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Several clues gave it away. One was the tone of the door; there was a forcefulness to its closing—not a slam, but a very definite thud, as if to shut out the world. One was the sigh that accompanied it; heavy and exasperated, too irritated to yet feel relieved by finally being home. One was the absence of any greetings called out to the other three residents of the apartment. One was the muffled thumps of a bag, a jacket, and shoes all being dropped or kicked aside (right in the entryway, instead of being put away in their designated places in the bedroom).
“Yeah, the clues are all there,” Dipper thought to himself. “Evidence leading to an obvious deduction.” Aloud, he then called out, “Bad day, I take it?”
“Ugh,” was Norman’s response.
“Would it make you feel better to see how trapped I am?”
“… Maybe.” Norman shuffle-stomped into the small living room of their small apartment (separated from the kitchenette by a small table) to look down at his husband over the back of their small couch.
Dipper was in a semi-sprawled position across it, not exactly situated comfortably. A tome of arcane knowledge (Norman wasn’t sure which one, there were so many scattered around the apartment) and his latest research journal were on his chest, while the coffee table was within arm’s reach at a haphazard angle (Norman figured, by the several tumbled stacks of books on it and the drag marks in the old, stained carpet, that it’d been dragged there one-handed while Dipper was still trapped on the couch). This was because his lap had been claimed by one black cat while a second black was draped over his calves.
The corners of Norman’s mouth twitched. “How long you been stuck like that?”
“Ages. Can’t even remember the taste of strawberries—The taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass.”
“Yeah, okay, Frodipper.” There was a definite upward angle to Norman’s mouth now, though, and he reached down with both hands to rub the cats behind their ears.
One (Lorenza de’ Meowdici) made a “mrrp?” sound and opened her nap-heavy eyes just long enough to give Norman a fond look. The other (The Archmage) made a “prrow” sound and rolled onto his side while curling in on himself to become a fluffy croissant.
“Did it work, then, seeing how trapped I am?”
“What, to make me feel better?” Norman shrugged with feigned indifference. “A bit, I guess.”
“That’s good, since I’m gonna die here. I’m already half-buried under black floof. But at least I know my death won’t’ve been in vain.”
Moving to the fridge for a drink, Norman quipped, “At least you’ll die doing what you love: Snuggling our cats and making such a godsdamned mess of the apartment with your books that I can’t walk five freakin’ steps without tripping over a stack of—what?—grimoires and bestiaries. You want anything while I’m over here?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks. So what made today a bad day? Those two Ghosts you mentioned being difficult, or …?”
“Jeez, I wish it was Ghosts or Spirits or something supernatural,” Norman sighed. “The Dead’re easy—Medium stuff’s easy—to deal with compared to the Living and their regular, mundane crap. Nah, it was just more of having to deal with Nicola at work all day.”
“Oh, that unpleasant slattern.”
“Hey, we don’t slut-shame in this house,” Norman said half-jokingly while half-inside the fridge.
“First of all, I wasn’t slut-shaming, I was slattern-shaming. Totally different,” Dipper retorted airily. “Second of all, I wasn’t even slattern-shaming. The shame is being attributed ‘cause of her unpleasant demeanor. I’m unpleasant-shaming. As is only just and moral; unpleasant people oughtta be shamed for the well-being of society. Especially when they’re unpleasant to my beautiful cinnamon roll of a husband, who is too good for this world, too pure.”
“Heh. I’m no such thing.”
“… Agree to disagree. Except, no, I will fight anyone who ever impugns the goodness and pureness and beautiful-cinnamon-rollness of my husband.”
Norman closed the fridge with a snort. In his hand was a can of lemonade and a chicken wing. “But I’m your beautiful cinnamon roll of a husband, so how’re you—”
“Aha! You admit it!” Dipper interjected triumphantly. “Now shush for a minute, kitten, Daddy needs to concentrate for just a second …”
“Wait, I’m confused. Am I a cinnamon roll or a kitten?”
“Yes. Now shush, I said.”
Coming back to the couch, Norman cocked an eyebrow down at his husband. Who had opened his research journal to a blank page and appeared to be jotting down a glyph of some kind. At one point, he even groped around on the table for a specific book (which he was just barely able to reach without disturbing the cats’ napping), consulted it, then resumed whatever magical process he’d undertaken.
Once Norman had finished his chicken wing, he tossed it in the trash and rinsed his hand off in the sink. Then, unable to stand the suspense any longer, he asked, “Okay, seriously, what’re you up to?”
“Just getting some petty revenge on an unpleasant slattern.”
“Oh, gods, you’re not hexing Nicola, are you? Dipper, you promised, no more hexing people who annoy you. It’s so magically unethical. And probably disturbs all the eldritch entities within, like, a 50 mile radius—you’re probably being the eldritch equivalent of an upstairs neighbor who stomps around all the time.”
“First of all, I didn’t promise to stop, I promised to cut back on it. Which I have,” Dipper retorted airily once again. “Second of all, I’m hexing someone who annoyed you, and therefore really deserves it. Third of all, it’s only a little hex. Just to make that one spot between her shoulder blades—y’know, the one nobody can ever reach except freaky contortionists—really itchy time she talks directly to you.”
Norman blinked in mild surprise. “Wait, can you really cast a spell, like, with that much finesse?” he asked, clearly impressed.
“Yep.”
“… Wellllllllll, maybe one little, tiny, miniscule hex (that’s really more of a prank anyway) wouldn’t be that magically unethical. Especially if it’s a funny one.”
“And if it’s on a bitch who deserves it.”
“79 Hells, you have no idea how much she really, really does,” Norman muttered wearily. “If this Pavlov’s her into never speaking to me again, it might just save me from being charged with her murder one of these days …”
“The jury would be sympathetic. They’d agree you’d been provoked.”
“Maybe …” After a moment’s hesitation, Norman picked up Lorenza de’ Meowdici from his husband’s legs (she remained sleepily unconcerned through this). “Scooch on over, will ya?”
Dipper strived valiantly to completely change his position on the couch without in the process jostling The Archmage. But he failed miserably. That cat startled up to the top of the couch, shot him a reproachful look, then bounded out of the room to go do stuff to stuff (cat stuff which was none of the Humans’ business, in his cat opinion).
“Well, darn,” he said. Though without much conviction, and he was on his feet and headed out the room a second later. “Just as well, though, since my bladder feels like it’s about to burst. Argh, be right back.”
With a fond chuckle, Norman seated himself on the couch, settled Lorenza de’ Meowdici on his lap (she curled up contentedly right away), and cracked open his cold lemonade. After a sip, he confided to the cat, “Can you believe we get to spend the rest of our lives with that absolute dork? Hardly seems fair to everybody else that we get him all to ourselves.”
“mrrrrh.”
“Yeah, you’re right: Fuck ‘em, he’s ours.”
A moment later, there was the sound of a reproachful mew in the hallway. Followed by Dipper as he, in passing, chided The Archmage, “Don’t take that tone with me. I nearly let my bladder rupture for you.” Then he was back and leaning over the couch to rip the freshly glyphed page from his research journal. “Just need to give this a quick drop of blood, sprinkle it with some dirt from the flower pot, some water droplets from the sink, set it on fire, and fan it while it burns. Then it should be in effect.”
“Oh, is that all? I was afraid the process might be complicated.”
“Pretty straightforward for a spell. Once I’m done with that, how ‘bout I cook us some dinner?” Dipper offered. “I can cook one of your favorite and we can watch one of your favorites—eggplant parmesan and maybe The Thing. Make up for such a crappy day?”
Smiling, Norman could only shake his head at his husband.
“What, not in the mood for those?”
“That sounds fantastic, actually.”
“Then why—”
“Just momentarily overwhelmed by how much I love you. That’s all.”
Dipper blinked in mild surprise. But then he flashed a cocky grin. “Well, yeah, I’m awesome. So that a yes to eggplant parmesan?”
“Please and thank you.”
“Coming right up!”