Chapter Text
The spectrum of human desire and detestation is vast and complex.
But you defy anyone to hear the man they’ve been living with for six months shriek in half-alarm, half-anger for you to come get a bug out of the kitchen and feel anything close to affection.
You sigh, standing from your laptop; it’s not the fact that Jake is scared of the bug, it’s that he’s already mid-litany about how this is your fault.
“Here” he tosses you a shoe. One of the boots you never wear these days, “get rid of it, it’s so freaking gross. I hate cockroaches.”
You grab a piece of junk mail and a clean cup, studying the beetle on the counter. It could be a cockroach, but it looks like a hissing cockroach, something you sure as hell don’t have in New York. And this one is deep blue, a sapphire scuttling across the messy grey tile.
It goes onto the paper and under the cup easily, and you carry it to the window over the fire escape. You know this is probably an exotic that got loose, or at least an invasive species. It’d be best to put it in a Tupperware with some air holes and some lettuce while you work out if anyone is missing their pet.
You just…don’t have it in you. You don’t have a lot in you, these days.
“Here you go” lifting the cup, you let the uninvited guest scurry onto the railing, “if you’re, like, secretly an alien species or something and you’re gonna overrun the city, remember who didn’t squish you huh?”
You watch it go, taking a deep breath before retreating inside.
If everything goes according to plan, in a few hours you’ll take the same path, down the metal ladder as you escape back into the world.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As you predicted, Jake falls asleep mid-way through the afternoon. You organized your things in piles earlier today under the guise of tidying up, and it only takes ten minutes to get everything into the duffle bag.
There’s wind-chimes on the doorknob. You used to think it was just a whimsical touch.
You open the window, climb down the escape, and pause. He’s moving around, and a moment later the front door chimes closed.
Motherfucker.
You duck behind a dumpster. He can’t see you from here, and if you’re lucky, he’ll think you’re already gone down the block,
He calls your name and you stay quiet. He calls again and you will him to take the goddamn hint and go.
There’s a clatter of trash cans and a scatter of cardboard boxes behind you. Then the unmistakable feeling of another human being pressed up to your shoulder.
“Jesusfuck!” You leap backwards, eyes on the man who appeared out of nowhere. He’s in a suit and a long coat, and other than his rumpled hair and collar he looks far too collected for someone who lurks behind dumpsters.
“There you are. Baby, this isn’t funny, I was worried.” Jake takes a step toward you.
The other man looks wholly disinterested–-or maybe disoriented, if you felt like being generous– in your problems. Since he’s added to them, you decide to make them his , too.
You turn back to Jake, “You know this isn’t a joke. Dave here-”
“Any name but that.” The man bites out, voice low and a bit raspy.
“Uh, Max here is helping me off to my new place.”
“But, but what about us, about rent ?””
If you dug your nails into his eyes, would they pop? Or just ooze?
“You managed just fine keeping a roof over your head before me. And for the last. Time. There is no us . There never was.” He’s between you and your exit, the exact goddamn thing you wanted to avoid.
“Of course there was.” He laughs, like you’re being silly, “moving in is a big step, in my book. Right?” He addresses this last bit to the man behind you, stepping forward as he does.
Your gaze flicks to the stranger; if you had any sense, you’d cry, you’d look helpless, fall to your knees. Instead, you’re pretty sure you look like an unreasonable woman not giving a deserved chance.
When he meets your eyes, there’s the tiniest shift from disinterest to curiosity.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But in terms of steps, the young lady made it quite clear that you should not take another.” He holds a cane–where did he get a cane–out as a barrier between you and Jake.
“Oh I get it.” Jake looks the stranger up and down, “how long have you been waiting here to run off with my girlfriend? Because trust me, I was here first-”
“That’s of no interest to me, either.” The stone on the top of the cane glows blue and Jake moves backwards until he’s flat against the opposite wall, face blank.
The stranger strides past both of you, out to the mouth of the alley.
“He’s not going to stay that way forever.” He calls over your shoulder, spurring you to functionally sprint onto the sidewalk.
“Wait, hold on a second!” Lucky for you, the guy is tall, making it easy for you to spot and catch up with him, “look, you may not know it but you really helped me out back there.”
“I gathered. Don’t expect it again” His accent is the kind of British you associate with being upper class for no reason beyond what you’ve seen in the movies.
“I don’t?” You’re now having to jog a bit to keep up with his quick, long strides, “I’m trying to say thank you.”
“You’ve said it, which doesn’t explain why you keep yowling at me like a kitten with a trod-upon tail.”
“Because you haven’t explained why you helped me.”
“It was a favor for a favor. You saved me from being squashed.” He says it glibly, as if he’s hoping it will confuse you. When you open your mouth to ask one of several dozen follow-up questions, he snaps, “aren’t you in a hurry to be somewhere? You certainly looked it when you came down the ladder.”
“Are you?” It’s childish, a fact you’re about to apologize for, but it stops him dead. Someone bumps into his back and he glares, herding you out of the flow of people and against the wall of some liquor store.
He looks at you again, with the expression of a man who has an answer for everything experiencing a loss of words for the first time. Rather than look annoyed, his face loses its confident set.
You get it, which is why you say, carefully, “Let me at least buy you, like, coffee as a thank-you?”
That same curiosity from before enters deep brown eyes, “If you insist. Lead the way.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“I suppose it was foolish to hope for a cafe.” Max, as you’ve taken to thinking of him, wrinkles his nose as he walks into Willoughby’s Diner.
“When you find me a cafe that sells pie this good, you let me know.” You set your bag into the booth and slide in after it. Max removes his brown coat before taking a seat opposite you.
“Thought we had to send out a search party.” Mickey, one of the servers, appears at your elbow, “long time no see.”
You catch the worry under the joke.
“I’ve been busy with work” You lie as you smile, “cup of coffee with the usual and whatever pie you have that’s tartest?”
“You got it. For you, sir?”
Max quirks a disapproving brow at the drink menu slotted between the ketchup and Tabasco bottles “I suppose tea is out of the question-”
“We’ve got earl grey, orange, hibiscus, black, green, and something herbal that Flo’s mom makes and we’re all too scared to try.”
“Black, please.”
You watch as Mickey heads back to the pass-through, tilting his head at you as Flo adds her ticket next to his. From here, you can just see the picture of a much younger Flo and Mickey, the latter decked out in drag. She spots you and smiles, waving before grabbing a water pitcher and darting off to another table.
You know this about yourself: when under stress, you eventually reach a point of “fuck it,” where you’re not registering anything other than getting whatever needs to be done, done. Locking down. You’ve never been in it this long before. And you’re learning that when it lasts for months, any emotion carries the very real threat of pressing down on the locked box of your chest and sending your guts out in all directions.
So you look away from Mickey’s genuine, relieved smile as he pours your coffee and back at Max.
“Any chance I can know your name? Your real one?” You upend the provided cream into your coffee. Before it’s empty, the little pitcher rights itself and glides into his hand. It’s not even the tenth weirdest thing that’s happened to you today, so you ignore it.
“You guessed correctly, to a degree. It’s Maxim.” He adds the rest of the cream to his tea.
You smile, “Did you actually help me because this is a Rumpelstiltskin situation? I guess your name correctly and you have to do me a favor?”
“This isn’t a fairy tale, sweetheart, the rules don’t work like that.”
“That’s a relief. If they did I’m pretty sure you’d also tear yourself in half when I guess right.”
Mickey sets two slices of pie on the table, “Rhubarb, and chocolate cream. Second one is on the house.”
You thank him and turn your attention back to Max. You could let the awkward silence stretch on. The guy doesn’t exactly seem friendly toward you or the world in general.
But you’re being with free will, so fuck it.
“Do you call anyone you meet in an alley ‘sweetheart, or am I special?”
He looks at you, brow quirked, “Did it strike you as a term of endearment just now?”
“We just met. For all I know ‘dripping with condescension’ is how you show affection.” You nudge the chocolate pie his way, “here, there’s no way I can eat two pieces.”
“If I must.” He lifts his fork with mock reluctance, and you snicker at the dramatics. He shoots you a wry look, “does it surprise you to learn I have an appetite? I’ve been told the evidence of that is quite clear.”
You shake your head, “More surprised you’d stoop to eating pie that isn’t full of pheasant or quail or some other fancy thing.” He’s too busy chewing to respond, so you continue, “you’re dressed like you stepped out of a 1920s glamour shot. Or is this the part where you tell me you time traveled from the turn of the century?”
“Not quite. Though, in my opinion, fashion has degraded over the years. There was a time where one could get items of quality.” He pets the fur collar of the coat beside him.
“Most people use that to justify dressing like Mad Men . Not wear” you glance under the table, “are those wingtips? With spats ?”
“We can’t all wear sneakers.” He sneers on the last word.
“I’ll have you know I have some great shoes. They’re just not ideal for climbing down a fire escape.”
“I remain curious as to what merited that exit.”
“I’m surprised. You don’t strike me as the type to be curious about others.” It’s a poor attempt at steering him toward more banter and away from anything personal. Besides, something about batting the conversation back and forth makes your mind spark in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.
“Perhaps you intrigue me.” He sips his tea, watching you over the lip of the mug.
Fuck it.
“Six months ago I went on a date with Jake, the guy you hypnotized. Which I haven’t forgotten about, by the way, and I have questions.”
“Shocking.”
You’re sorely tempted to kick him under the table.
“We went on a second date. He was clearly feeling it, I wasn’t, I didn’t agree to another when he asked. Two days later, my leasing company doubled the rent on my place, effective the first of the month. There was no way I could afford it, no way to find a new place so quickly, and in the middle of it all he’s still texting me and I tried to brush him off by telling him about the apartment and how I couldn’t focus on anything else. He offered to let me stay with him a week or two, crash on the couch while I found a new place. He was nice, and we got along fine on the two dates, and I was in full panic mode so I agreed to it.”
You set your fork down and push the half-eaten slice away, not as hungry as you were a second ago.
“It started with little things. Cash missing from my wallet. Messages and texts from apartment leads disappearing from my phone before I ever saw them, being told I missed emails I’d never seen. I thought I was imagining it; when I get really stressed it fucks with my memory. Then I started getting paranoid; kept my phone on me all the time, laptop at work. He tipped his hand when after two months he told me if I wasn’t his girlfriend, I’d have to start paying rent.” You laugh, bitter, “don’t think he expected me to pay up.”
“I take it you’re not easily bought.” Max is watching you much more closely now.
“I’m not saying I can’t be. But half the rent on a kind-of-okay apartment is nowhere near my rate, of that I’m sure.”
You watch Max toying with a ring on his right hand. He has big hands. You’d like to rest your cheek in one.
(You try not to dwell on that thought).
“Long story short, he kept sabotaging me any time I tried to get my own place, kept insisting I was staying because I knew deep down it was true love.”
Max pulls a disgusted face, making you laugh in spite of the shame seeping into your veins, “So I found you mid-escape from your white knight.”
“Yep.” You clear your throat, desperate to change the topic, “don’t tell me you were doing the same thing.”
“Not as such. I’d not been caught in an obvious trap-”
“Watch it.” Your tone is about as light as a lead balloon.
“But I was trying to evade one all the same, as part of a great endeavor in which I was to play a key role. I failed. I was forced to go into hiding for some time as a result. It's been an unwanted exercise in humility.” He finishes his tea, “I suppose it’s been an instructive one as well.”
“At least you’ve learned something from yours.”
“I have.” He points at you with his fork, “I’ve also learned something else. Which is that you’re to be trusted on whether an establishment has excellent dessert.”
“I’d never lie about something as serious as pie.”
The plate seems to slide back to you on its own, “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste, then.”
You take your fork back up, “Fair point.”
The sharp taste brings you back to yourself, and soon you’re licking the last of the pink filling from the fork. You’re lost in thoughts of the next steps in your plan, not noticing your own motions until you catch Max watching your tongue dart across the metal.
You set it down on the plate, “I’ll go settle up.”
Check paid and a promise made to come back soon, you step back into the street, Max close behind you. When you explain that you’re heading to a motel you’ll use as base camp to either find a new place or a friend's couch (you haven’t told any of them the full truth, not really, and now you can’t bear to spring it all on them at once), he offers to keep you company.
A voice in your head tells you to be careful about going to motels with strange men in tow.
That voice can go fuck itself for all the help it’s done you lately.
“You’re lucky I didn’t pick somewhere on the other side of town.” You start in the direction of your stay, Max following at your side. He moves as if he owns the whole town, and so people make space instead of you having to weave between them.
Max is silent for some time, and you start to worry that he’s lost interest in your company, that he’s annoyed with something you said back at the diner-
“I thought he stomped the floor in.” Max muses, “In Rumpelstiltskin. I had a…colleague who favored fairy tales and nursery rhymes in his work and I recall that being the ending. Not him ripping himself in half.”
“I mean, those stories are one big game of telephone with artistic license thrown in on top. Figures the version in the book my mom bought would be the darkest. Both my parents were kind of into horror.”
“A far better medium for teaching children about the realities of the world.”
“I think mostly they wanted stories they wouldn’t hate reading to me. We had a bunch of darker fairy tales, and books about self-rescuing princesses. A lot of picture books about King Arthur, too.”
Max looks at you, intrigued.
“Mom was super into Arthurian legends, dragged my dad to Tintagel and everything when they went to England. So she had lots of different versions of those stories floating around the house. I was a weird little kid so of course I liked the ones about Morgana best-”
Max grunts as someone collides with his shoulder; something’s distracted him from parting the crowds with his gaze.
“You preferred Morgana to Merlin?” His lips take on an excited smile rather than the smirk he’s worn the previous times you amused him.
“Not exactly. More like I wondered what made her evil. Plus I was super-into the idea of looking like a bad-ass woman from medieval times when I was younger. Y’know, like a Waterhouse painting.”
“I see…” Max loops his arm through yours as you head down to the subway, “don’t want to lose you in the throng. You know, I’ve seen Waterhouse works in person, many years ago…”
The two of you talk art and museums all the way to your stop, and are still deep in conversion as you check into your motel. When you reach the assigned door, you stop and look at him.
“I, uh. I really appreciate you keeping me company. It made today easier.”
“It was my pleasure. Much to my surprise.” He produces a dark blue business card, “should you need my help in the future. You may call me for it, once.”
“Only once?”
“My generosity has limits, sweetheart. Best not to push them.” He waits for you to open the door before offering a “goodbye.”
You flip the light, turn back to the hall, and find he’s gone. Just one more puzzle to play with as you unpack.
And you do mean to unpack. But when you sit to take your shoes off, you’re so tired you decide to lay down for a second.
At nine PM, you bolt upright as someone knocks on the door.
“Baby? Are you in there?”
Fuck.
How did he find you? Where did you fuck up?
“Baby, if you don’t open up, I’m gonna have to tell the manager I lost my key and need them to open the room.”
Without thinking, you grab the blue card from where you laid it on the dresser. Maybe Max lives close by, maybe he can hypnotize people through the phone-
There’s nothing on the card but a name: Maxim Horvath.
“What the fuck, Max?” You hiss, “how is this supposed to help me?”
The air shifts behind you and Max appears in the reflection of the dark T.V.
“I did say it was a one time offer, not something for social calls-”
You shove your bag into his arms as Jake calls something you don’t hear from the door, “Get me out of here.”
“How?” His calm makes you feel even more on edge.
“However the fuck you got in!”
“Very well” He wraps an arm around your waist and the world disappears. A split second later it comes back.
You stand in what you can only describe as a lair. The walls are stone, decorated with art, artifacts, and countless bookshelves. It’s lit mainly by chandeliers and light-fixtures you’d call antique. The windows are all stained glass, obscuring the world beyond in jeweled tones. The furniture is lush, velvet and dark wood everywhere you look. It all feels like it belongs to a different time.
Much like the man who still has his arm around you.
You take your bag and he lets you go, your legs unsteady from whatever bend of reality brought you here.
Speaking of which…
“How did you do that? How have you done any of the weird things you let me see today?”
“I have no idea what you mean,”
You sigh, sitting on the nearest chair and sending up a cloud of dust.
“Apologies, sweetheart, I haven’t been home for some time.” He snaps and the dust all around you disappears.
“There! That! How are you doing that?”
“How do you think I’m doing it?” He keeps his walking stick in one hand and tucks the other hand into his pants pocket. He’s still in the grey suit from this afternoon.
“It looks a hell of a lot like magic, but that’s…that’s not a real thing! I feel ridiculous even saying it.”
He moves next to you, removes his hand from his pocket, and produces a dark purple rose from thin air. You hesitate when he offers it, and he adds, “It’s not a trick, I promise.”
Gingerly, you take the stem. The petals are cool when you rub them between your fingers, the thorns prick. It feels real.
“I mean it could still be sleight of hand.” You say without really meaning it.
“It could, yes. The same cannot be said of this.” The stone in his cane glows and you jump up, startled. In place of your shirt and jeans is a dress. It’s dark blue, down almost to your ankles with fringe on the bottom, a geometric spray of beads on the top, and lace that stops just high enough above your tits to keep it from being scandalous.
“Holy shit” You turn, kick one leg up behind you so you can see the matching, blue heels, “yeah, okay, I’m convinced, you’re a wizard-”
“Sorcerer.” He corrects without any bite, too busy watching the fabric of the dress settle around your legs as you finish turning.
“Sorcerer.” You repeat, catching your reflection in the glass front of a bookcase, “I really do like it.”
“It flatters your eyes. And it’s not torn like the bottom of that shirt was.” He gestures to where your old clothes are folded neatly on a table.
“You can just conjure things.” You murmur more to yourself than him.
“My skills go far beyond that. All the same, would you like a coat to match? Perhaps some pearls?” He’s keeping his distance but the gleam in his eye is unmistakable; he’s enjoying the view.
After Jake’s unwanted stream of if, you figured you wouldn’t want anyone’s attention for a long time. Except this attention makes you blush, makes you want to preen and toss your hair. You want Max to keep looking.
That in and of itself is probably a sign you need to go to bed.
“Can you conjure me a tub? Or a bed? Because honestly all I want right now is to sleep for seven hundred years.”
Max smiles–a new, bright smile that renders him stunning–and guides you down the hall.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The trouble sets in around midnight.
After giving you a brief tour of the house and telling you never to enter his study, Max left you to your evening.
You bathed in a marble, claw-foot tub, changed into your pajamas, and crawled into the bed of a room that looks like it hasn’t held guests in a long, long time, even with the help of Max’s magical housekeeping skills.
It’s so nice. Too nice.
Fear is clawing it’s way past “fuck it,” and soon your choices are resign yourself to a sleepless night or ask the question sticking in your throat like bile.
You wander into the hallway, retracing the path Max showed you. The only lights are in his study, and the door is open. You cross the threshold, looking for him in the shelves and stacks of papers, feeling very out of place in pajamas with skulls on them.
There are sketches on the heavy, walnut desk, and you stop to study them. Diagrams of a spell would be your uneducated guess.
“You’d never have lasted long as Bluebeard's wife.”
You turn to find Max watching you. He’s next to a bookcase near the door; no wonder you didn’t see him when you came in. He was behind you.
He doesn’t look angry, simply closes the book he’s holding and waits for your explanation.
“In my defense I’m sleep-deprived, anxious, and ninety percent sure you’re not hiding dead bodies in here. I’m sorry to trespass but I…I need to ask you something. Are you expecting anything from me in exchange for staying here?”
“You think I have nefarious motives?” Amusement flickers across his face as he crosses the floor. He moves so deliberately, even when his air is casual.
“I don’t know. I just don’t want to be wrong again.”
He stops short, “What if I am up to something nefarious” his voice deepens slightly, “sweetheart?”
You look up at him; the lights in the room bring the aquiline nose and glimmering eyes into focus. A hawk looking at a meal.
“I want to say that I could be…persuaded. That I’d do a lot if it meant you’d keep me safe.”
He looks taken aback, covers it quickly with the detached curiosity from earlier in the day.
“But in reality…if you tried anything, I think I’d tear your throat out with my teeth. Or try to.”
Max chuckles, sets his hands gently on upper arms, “Then it’s a very good thing my intentions are pure. You’re my guest, nothing more. Besides” he begins ushering you to the study door, “I’m far too old for you.”
“I’m not that young.”
“And I’m much older than I look.”
You stash your questions about that away for later, “I’m sorry. Everything just feels so conditional lately. Like I can’t trust anyone’s motives.”
“Understandably so. If you wish to know mine, I fear I may have to take a new path in my life, and aiding someone in need seems as good as practice as any.” he sets his hand beneath your chin, encouraging you to meet his eye, “And because, little kitten, at some point today I grew fond of your yowling.”
“You’re lucky I have a high tolerance for men with better beards than manners.” You tease
“My manners are impeccable.” He playfully, briefly presses the back of his hand against your jaw before pulling it away, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
“Night, Max.”