad, at least.
“Eating?” He lowers his spoon to the bowl, confused. Isn’t that what he wanted from him? Why give him food if he didn’t want him to eat it? Hunter’s mouth pinches at the corners.
“I meant, why are you sitting on the floor? I don’t have a couch to keep as just decoration, you know.” Oh. Hunter feels his face heat up. Of course not, it’s probably weird that he did that. What was he thinking? Hunter stands guiltily and waits for Darius to pick a seat, then settles at the edge of a cushion to finish eating. He keeps his gaze on his food, studying the weird colors instead of his guardian’s expressions. Maybe if he eats fast enough he can just pretend he isn’t strange. That all of this isn’t strange. Each time Darius shifts Hunter finds himself twitching, hands tightening on his food as if the man is going to spell it away. (He isn’t Belos. It was given to him. He needs to calm down.) Surely Darius has noticed by now.
“Well, this is cozy, isn’t it,” Darius drawls, and Hunter flinches. (His bowl is practically empty, but is he allowed to leave now? Or does Darius expect him to stay until he’s finished as well? Is this a “family dinner” or is it them eating together because seating is limited?)
“Is it?” Hunter asks, glancing up with suspicion.
“I certainly think so. I’ve never been in a setting so… domestic.” His mouth turns wryly, and Hunter forces himself to relax with a small chuckle.
“Yeah, it’s weird, huh. Maybe we should have set up the television while waiting for the food to cook.”
“Perhaps. Or we could complete the theme of the moment and talk like the family we’re aspiring to imitate.” He gestures with his spoon.
“What even is there to talk about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve recently had your entire life in an upheaval. How’s that working out for you?”
“Shitty,” Hunter says flatly, hands clenching tight on the ceramic in his lap.
“That’s fair,” he nods, not pushing the issue of his choice in language. “… I won’t pander and tell you I know how it feels, because I don’t. Not really. But if you ever just need to whine about how much your life sucks, or vent all those angsty teenager-y feelings, I hope you know I’m willing to listen.”
“… Okay. Well, if I have to endure any more feelings I’m going to break out in hives, and I don’t have the medical insurance for that. So, thanks for the offer, but I’d rather chew my own leg off.”
“I sincerely hope you’re making a hyperbolic pun, because that is both unsanitary and unnecessary. And I want to stress that it’s a serious offer. That’s all.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, sitting back. Hunter would normally abscond at this point, taking their bowls away as an excuse, but Darius has him pinned in place with a patient purple gaze. “You’ve been surprisingly frugal with your questions, and I’m sure they must be burning in your throat. So while we have the time, why not interrogate me as I’m sure you must be so eager to?”
Hunter eyes the exit, and the scant space between them on the couch, and senses some sort of verbal trap. But for the life of him he can’t figure out what the snare is trying to catch. It is what he wants, but what’s the price? (Or maybe Darius is trying to build a bridge of trust between them. Psychologically make himself into a reliable figure.) That makes sense. Okay, he can play along with that kind of game. Hunter sets his bowl aside slowly as he ponders his questions.
“Why did you take me in?” he asks to start. Simple enough, he thinks, until Darius frowns and ponders the question.
“… Complicated answer,” he finally replies. “There were a few reasons. The main one being, of course, that I couldn’t just leave you to fend for yourself, despite what you might think. Anyone with eyes can see how socially stunted that man left you, it would be a disgrace to let you wander off on your own to become a public nuisance.”
“Oh, wow. Thanks.”
“You’ll be thanking me for real later, when you can hold a conversation with other beings without insulting them to their face.”
“I can do that!”
“Can you? Our first conversation you said something about heathen witches being good for nothing but kindling. Which is inaccurate, since we don’t actually burn any easier than humans.”
“It doesn’t count when I thought you were human, and one of unc— … I mean, Belos’ loyal subordinates, too.”
“Yes, perhaps it wasn’t the most fortuitous of meetings to gain a proper sense of character. Goodness knows you’re certainly far less of a brat than I’d gauged you as originally.”
“So you found me tolerable and just decided to drag me into your home and raise me like a stray dog you found outside? This is awfully extravagant for a kennel.”
“Are the dog puns going to be a permanent fixture in your vocabulary, or is this just you venting?”
“… I can, uh, stop. If it bothers you.”
“No no, by all means. I’ve heard much worse. I just want to brace myself for the next few years of your presence if so. And also, to let you know those kinds of jokes, around other werewolves at least, might be taken as offensive.”
“Oh. Okay, no, I don’t want to do that.”
“See? Learning already.” Hunter rolls his eyes, then frowns as an idea occurs to him. He remembers the weirdness from the sandwich shop, and some suspicions arise.
“Is… that why you brought me here? To this place, specifically.”
“Pardon?”
“To learn. About the other half, the not-human populace.” Darius’ face goes carefully blank, and Hunter feels a worried growl rumble deep inside his chest. “It is, isn’t it? I knew it. I thought it was weird I didn’t see any humans this afternoon.” Hunter jumps up to his feet, fangs sharpening in his mouth as his agitation grows. He starts to pace, running his hands through his hair. “Do you realize how bad of an idea that is? You shouldn’t have brought me here.”
“And why not? This is a place for people like us.”
“Like you, maybe!”
“Like us,” he stresses again. “You are not human—no more than I am. Your mother was a witch, and your father a werewolf—”
“He was born human! My uncle, even if he was terrible, was human. I was raised human! You can’t just—” Hunter swallows a snarl, curling his hands into fists and pressing them into his scalp. “They’ll kill me,” he whispers.
“They won’t kill you,” Darius sighs, stretching his legs out in a show of indifferent relaxation.
Hunter laughs, a sharp bark of disbelief, and looks at Darius like he’s insane. “Yes, they will!”
“And why is that?”
“Because—you know why! You know what I—what… You know!” He tosses his hands into the air, jacket flapping. The waft of incense disperses across his nose, triggering the very memories of why he shouldn’t be among these people. Hunter claws at the fabric, gasping for clean air as his legs shake under his weight. Something moves in his direction and Hunter whirls with a snarl, baring his teeth. Darius stops a few steps away, hands raised as he watches with concern.
“Calm down, Hunter. Nobody here is going to harm you. You’re a kid—and don’t argue with me, for a community of species who can live upwards of centuries, of course you’ll be seen as a kid. One who was made to do bad things for an evil person. Who was forced into a position that you shouldn’t have been. Nobody here will blame you for your actions; and if they try, they’ll answer to me.” Darius bares his own sharp incisors, the room seeming to darken under the heavy wash of ambient magic that pours off the old witch. Lavender shot through with a sharp, biting lemon. Hunter freezes, caught like a bird in a net, and watches him warily. After a moment to collect himself the magic simmers away again, and Darius offers Hunter a manicured and ornamented hand. “So long as you live here, you are under my protection.”
He hesitates to take the offer, chest heavy with guilt and recrimination. “I don’t need protection,” he murmurs hoarsely. (He shouldn’t receive it, he means to say.)
Darius simply says “I know,” and leaves his hand unwavering between them. “You are seventeen, Hunter. Whatever bad you think you’ve inexcusably accomplished, you have plenty of time to make up for it. You are here to learn how, if you are willing to make the choice.” Between them, the weight of expectation grows into a significant silence. He thinks what Darius is asking is unfair, and would rather walk away from it all. To start over and never face another supernatural entity again. (To remove himself from the scenario, and never bother anyone else again. A clean break, forgotten and left to heal. Or to rot away, if that isn’t possible.)
Do as you’re told, Hunter, a dulcet voice whispers in the back of his mind, and he deflates. Because that’s what he does, isn’t it. He doesn’t have any other plans for himself, anyway. Nowhere to go.
He hopes Darius is right. (He wants it, so badly.)
Hunter takes his hand, and promises himself he’ll do whatever it takes to compensate for his past mistakes.