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The man in front of Andrew is not human. It’s a subtle difference, the one between people and fae, but one that Andrew has learned like the back of his hand. The man’s ears are covered by his unruly auburn hair and his eyes are shining a bit too much for it to be the reflection of light. Looking down the fae’s body, Andrew’s eyes zone in on the hand that's gripping his stomach; his nails are too pointy to be human. The man stares at Andrew with wide eyes, seemingly surprised to be seen, as if he thought hiding in the forest would make him invisible. His expression quickly shifts to something more afraid, and Andrew is already bored.
“I’m not here to hunt you,” he drawls. The fae’s eyes settle on the dagger at Andrew’s waist, and flick back up to meet his eyes, his own far too blue and far too seeing for Andrew’s liking. Andrew can see the man’s worry, and it’s annoying. Fae hunters are a popular kind, especially in this area, but he already said that he wasn’t hunting.
“How do I know you’re not lying?” The fae asks, voice raspy like he hasn’t spoken in days. Or he’s been screaming, Andrew’s unhelpful mind supplies.
“Because, if I were trying to hunt you, I would have already attacked you.” Fae hunters usually don’t partake in conversation with their prey; they’re there for the money they’ll get when they sell the teeth and heart of a fae. It’s then that Andrew notices the way the man is putting all of his weight on his right leg, and cradling his abdomen like he’s in pain. “What happened to you?” He asks, gesturing lazily at the man’s middle section.
That is apparently the wrong thing to ask, because the man immediately shields his side like he thinks Andrew is going to attack him, and his stance turns defensive. Pupils narrowed to slits—not unlike a cat—Andrew is hit with the full effect of this man’s gaze. Andrew wants to pull his eyes away as much as he doesn’t. “Why do you care?” he snaps. The wind rustles his hair slightly, the tips of his ears now poking out from under his hair.
Andrew reaches into the black bag at his waist and pulls out a small vial of red liquid. He waves it around like it’s not made of glass. The fae’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. “This is a healing potion,” Andrew explains, still waving it around. “You can have it if you do something for me.” If he’s giving away one of his own potions for free, he’s going to find a way to get something out of it.
“Like a deal?” he asks. Andrew nods. “You do understand the implications of making a deal with fae?” Andrew levels him with a look that he hopes conveys his boredom. There’s a well-known phrase, making a deal with the devil as they often say, but here in the small town of Palmetto, making a deal with a fae is equivalent. It binds your soul until both parties have completed their end of the deal.
“It’s not like I’ll be the one not fulfilling my end. I’ll give it to you right now if you agree.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be able to finish my part of the deal,” he says. Andrew is suddenly filled with a deep annoyance. He looks around frantically as if he’s scared someone is listening, and it hits Andrew.
“How about this,” he changes his stance. He may be shorter than the fae, but he’s certainly more intimidating. “I give you this, and a place to stay while you heal, and you stop running from whatever you're running from.” It’s not ideal, but if he’s going to use his magic on the stranger, then he wants to be able to keep an eye on him afterwards. It’s not at all that Andrew feels unexplainably drawn to him. Not at all.
“What makes you think I’m running from anything?” he snaps. His eyes are pulling Andrew down, down, down, and it feel’s like Andrew is falling. His heart picks up its pace and threatens to come out if he opens his mouth, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t bre— When he comes back up, the fae is directly in front of him—when did he move?—and his eyes are back to normal. Andrew sucks in a breath that’s as controlled as his lungs and heart allow, and it doesn’t at all come out shaky.
“What,” he grits out, narrowing his eyes at the fae. “the fuck was that?” There’s a fury running through his veins that he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, and he truly does look sorry, but Andrew isn’t about to let that slide. “I had to check,” he continues, but he doesn’t explain what he had to check.
Andrew steps back, unsheathes his dagger, and drops the small vial of liquid in the leaves at his feet. “Take it or don't. I honestly don’t care.” His voice is unsteadier than he’d like it to be, but he can’t bring himself to focus on that right now. What he does focus on, though, is how much he’s going to regret the next words that come out of his mouth. “If you go to The Foxhole and tell David that Andrew sent you, you’ll have a less chance of dying out in the wild.”
He leaves without a backward glance, willing his entire body to calm down. He doesn’t know why he told the fae to find The Foxhole, but it’s too late to take it back now.
The Foxhole is many things, but a rehabilitation center for injured fae is not among the list. That’s why, when Andrew walks into the overtly welcoming cottage-like building two days later, he’s expecting the stern voice of David Wymack calling him back to his office. Last year, when Andrew discovered the place—or rather, the place discovered Andrew—being called back to a small enclosed room with an older man had his dagger flying and his heart rate speeding. Today, he calmly walks to the room and even closes the door. His dagger stays firmly at his waist, and his heart rate stays level. Betsy would call it growth or some other word Andrew has no desire to associate with himself, but Andrew calls it proof. Proof that he’s in control of the situation, that he’s in control of himself, and whatever happens during this interaction, he’s in control of the outcome.
David Wymack is a grumpy old man that likes to yell, but he’s also the reason Andrew even has anything in the first place.
“Did you tell a fae to come here?” David asks, sitting on his desk, legs reaching down to the floor, one leg crossed over the other ankle. Andrew doesn’t say anything, only looking at the man in front of him. By now, David must know that if Andrew hadn’t sent the fae, he would say something. While others at The Foxhole like to call Andrew a dishonest manipulator, Andrew is nether of those things. Even if he is, he does not have the ability to lie to David Wymack, as the man can immediately sense and dismiss the lie. Wymack is the first witch, besides himself, that Andrew had ever trusted “You know I don’t have room for another one of you guys,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted in a way only someone who runs a halfway house for the unwanted ones can.
“Did you get a name from him?” Andrew finally asks. The entire interaction he had with the fae, he had not given his own name. It’s a fact that no doubt bothered Andrew when he was tucked away in his small apartment, sharpening his dagger and organizing his supplies. Now, it’s just one more thing to add to the background humming of his brain. Either the fae has a name, or he doesn’t.
“He was being iffy about his name. He stared at me for about ten seconds before giving me a name: Neil Josten. Even then, it sounded more like a question than a fact. Either way, I have him resting on my couch upstairs until he can get his things together. Then, I figure, he can decide whether he’s going to leave or if I have to find a way to keep him here.” Andrew nods, but doesn’t say anything more. “Now get out of here, you parasite. We need shelves restocked.”
Andrew gives the man a mock-salute and heads out of the office, making his way to the supply room to grab some random things that could probably be used for potion-making. He doesn’t pay attention most of the time, and he often makes his job up as he goes. As of two months ago, Andrew is no longer allowed to speak to customers because he’s “too scary” to be working in such a calm environment. Not that Andrew cares, it’s less work for him.
Today, the only other person working is Matt Boyd. He’s not the worst out of the workers, but he’s not the best either—he often leaves Andrew to do his own thing, dealing with the customers himself.
After Andrew is done making sure all the shelves are stocked and the prices are correct, he heads to the back where Sir, the cat that resides at the cottage, is lying on the table that’s against the far wall. Her food bowls are empty, Andrew notes, as he watches her paw at nothing on the wall. He strides over and picks her up, twisting her to face him and putting her level with his own face. “What are you attacking?” She doesn’t answer, of course, so he sets her back down and giver her chin a few scratches before heading to the closet. After one too many incidents involving Sir and the food bag, Wymack demanded that they keep the food in the closet so she can’t attack it.
Once her bowl is filled with food, and Andrew gets his fill of petting her, he heads back out to the shop. There’s not much to do, since it’s not busy. Business for The Foxhole usually doesn’t start picking up until the evening, which Andrew usually isn’t around for. The Foxhole often holds celebrations for the witches of Palmetto, something to bring them together and eat food, that Andrew would rather not attend, hence the reason he takes the earlier shifts. Despite his deliberate attempt at getting out of socialization, Wymack insists on holding a monthly class for young witches to learn how to make potions and control their magic. It’s not uncommon that they’re not given the right resources to learn unless they’re born into a family of witches. Even then, it’s rare that the family is part of the young ones’ learning process—Wymack is and has always been about doing things right and making sure one has the resources to get things done right. That’s why Wymack, the bleeding heart he is, made the classes free for all to attend. Even the adults who never had a chance to learn.
Part of the agreement for working at The Foxhole is that Andrew is required to attend the classes and participate in teaching and demonstrating his powers, but other than that, he isn’t required to be there any time past his shifts.
The rest of the day is boring as Andrew continues making sure the shelves are stocked and checking people out. They sell a variety of things that help witches and fae with their magic, like potion ingredients, rare herbs—that Andrew has to go venture into various parts of the woods to obtain—crystals of all kind, and even special treats for familiars of all kinds. One of the few positives of working at The Foxhole is that for every paycheck, he’s allowed $100 of free materials that Wymack covers himself. It’s not much, but without The Foxhole, Andrew would have next to nothing.
When his shift is over, he leaves the shop without any goodbyes and makes his way to his small apartment down the street. It’s not huge, but it works for both him and his familiar, Knight. After he opens the door he’s greeted with Knight, who’s curled up in a ball on the couch, waiting for Andrew’s arrival. He opens his eyes groggily and squints his eyes at Andrew before returning to his nap.
Andrew doesn’t have anything to do, so he joins Knight on the couch, careful not to intrude into his space too much, and lets his eyes close. Knight’s gentle purrs lull him somewhere far away, but Andrew isn’t complaining.
“Can I ask you a favor?” Renee asks him the next day on their break. Andrew is sitting on the table, sneaking cat treats to Knight, who sits in the small cat carrier that goes across his body. Knight doesn’t technically need it, he’s smart enough to know not to stray from Andrew too far, but he brings it around. Just in case his legs get tired.
“I don’t know, can you?” Andrew replies not tearing his eyes away from Knight. Renee chuckles and reaches out to the cat, pausing her hand for him to sniff. When he presses his head into Renee’s hand, she finally starts scratching him.
“Wymack asked me to stop by his house and bring some soup to Neil,” she starts. Andrew lets his eyes meet hers at the fae’s name. He doesn’t know how much Renee has been informed of the situation, but the knowing glint in her eyes says that she knows enough. “I would, but I promised Jean I’d run down the street to get him some groceries, since he’s on bed rest. I’ll pay you back for it.”
“I don’t want your money,” he says, which is useless because of course Renee would know that money is not on the list of things Andrew values. Instead, she just smiles softly.
“I know. I was thinking something different—how about if you do this for me, I’ll head down to that apothecary in Columbia that you like and buy you whatever you want.” It’s a tempting bribe; Andrew hasn’t had the time to go to Columbia in months, and they have a decent brand of supplies that he favors over the one Wymack sells.
He nods and picks Knight up, getting ready to head to Wymack’s office to subject himself to another most likely near-death experience. “Thank you, Andrew,” Renee says, then scratches behind Knight’s ears. “And of course, thank you, too, Knight.” She leaves not even ten seconds later, and Andrew sighs as he makes his way through the small store.
Not even bothering to knock on Wymack’s door, he’s greeted with the sight of the tired old man sitting at his desk, phone in hand, pinching his brow. There’s the faint murmur of someone on the other line talking, and Wymack sighs like whatever was just said is more than Wymack can handle. “Chuck, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this—I don’t care about your money. The shop is fine.” Chuck on the other side talks some more. Wymack looks two sentences away from hanging up on the other man. That appears to be true, because not even five seconds later, Wymack does indeed hang up on the man.
“What are you doing, Minyard?” he asks, turning his full attention to Andrew.
“Renee sent me.” Wymack nods, pulling out his wallet and handing Andrew a twenty.
“Great, I was thinking he probably needs some food. My place is empty, I’ve been eating here. Also, if you wouldn’t mind picking up some ginger-ale for him too, that’d be great. You have the key, just let yourself in and check on him.” Andrew takes the bill and heads out, calling out to Dan that he’s on break. She grumbles something in response that Andrew doesn’t care to listen to.
The walk to the grocery store is five minutes at most. It’s dark and gloomy outside, the clouds threatening to rain all over everyone. Andrew reaches into his bag and pets Knight as he crosses the street, not even bothering to look for cars. He can feel the slight rumble of Knight’s purring and almost sighs.
He manages to make it through the entire store without anybody talking to him, as well as the short trek to Wymack’s place. He has his own key, so he just lets himself in, making his way through the short hallway that leads to the living room. Neil is already awake, holding a glass figurine of a fox that sits on Wymack’s coffee table like he thinks it’ll protect him at all. When he sees Andrew, his eyes narrow and his ears twitch. Andrew offers holds the grocery bag up but doesn’t say anything.
Neil still looks wary, but he stands up, still holding the figurine. He says something in a language Andrew doesn’t understand, but he takes the bag.
“You have to cook it,” Andrew says. Neil doesn’t sat anything, just rifling through the bag. Andrew heads to the kitchen, uncaring of whether the fae will follow or not. Andrew knows every nook and cranny of Wymack’s house as well as he knows his own—it’s where he stayed for the first three months of working at The Foxhole. Reaching into a cupboard, he pulls out a small pot and puts it on the stove. Neil follows a few minutes later and wordlessly opens the can, dumping it’s contents into the pot. It’s chicken noodle, and Neil wrinkles his nose at the smell.
“What, too good for chicken noodle soup?” Andrew lets himself ask, grabbing a spoon and stirring the soup.
Neil shakes his head and rasping out, “No, I’ve never had it before.” Andrew pauses slightly at that and raises an eyebrow at the man in front of him. He doesn’t look as bad as he did the other day, but he doesn’t look much better. His eyes have dark circles under them like he’s barely slept, and his hair is miles worse and more tangled than the last time Andrew saw him. Seeing as Andrew is the one who told the fae to make his way to The Foxhole and meet David, Andrew figures he should at least help the old man out—only to help prevent the gray hairs that are slowly starting to fill in his beard.
“Go shower, you’re making Wymack’s house smell like a dead animal.” Neil bares his teeth at Andrew, but backs up. “Towels are in the closet in the bathroom. Use whatever soap is there.” Neil nods and makes his way down the hall.
Ten minutes later, the shower turns off as Andrew is dumping the soup in a random clean bowl. Finding clean dishes in Wymack’s house is always more difficult than it should be. Neil makes his way back to the kitchen, wearing the same clothes he wore before, once again, his hand is resting over his stomach like he’s in pain.
“Did the potion not help?” Andrew asks, mockingly.
“I didn’t take it,” Neil replies, shrugging as he grabs the bowl and bottle of soda Andrew hands him. Andrew truly can not believe the stupidity of the man in front of him.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t know if it would kill me or not.” Andrew lets a scoff slip past his throat as he reaches to the block of knives on the counter. It’s almost imperceptible, but Andrew doesn’t miss the way Neil tries to suppress a flinch. Rather than turn the knife on Neil like the fae apparently thought, Andrew turns the knife on his own thumb. If Bee saw this, she’s most likely consider it a form of relapse, and he pushes that to the back of his mind to unpack later with her. The drop of blood is almost addicting to look at as it trails down Andrew’s thumb. Neil’s nostrils flare like the smell of Andrew’s blood is particularly strong.
He holds his hand out for Neil to hand him the potion and takes it when he does. He drops barely half a drop onto his thumb, watching as the skin glows slightly golden for a few second. When the light fades, the skin is back together like it was never split at all. Neil’s eyes are narrowed, but he doesn’t look fearful anymore. For the second time, Andrew offers him the potion. This time Neil takes it.
He looks almost as if he’s going to ask Andrew something, but is fighting with himself whether to actually follow through. His ears move as much as his eyes do, when finally, he asks, “Why did you tell me to come here?”
Knight pops his head out of the bag, sniffing the air and locking his eyes on Neil. Andrew doesn’t know why he didn’t come out earlier to see what Neil is, since he’s usually a curious cat.
“How long has that been here?” Neil asks once he also sees Knight. Knight leaps out of the bag and next to Neil’s feet, sniffing. Andrew, for the most part, trusts Knight’s instincts when it comes to people, so when Knight doesn’t immediately growl and attack Neil, Andrew decides that for now, he won’t kill him.
“As long as I have.” Neil takes a bit of the soup and moves his mouth around like he doesn’t know whether he hates or likes it. “If I answer your question, you owe me a question. You have to answer honestly.” Neil accepts the proposition with a hesitant nod. “I told you to come here because Wymack needs an extra person at the shop, and you seemed like the kind of person he’d recruit for the job. Broken.”
Neil flinches harshly at that, eyes wide. After a second, he tips his head down and nods, returning to his soup.
“Who are you running from. Besides the obvious,” Andrew asks. The obvious being fae hunters. Neil pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth—which is open—before shaking his head slowly.
“My dad.” He doesn’t elaborate further, and it’s not Andrew’s turn to ask more questions. He nods, and bends over to pick up Knight, returning him to his bag, adjusting him so his head peeks out, watching Neil closely.
Without saying anything, he turns and leaves Wymack’s house, letting the soft whistle of the wind lead him back home.
It’s a week before Andrew sees Neil again, though he’s been getting frequent updates from Wymack. Things like: He’s been eating more and His injury seems to be healed for the most part. It annoys Andrew to no end—he couldn’t care less about the fae and his health status.
When he walks into The Foxhole today, ready to take on this shift alone, he is not expecting both Neil and Wymack to be standing at the cash register tucked into the far corner of the shop. Neil is standing in front of it, Wymack off to the side, as it looks like he is being taught how to use the register. Wymack looks up when Andrew makes it to them, “Andrew, you’re here. Good. Since you’re on your own today, I figured you’d be able to teach Neil the ropes of the place.” Andrew gives the old man a blank look. He should know by now that Andrew is not the person to have teach anybody anything.
Neil doesn’t say anything, just standing off to the side. When it becomes apparent that nobody has anything to say, Wymack grumbles out a, “Right, well I have things to do. Don’t burn the place down,” and he’s heading to the door.
Andrew shoots back, “No promises,” before the door jingles one last time, a soft farewell to Wymack.
“Is it my turn to ask you a question?” Neil asks once they’re alone. Andrew won’t lie, he didn’t expect this to become a thing, yet he finds himself nodding. “Okay.” Neil doesn’t ask anything.
Andrew waits maybe three minutes before cracking: “Are you going to ask something?”
“I’m thinking. I’ll ask when I find one I like. When does it expire?” Neil asks, touching some of the protection keychains that are displayed on the counter.
“When are you leaving for good?” Neil shrugs, but seems to get the meaning of Andrew’s question.
The next hour is spent showing Neil how exactly new products get restocked, which products can’t be stocked together—when Neil asks why, Andrew then has to explain how some magic doesn’t work well with others, and will cause the place to most likely explode—and how to feed the cat. “Why does the shop have a cat?” Neil asks, leaning down to pet Sir.
“She was a stray, malnourished and scarred. Wymack took her in before he took anybody else in. She’s more of the shop’s mascot, but she can come and go as she wants. Usually, though, she never leaves.” Neil takes the information.
“I found my question.” Andrew doesn’t directly acknowledge him, but he pauses what he’s doing. “What does your magic feel like to you?” It’s a question Andrew never would have expected. Of course, magic feels different to everybody. It’s freeing for some, a cage for others. It also varies between species, so it makes sense that a fae would question what a witch’s magic feels like to them.
Andrew can’t find the words to say that magic feels like the sun setting every day, leaving the world in darkness with the lingering promise that it’ll be back the next day because it needs to. He can’t find the words to describe that magic, to him, feels like the wind curling and caressing his face as he makes his way through the forest on a foggy day in search of herbs for both his own practice and the shop. Magic for him is like a locked door; safety, control, and reassurance.
Rather than trying to describe all that, though, he just says, “Freedom.”
“Can you show me?” Neil asks. Andrew shakes his head, and Neil, surprisingly lets it drop. It’s not that Andrew is protective of his magic, or unwilling to use it around others like some are, he just doesn’t have the mental energy to show off today. He’s not a powerful, revered witch, he just is. He can make potions that are strong enough to have consequences, and he can almost feel the heartbeat of the forest when he’s out there alone, but it’s nothing that needs to be shown off.
“My turn,” Andrew says instead, already knowing what he’s going to ask.
“Go ahead,” Neil says, carefully hanging pendulums on the display like they’ll break if he breathes too hard on them.
“In the forest you used magic on me. What was it?” He already knows the answer to the question, but he’s not sure he wants Neil to confirm it.
Neil obviously isn’t expecting that question, either, because he chokes on his spit and ends up coughing for a solid minute, bent over so his face is close to his knees. “Sorry. The magic I used is kind of… how do I put it. I guess it’s not the most common—soul magic, in a way. I looked into your soul to ensure my safety.”
Of course, Andrew’s heard of soul magic; not common in fae, even less common in witches. It’s arguably one of the rarest forms of magic, and is a spectrum. Soul magic is, for the most part, dangerous, though if used correctly and without malicious intent, the only negative to it is the subject feeling violated. Which Andrew most certainly does. He had a feeling before, but the knowledge that it is in fact soul magic leaves him feeling like he’s been skinned and left to the wolves.
“You used soul magic on me,” he deadpans. There’s a wave of dread washing over his spine, down to his toes. He feels the dagger at his hip calling to him, it’s a half a movement away, and it could kill Neil right now if he wanted it to. He’s not sure why he’s only feeling like this now, once Neil confirmed it, and not when he first realized it.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything to you—it’s invading and personal, and I shouldn’t have done it.” The words become background noise to the ringing in Andrew’s ears. He sees Neil’s mouth moving, but he can’t hear a word he’s saying.
Knight hopping into Andrew’s arms is what finally snaps him back. He’s pawing at Andrew’s shoulder, claws out just enough to bring him back, but not enough to cut. He’s purring aggressively, and he bites the finger Andrew offers him. He hates how his hand is shaking.
Andrew drags his gaze back up to Neil, but he quickly finds that he can’t even look at him without the familiar feeling of nausea creeping through his body.
Without another word, he leaves.
It’s three days before somebody notices Andrew has gone missing. Andrew is lying in bed, Knight tucked close to his chest, when there’s a loud banging on the door. He’s been in the same clothes for three days, and his breath most definitely smells like a dying animal. Every few hours, Knight has annoyed Andrew until he managed to get something to eat or drink, but other than that Andrew has spent the last few days in the same position curled onto his side.
Admitting the fact that he’s this low feels like a weakness, so he doesn’t. He walks to the door and opens it. When he sees Betsy holding two travel mugs of what’s probably hot chocolate he doesn’t say anything, just opening the door wider for her to come in.
“Andrew, hello,” she greets, handing him one of the mugs—the one with a cat on it. She keeps the plain purple one for herself and watches Andrew take a sip. He relishes in the slight burn of his tongue, the way it makes him feel real for a second. He doesn’t answer her greeting, instead making his way to the couch. Betsy settles on the reclining chair on the other side of the room. “How have you been? I haven’t heard from you in a few days.” Andrew has always sent at least a text a day to Betsy—unless he ends up stuck in his head for multiple days at a time. Since it happened the first time, they came to the compromise that she would come check up on him if he doesn’t text for a few days, no matter how much he hates the feeling of weakness it brings him.
“Small talk is useless, Bee.” His voice comes out raspy and hoarse, and he hates how childish he sounds.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she says, a small smile. Andrew almost scoffs. “When was the last time you showered?” She asks instead. He shrugs, letting her interpret that how she wants. She doesn’t react to the information, just nodding and taking another sip of her drink. “How about I make us some food, and you go take a shower. How does that sound?” He gives her another shrug, and she nods, standing up and making her way to his kitchen.
He watches her rummage around a few cabinets and look through the fridge before he gathers the mental energy to stand up himself. She doesn’t look over at him, but he knows she noticed. In the bathroom, he completely ignores his reflection—he knows he looks bad.
The wall of the shower is the only thing he looks at. He doesn’t look at the shampoo bottles, and he doesn’t look at his body as he scrubs himself down three times. Instead he lets his mind go blank, giving himself until the shower is over to pull himself back together. When he’s done, he wraps the black towel around his waist and stands in front of the mirror. Despite basically only sleeping there are dark half-circles under his eyes staring at him. There’s a noticeable amount of stubble across the bottom half of his face that he immediately decides he hates. He opens the mirror and pulls out his shaving cream and razor, following through the motions that are muscle memory at this point. The musky smell of is aftershave is a balm that he didn’t know he needed. He takes one deep breath, imagining the lingering darkness falling off his body, and reaches for his toothbrush.
His mouth feels disgusting, as he hasn’t brushed his teeth in three days. When he’s done, he puts some deodorant on, and he feels more like himself than he’s felt the last few days.
Back in the main area, Betsy has already plated both of their plates—one grilled cheese for her, and two for him. There’s no tomato soup, and Andrew adds that to his mental grocery list.
They eat in silence at the table, the only sound between them is the crunching of their sandwiches, and the occasional glass against wood sound from one of them putting their cups down. Only when they’re done does Betsy speak. “So, Andrew. What happened?”
If anybody else had been asking, Andrew would have dug his dagger deep into their ribs. Since it’s Betsy asking, he allows himself to talk. He tells her about Neil, and meeting him in the forest. He tells her about the magic, and him ordering him to meet Wymack. He tells her everything that’s happened since he met Neil.
“Okay, this is a lot to unpack. It’s understandable why you feel overwhelmed. What I want to focus on, though, is the fact that he used magic on you. You said it was specifically soul magic, correct? Am I right to assume that’s what triggered you?”
Andrew has told one person, and one person only, the way soul magic has affected him in the past. How his soul was completely at Drake’s mercy, you like this, don’t you, and please stop and so much more that flashes through his head all at once. Andrew nods. Betsy doesn’t outwardly react to that, but he knows what she’s thinking.
A week later The Foxhole is busy, filled to the brim with guests standing and fidgeting anxiously at the now cleared tables that fill the room. A lot of the guests are kids, like Andrew knew they would be. There’s one in particular that catches his eye—she’s in the corner and looks to be about thirteen. Her hair reaches her mid-back, and Andrew can tell she’s intentionally making herself look smaller than she is on purpose. He knows, because it’s too familiar to overlook.
Wymack never expects Andrew to do much in these classes, but sometimes Andrew surprises him. He can tell that today will be one of those days. The others are currently all busy teaching the guests and nobody notices the girl who just can’t seem to make it work.
He casually walks over to the girl, noting the way she tries to follow Matt’s instructions to another guest a few people down the table. She fails, obviously. Andrew can practically see the way her magic slips through her clumsy, unpracticed fingers. It’s a simple light spell, the one she tries to do, and she manages to get a small spark before it flickers out, leaving her hand bare and dark.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he supplies once he’s standing in front of her. She turns a vicious glare on Andrew, but it doesn’t phase him.
“Wow, thanks genius,” she snarls. Andrew makes a simple motion with his hand, tapping into the anger that’s always sitting below his heart. He channels part of it through his veins, using it as fuel for the sparks that create the flame in his hand. It’s possibly the easiest skill Andrew can do, but the girl’s eyes are watching intently, impressed. “How did you do that?”
“Take your strongest emotion—the more violent the better—and use it as fuel. You have the magic, but you need something for it to hang on to. Right now, you have butterfingers, but finding something strong enough to make it stay is the trick.” Usually, Andrew doesn’t talk this much, especially to guests at the monthly classes, but this girl reminds him of a boy too small for the anger that riddled his body. It could be dangerous if she doesn’t learn how to control it soon, she could end up trapped and unable to defend herself because she doesn’t know how to use the very thing that’s a part of her.
“What if my biggest emotion is bad?” Andrew raises an eyebrow at her, since he already said. She nods and puts both hands out in front of her closing her eyes and taking a big breath. It looks too big for her body, but Andrew knows that looks can be deceiving.
She copies the motions again, twisting her hand carefully, and with one more deep breath, there is a spark. Granted, it still isn’t the best, but it’s there.
He offers her a small nod and she closes her fist, letting the flame fall out. She tries again, this time putting more into it, and the flame comes out bigger and stronger. Andrew stands in front of her, watching her continuously trying until she gets it. “Is that how you do all magic?” She asks once she’s sporting a strong flame that sits in the palm of her hand.
Andrew shakes his head, but chooses not to elaborate further. She takes it without complaint and tries another simple spell, a flick of the hand that causes a small whirl of wind. It's not rare for a witch to have elemental magic—it’s more uncommon for them to not possess it. Andrew doesn’t know why he feels the spark of surprise that she’s able to get it this easily, but he does.
He takes a few more moments to show her small spells and finds that she’s a beyond quick learner, she just needed someone to show her how. Andrew’s veins pulse with anger at the fact that there’s so many people in shitty situations that are uneducated and end up hurt because of it. He has to look away from her and almost immediately finds Neil’s eyes on him from the other room just watching.
There’s a loud bang of the door and an aggressive jangle of the welcome bell. A woman, maybe mid-thirties, is lurking in the doorway eyes scanning the room furiously. There’s a rage under her eyes that’s all too familiar for Andrew’s liking. Once the stranger’s gaze sets on the girl that Andrew is currently next to, her mouth presses into a hard line.
She stomps over like the entire shop is under her command and lands right in front of Andrew and who, he presumes, is her daughter. The kid’s hands are under the table, eyes wide with fear that she’s obviously attempting to conceal. “Molly,” the stranger growls. Andrew steps in front of her, blocking her view of Molly.
“If you’re here for lessons, go take a seat where there’s an empty chair.” He knows that’s not what she’s here for, but for some reason he wants to see how long she’ll last before she shows everybody at The Foxhole her true colors.
She fumes, face turning red, and stutters a few nonsense words before saying, “No, I’m not here for lessons. I’m here, because my daughter is here after I specifically told her she was too young to learn how to use magic. She defied my orders, and now I’m going to bring her back.”
Too young to learn how to use magic, she had said. Andrew feels the sudden urge to laugh like he hasn’t since he was put on what he likes to call crazy people potion, but instead he channels that urge into staying calm. Betsy would be proud, he thinks to himself.
“Actually,” he drawls, looking at his fingernails. He needs to repaint them soon, he notes looking at the chipped paint. “Studies show that the later in life one learns to control and use their magic, the more they’re seen as a weakness and targeted. They’re also more prone to developing serious mental health disorders like anxiety and depression, since they’re unable to access a core part of their being. It’ll lead to suicide or substance abuse. But sure, she’s too young.” Wymack, Neil, Molly, and the mother, along with some other members of the shop are all staring at Andrew. Molly’s mother’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water a few times, face taking on a new shade of red.
“I..” she starts, only to sigh. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll talk about this more when we get home, Molly.” Andrew doesn’t trust her fully, but really what can he do?
Molly doesn’t look as worried anymore, and Andrew doesn’t feel the strong urge to pummel her mother’s face into the ground. Her eyes look sad and tired, and though Andrew couldn’t care less about excuses when it comes to an unsafe environment, he can tell that she’s being genuine now. Molly nods and says a quick goodbye along with a meaningless thank you before she follows her mother out of the shop, making a small flame in her hand and cradling it.
For the second time that night, Andrew meets Neil’s eyes.
“Look, can we talk?” Andrew has been expecting Neil to ask something of the sort the entire hour they’ve been inside the building. The sound of the rain pattering on the metal roof is loud enough to almost drown out Neil’s words, but Andrew still hears him, unfortunately.
They’re in pitch black minus the few candles Andrew lit and the flame he’s currently nursing in his hand. The power went out about twenty minutes ago, and the constant thunder and lightening outside says that it’s planning on being out for a while.
“About what?” Andrew feigns innocence. It’s been two weeks since he’s last talked to Neil, and the fae has been buzzing with an unsaid question for half of those days. He hasn’t said anything until now, and Andrew is already thinking about shoving something in his mouth to make him shut up. Maybe he’ll take his dagger and slice the fae’s tongue off—that could sell for enough to pay off Wymack’s shop.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I want nothing,” Andrew says. It’s true. Every time he’s ever let himself want something, it got overruled by another, worse thing.
“That can’t be true. Look, I’m sorry I used magic on you without your permission, but I had to,” Neil says, sitting himself onto the counter. Andrew takes a stool in the corner, propping his feet up on one of the tables that display items. Sir jumps into his lap almost immediately, and Andrew doesn’t have to think about the way his free hand weaves his fingers into her soft fur. Andrew doesn’t say anything, letting his silence speak for him. “Fine. You can ask me anything, and I’ll answer it. Whatever you want.” Neil’s voice takes on a pleading note that wasn’t there before, and Andrew finds he doesn’t like it as much as he wonders why Neil is so desperate for Andrew to forgive him.
“Anything I want,” Andrew repeats. He sees the silhouette of Neil’s head nodding. “The day we met, you made me feel like I was falling. Then you apologized and said you had to check, but you didn’t specify what you had to check.”
Neil sucks in a sharp breath from the other side of the room. It’s silent for all of three minutes, before Neil’s voice fills the room. “My father is a bad person, and he’s after me now. He killed my mother a year ago. I had to see if you were one of his trying to bring me back to him.” Andrew supposes that it makes sense, but his chest still shrivels at the thought that he knows next to nothing about the fae, and he had full access to Andrew’s soul.
“And what exactly did you see when you looked into my soul?” His voice comes out sharper than he intended, but it gets the point across just fine.
“Do I get to ask you a question for this?” Andrew hums as an answer, and Neil takes that as a yes because he answers. “Your soul was… how do I put it? Big. It was big in the way that you give for everybody else, but don’t take for yourself as much. It was cracked and bruised, but it was still strong. You’re not what they say, Andrew.” Neil’s been around long enough by now to know that everybody at the shop—besides Renee—has a personal vendetta against him; he’s always lying, he’s violent for no reason, he’s an uncaring monster that doesn’t deserve to be alive, let alone have magic.
“I don’t care what they say about me.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it.” Neil’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. Andrew narrows his eyes despite knowing Neil can’t see it due to the darkness in the room.
“You look into my soul one time, and suddenly you’re a professional in knowing me?” Neil snorts but doesn’t say anything.
“I’m taking my question.” When he gets no opposition, he continues. “What do you have against soul magic? I can understand the anger and unease at magic being used on you without permission, but the mention of the specific magic always has you angry.”
Andrew doesn’t know how much to tell Neil, but for some reason he finds himself wanting to tell Neil. This is practically unheard of, wanting to be vulnerable and share something like that.
“I had a foster brother that used it on me multiple times. He used it to manipulate me into liking what he was doing to me.” Getting the words out is harder than it should be, but he figures Bee would be proud of him.
“I know it’s not all that reassuring, especially coming from a liar, but I can’t use my magic to manipulate your emotions or anything like that. I can only use it to read intentions and truthfulness.” Neil’s right, it’s not that reassuring, but it does settle something small in his chest that he doesn’t expect. “What did it feel like?”
“Like I was falling. I couldn’t breathe, and I thought I was falling.”
“I won’t do it again.”
Neither of them say anything more. They don’t need to.
“Hey, Andrew? Do you think if I pushed you off the roof you could create a shield to stop the impact?” Neil is eating a sandwich, and the two of them are sitting on the roof of the shop, hiding from everybody else.
“No.”
“Do you wanna try?”
It’s so absurd that Andrew is shocked for a second, before he turns a lethal glare to Neil. “Do not. I won’t hesitate to stab you.” Neil just shrugs in response, taking another bite out of his sandwich.
Knight meows in Andrew’s lap, annoyed at the lack of pets, so Andrew surrenders his hand to the cat, letting him rub his face all over. It’s cloudy outside and Andrew thinks it might rain later. Knight would like it if it rains; for some reason, the cat is obsessed with running around in the rain.
“Matt and Dan want me to come to their house tonight with everybody from the shop. They’re having a game night, and think I’d love it. I don’t even know what happens at a game night,” Neil runs his fingers through his hair. Neil is an odd person, he doesn’t seek out the attention of others like the rest of the Foxes to. He doesn’t often refuse when someone comes to him, but the only person he seeks out is Andrew. He has also scared the entire shop into not completely hating Andrew somehow despite the many protests Andrew has given.
He had admitted one time a few weeks ago when the two of them were sharing a bottle of sparkling cider on the roof that he enjoyed the other Foxes’ presence, but they were too overbearing. It was a fact Andrew agreed with on a spiritual level. He told Andrew that as much as he hangs out with the others, he’d almost always rather be with Andrew. Andrew had to turn Neil’s face away from him so he didn’t kiss him senseless and briefly wonders where that thought came from.
“Are you going to go?”
“I don’t know. Is it my turn in our truth game?”
“We’re still doing that?” Andrew turns to look at Neil who just shrugs. Andrew flicks his hand in a motion that tells him to continue.
“Why do you wear your armbands?” Andrew looks down at his arms. He’s wearing a short sleeve and his armbands. Nobody ever thought to ask why he wears them because at first, everybody thought it was a sarcastic attempt at showing a visible difference between the twins so nobody mixed them up. After Aaron abandoned everybody, though, Andrew kept wearing them, and nobody thought anything of it. He doesn’t know how he feels about Neil being the first.
“Protection. I charmed them so they act as a shield for my arms.” Neil gives a considering look to Andrew’s arms, and he feels like he’s been laid bare. Like Neil can see through the shields and knows what’s underneath.
“What are they protecting?” It’s not a judgemental question, and knows whatever he says won’t be taken the wrong way or criticized. He and Neil have been getting closer through time spent on the roof talking about everything and nothing. They stopped playing their truth game and instead gave truths when they felt like it. It’s nice having someone to understand him without needing words, and Andrew often finds himself wondering how Neil Josten is real.
“Scars.” Neil nods and looks out off the roof. It’s all that needs to be said—they’re alike in that way. They don’t need more information than what’s given in order to trust or understand something. “Why do you never use magic?” Andrew asks for his truth. Since Neil used magic on Andrew the first time they met, he hasn’t seen Neil use any magic whatsoever.
A witch not using magic is uncommon, but a fae not using magic is practically unheard of. It always gives Andrew the niggling curiosity about why Neil Josten is always nothing what he expects.
“My father made me use it to do hurt others. Now, I only use it in situations where I feel like I need it to gauge whether I’m in danger or not. I have more abilities than soul magic, but it’s the only one that I can use without feeling nauseous.” Neil fiddles with his fingers as he talks and Andrew has the strong urge to hold them still. “Nicky mentions your brother sometimes but always stops himself. What happened to him?”
Andrew sighs a long sigh, debating whether he should tell Neil to ask something else, but he already knows the answer. “We had a deal. He broke the deal, then got mad when I ended it. He then proceeded to murder someone for me, and expected my gratitude when I didn’t ask for him to do so. He got pissy and is living on the other side of Palmetto with his girlfriend.” Nicky is still upset with Andrew, too, though he doesn’t show it often. Andrew knows he blames Andrew for Aaron’s departure and silence.
“You didn’t owe him that,” Neil says. Andrew thinks that for the first time, someone understands him.
The jangle of the bell tells Andrew that someone is at the shop, so with a sigh, he makes his way back to the front. Neil’s not on shift today, finally moving into his new apartment. After living in Palmetto for six months, he finally decided to get off Wymack’s couch (if it could be considered that) and buy his own place not that far from the shop.
The woman that enters has long dark hair and dark eyes to match. There is a venom to her that Andrew can’t place, but for now, he decides to not linger too much on it.
Matt greets her with a smile, but she doesn’t return it. “I’m looking for Nathaniel Wesninski. I know he’s here,” she says. Andrew stills at the name, one that was offered without expectation of a truth in return. It’s a name that Neil had said follows him everywhere despite leaving it behind.
“Uh, I think you have the wrong shop?” Matt says. “There’s no Nathaniel here,” he looks confused the way a dog looks confused when you pretend to throw a toy but hide it behind your back.
“He’s not here,” Andrew says, drawing both Matt and the stranger’s eyes to him.
“Where is he, then?” She takes a menacing step forward, half a foot taller than Andrew, yet she’s small compared to him. Her pointy teeth are a statement, one that promises a long and terrible death.
“I’d say maybe Mexico,” Andrew says. “Or maybe he’s in Tuvalu.” The woman rolls her eyes, they glow a light silver that’s nothing like the dark eyes that were just on Andrew a few seconds earlier.
“I don’t have time for this. Either tell me where he is, or I’ll kill you right here.”
Matt sucks in a breath and says “I swear, we’ve never met a Nathaniel Wesninski.”
“This one has,” she glowers. She takes a knife out from somewhere, holding it to Andrew’s throat. His heart is beating fast, but he’s not about to give Neil’s location to this psycho.
“I won’t tell you,” he grits out between his teeth. He has to find a way to get out of this, he could twist her arm and get his own dagger in her chest, but that’s too risky. He doesn’t know what kind of magic this fae possesses, so any movement might put him in more danger. He has to be smart about this so he can get to Neil and make sure he is safe.
“And why not?” She taunts, pressing the knife a bit further. Andrew winces at the sting that follows, and tries not to focus on the way he can feel the drip of blood fall behind his shirt.
“Because he’s mine.” He hasn’t said it out loud, because Neil isn’t his, no matter how much Andrew thinks about grabbing his shirt and pulling him in, no matter how many truths they trade. Neil is not his until he says so. Andrew tries to ignore the sour feeling at the thought of claiming Neil without his knowledge, but he decides he’ll deal with that once he knows the fae is safe.
“Yours, huh? Is he your lover? Your fuckbuddy? That’s where you’re wrong. Nathaniel is not yours, he is mine. He is his father’s. He is meant to take his father’s place. You are not a part of his plan.” Andrew has to fight the scoff that rises in his throat.
Matt takes the moment to strike to Andrew’s surprise. He swipes Andrew’s dagger and twists it so it’s buried deep in the woman’s chest. She sputters, blood dripping out of her mouth. Andrew uses the moment of shock to shove her off his body, catching his dagger when Matt tosses it to him and runs out of the door before anything else.
He sprints down the street like all hell is at his feet, knowing he can’t be even a second too late. Using his fear, he’s able to create a bubble of protection around him. If he can get Neil inside it that would be ideal.
He forgoes the elevator that brings him to the third floor of Neil’s apartment complex, opting to sprint up the stairs instead. At Neil’s door, he unlocks it using a simple spell and pushing himself inside. The view in the apartment has Andrew fighting nausea, and he has to take a deep steadying breath.
Neil is tied up to the bed, shirt off, and his father—who Andrew learned one night is named Nathan—on top of him holding a knife to his chest. Neil is bleeding from multiple places, and there’s tears running down his face. Neither of them seem to have seen Andrew, and he hopes it stays that way. Using the wall to hide him, he pulls his dagger out. At the corner, Andrew can see that Neil’s cheek is dripping with blood, too, and the anger is all-consuming. He gets behind Nathan, wondering how the hell he hasn’t been noticed yet, and digs his dagger deep into his back and twisting it for good measure. The sound that comes out of the man is inhuman, and he turns his head back at Andrew.
He uses his eyes to try to immobilize Andrew, and Andrew notes the way his hands slow slightly before he manages to rip his dagger out, and stabs again. This time, Nathan goes down, and Andrew’s hands are back to normal.
Neil’s eyes are squeezed shut, tears still streaming out of them when Andrew frees him from the bed. He looks so small here, and Andrew needs to do something, needs to destroy the world. “Yes or no?” he asks.
Neil’s eyes meet his, and they look so tired, but he mumbles a soft “Yes,” and Andrew nods. He runs a hand through Neil’s hair, ignoring the sweat that coats his forehead and hairline. He summons some energy and uses it to lull Neil to sleep. He becomes dead-weight in Andrew’s arms, but he’s safe now.
Looking down at Nathan’s body on the floor has Andrew holding back a grimace. He doesn’t look good, and suddenly Neil’s avoidance of mirrors and any discussion about his looks makes sense. He’s the spitting image of his father, only younger and more scarred. The cuts and burns that line Neil’s arms and face are sure to scar, even with the best of healers.
He pulls out his phone dialing a number he hasn’t called in years. “We have a problem,” he says once the other end picks up.
The Foxhole is a mess when Andrew gets there, Neil slung over his shoulders in the fireman’s carry. If he couldn’t feel Neil’s heartbeat pounding softly, Andrew would be worried that he’s already dead. Higgins made Andrew patch Neil up to the best of his abilities so he could meet the pig at The Foxhole, as if whatever business there is more important than the fae’s life.
Pig Higgins is waiting with his whole team. They’re taking pictures of the woman on the floor, and discussing with Matt about what happened. Wymack is talking to Higgins directly, and Andrew can hear him promise to pull up the security footage. The pig’s eyes meet Andrew’s and he abandons Wymack to stock over to meet Andrew and the unconscious fae over his shoulders.
“Andrew, it’s been a while,” he says as a greeting. His gaze drifts to Neil; his wounds are currently closed and being held together to the best of Andrew’s ability, though he’s never specialized in healing magic. He’s going to have to get Neil to Abby as quickly as possible. For now, though, it’ll last long enough to deal with what he needs to do here, as much as he wishes he doesn’t have to.
“You and I both know that small talk is a pointless indulgence,” Andrew says.
“Right. I owed you, as you said. Though, with a murder, I’m not sure—”
Andrew cuts him off. “Two murders.” Higgins’ eyes go wide for a second before he schools his expression. “Both self defense. Coach has a security camera, and you see Neil.” He raises his shoulder, jostling the fae. “He was about to be murdered. I’ll even give you the memory.”
Sharing memories is not a common practice among witches, it’s considered too private, too difficult to do without messing up. Andrew has had to give a memory or two in the past. It’s not ideal, but it’s necessary. Pig Higgins sighs and looks around at the shop. There are three other cops, talking to the rest of the Foxes despite the fact that the only witness besides Andrew is Matt.
“That’s not necessary. Go get him taken care of, and I’ll meet you later and we discuss the next steps.” Andrew nods and makes his way to Wymack. He looks far beyond his years, gaze locked on Neil.
“Where’s Abby?”
“My place,” is the short response. Andrew doesn’t say anything as he exits the shop, making his way the short distance to Wymack’s house. The door is unlocked when he gets there, and Abby is already waiting with a sheet over the dining table. Wymack must have called ahead and told her to prepare. Andrew sets Neil on the table and ignores the sharp gasp Abby sucks in at the state of Neil.
This is the first real look Andrew gets since walking in on Nathan torturing him, and it’s not a good one. Neil is bruised in multiple places, and old scars along with new wounds are on full display. In the spots that were bleeding the most, purple tendrils of Andrew’s doing hold Neil together. There’s more blood on him than the color of his own skin and Andrew is nauseous at it. The memory of Nathan on top of Neil brings many unwelcome memories, but Andrew shoves those down in favor of listening to Abby.
“Is this your magic?” She asks, trailing her hands lightly over the only thing that’s keeping Neil from bleeding out. He nods, gritting his teeth. She gives a thoughtful hum and says, “This is good work. You could consider being a healer, Andrew.” He thinks Aaron would writhe with anger at the comment; he’s deluded himself with the thought that Andrew makes it his personal goal to be better at everything Aaron is good at, so he can make Aaron feel like the inferior twin. Andrew doesn’t have time to think about his twin—who hasn’t contacted him in months—though, so he snaps at Abby to get a move on.
She kicks Andrew out of the room for this, and tells him to go shower. It’s only when he looks down that he notices the blood covering his clothes, and while it’s not that noticeable due to the black garments, it’s definitely dried enough for Andrew to feel it. His biceps, the only part of his arms not covered by sleeve or his armbands, also have blood on them. The dark red is a stark contrast to his pale skin and the familiar unease crawls up his spine. “Don’t let him die,” he growls before turning on his heel.
He grabs a towel and decides that when he’s out, he’ll have to raid Wymack’s closet. Avoiding the mirror at all costs, he manages to strip his clothes and get in the shower, though he’s hesitant about taking his armbands off. He charmed them when he got them last year so they protect his arms, as they’re one of his most vulnerable spots. They also hold enhancers in them—small gems that can be used to either strengthen his magic slightly, or store magic for situations where he’s too weak to use it himself.
Seeing the patches of fabric that are slightly darker, he sheds them and sets them on the counter so he can clean them when he’s done. The blood seeped through his clothes, and he looks like a murder scene. He chooses to keep his eyes on the wall as he cleans himself, letting his mind go numb as he cleans his body three times.
The steam curls around him as he ties the towel around his waist and exits the bathroom, only to go to Wymack’s own room. His clothes will no doubt be many sizes too big, but Andrew has no other option, so with a frustrated sigh, he pulls out a black hoodie and finds some dark blue sweatpants. He has to roll the ankles of the pants, and the hoodie goes down to mid-thigh, but it’s clean clothes which is more than can be said about his own.
He makes quick work of washing his armbands, taking extra care when scrubbing the blood out. By the time he’s done, they’re hanging on the shower curtain rod and his fingers are freezing. He tosses his clothes into the washer on the way back to the dining room when he’s stopped by three figures in the living room. There’s two men wearing large vests with FBI on them, and Pig Higgins is beside them. “Andrew,” he says.
The agent on the left steps forward. “Let me handle this.” He turns his gaze onto Andrew. “Andrew Minyard, correct?”
Andrew nods, unsure of where this is going, but the body in Wymack’s dining room gives him some sort of idea. “I am Special Agent Browning, and this is my partner Special Agent Towns. You are acquainted with Nathaniel Wesninski. What do you know about him?”
“Nothing worth telling you pigs,” he snarls. Higgins steps forward as if hes going to reach out for Andrew, but Andrew steps back out of reach.
“You will tell us or we will not hesitate to restrain you.”
“I won’t do anything without knowing Neil is awake,” he says, more venom in his voice than he was trying to put in.
“Nathaniel,” Agent Towns corrects. Andrew rolls his eyes and considers reaching for his dagger, but decides that might get him in more trouble and unable to see Neil. Andrew bares his teeth in a silent growl the moment the front door opens. Wymack appears, brows furrowing at the sight of the four men in the living room.
“Anyone wanna tell me what’s going on here?” He asks in a voice that is not asking.
“Minyard is not cooperating. He is compromising Nathaniel Wesninski’s safety, in turn compromising his own safety,” Browning says, turning a lethal glare at Andrew.
“I’m not giving up what I know.” Wymack sighs a deep, tired sigh, but doesn’t add anything more. “Let me see him.”
“Ms. Winfield said that he is currently in no state to have visitors. So, while we wait, we need to make sure all our information is up to date.” Browning looks positively pissed. “Nathan Wesninski, what do you know about him?” He tries again.
Andrew shoves himself forward, trying to force himself through the wall of people blocking the dining room door. He gets shoved back aggressively, so he reaches for his dagger.
“Drop your weapon!” Agent Towns yells, aiming his gun at Andrew. Andrew tosses his dagger to the floor in front of his feet, ignoring the unease that fills him at being unarmed with a gun pointing at him.
“Minyard,” Wymack barks at him. “Look, how about I take you to the store. We need to get some supplies for Abby anyway.” Andrew stares blankly at Wymack, considering his chances at trying to get to Neil again. The gun pointed at him jerks forward, and Agent Towns gestures between Wymack and Andrew.
“Can we trust him not to run off?” Nobody answers. Towns sighs and pulls out a pair of handcuffs, gesturing for Wymack and Andrew to come closer. He clasps on cuff around each of their wrists with an sharp click. “When you get back I expect you to be cooperative.” Andrew doesn’t answer as he and Wymack walk out the front door, and if Andrew slams it a little bit harder than he needs to, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.
“Andrew,” Wymack says for the fourth time. They’re in the grocery store the farthest from Wymack’s house, scouring the aisles for random food and utilities. “Minyard,” he growls, clearly fed up with Andrew’s unresponsiveness. “Whatever, answer or don’t. I don’t care. Abby texted me.”
Andrew perks up at that, though he carefully slides on his mask of indifference. “She says he’s okay, but he’s asleep now. It’s a good thing fae have enhanced healing.” Andrew didn’t really have any doubts as to whether he’d be okay; Abby is the best healer in all of Palmetto, but he was concerned with the fact that he hasn’t been allowed to see him alive.
“I know I’m not paid enough to care about the details of my clients’ relationships, but if you need…” Wymack trails off. He’s obviously as uncomfortable with this conversation as Andrew is bored of it.
“Don’t bother. I have to piss,” Andrew says, changing the subject. Wymack sighs subdued and leads Andrew to the bathroom. Finding a way to angle themselves is more difficult than Andrew would like to admit, and he may or may not intentionally soak Wymack’s hand when he’s washing his own. Wymack doesn’t say anything, letting Andrew have his small fit in peace, which completely takes the fun out of it.
Andrew picks up a pint of ice cream for himself and a box of plastic spoons, adding it to the basket and ignoring Wymack’s protesting. On the walk back, he makes Wymack carry all the bags as he digs into his ice cream contemplating all the ways he should kill Neil himself. By the time they’re back, it’s been a few hours, and Andrew isn’t feeling any more cooperative than before.
Wymack lets them into his apartment, and Andrew feels a small spark of something when he sees Neil sitting on the couch sporting many bandages and holding a plastic water bottle that he’s drunk nothing of. Andrew knew that fae had speedier healing than the common human or witch, but he wasn’t expecting the red head to already be awake. Andrew quickly makes his way to the couch before anybody can protest, dropping to his knees in front of Neil. Wymack curses loudly as he’s pulled forward by the handcuffs. Neil’s bright blue eyes lock on the cuffs before he turns back to the agents.
“Uncuff him,” he demands. His voice is hoarse, and it reminds Andrew of the first time he met Neil in the woods.
“You’re in no position to be making demands, Wesninski,” Agent Browning says stepping closer to the three of them. Neil flinches at the name like it’s a punch and grits his teeth, but he doesn’t say anything. He lifts his hand to Andrew’s face, silently asking to touch. At Andrew’s nod, he rests his bandaged hand on Andrew’s cheek, and if he had a thumb, Andrew gets the feeling he would be swiping it along his cheekbone.
“You have a black eye,” he says in stilted German. Andrew lifts one shoulder in a shrug.
“I said I would protect you,” he replies in the same language. Neil’s eyes soften impossibly and neither of them say anything until Neil seems to remember something and his eyes become a duller shade of their usual color. It’s infuriating.
“They want to take me after I tell them everything. They want to put me in a different state with a new name. One that’s not my father’s.” Andrew’s breath stops for a solid five seconds. Five seconds where five people are staring at him, though four of them have no idea what he and Neil are conversing about.
“Your name is Neil. I won’t let them take you away, you belong here with us. You are a Fox. The others will fight for you, too if need be.” Neil looks around the room at the mention of the other Foxes, seemingly looking for them. “Look at me,” Andrew demands. “You can stay.”
“English, please, I don’t have all day,” Agent Browning snaps. Andrew forces himself to stay still at the word, carefully not reacting.
“I’ll tell you what you want to know, but I won’t leave Palmetto.” It’s firm, like Neil would rather fight his father again than leave Palmetto. His voice cracks at the end, and it makes Andrew sick. “Uncuff him.” He says once again.
“Don’t order me around,” Browning says.
“Fine. Don’t uncuff him, then. I won’t tell you anything. And we both know that without me, your whole investigation will crumble.” The agent sighs like Neil is being particularly difficult.
“You’re a manipulative, lying, child. You know that, right?” Neil hums an affirmative and watches Andrew and Wymack get uncuffed from each other. “Alright, everybody that’s not Nathaniel and my partner, get out. He is in so state fit enough to travel, so I have to do this here.”
Everybody starts filing out, but Andrew stays where he is on the floor. “I don’t know if you heard him,” Agent Towns starts, a cocky smirk on his face. “But Agent Browning said to get out.”
“He’s staying,” Neil demands, sliding his bandaged hand from Andrew’s cheek to his chin, leveling a challenging look at the Agents. They look between each other and sigh, setting themselves down on the couch opposite them.
Andrew spends the night processing all the information he learned about Neil. When Neil was giving his story, Andrew was able to pick out the information that Neil has already volunteered. Other things, though, like the lessons his father made him sit through before the age of ten, the way the woman, Lola Malcolm, would drive miles away and make him walk back to the house.
By the time Neil was done sharing the story, he was half asleep from exhaustion. The agents left with a promise that they would keep in touch and let Neil know when the legal name change documents were ready for him to sign, then he and his partner left.
Now, the two of them are in Wymack’s couch, Andrew’s head on the opposite side of the couch form Neil’s head. Andrew gets no sleep by the time seven in the morning rolls around, choosing instead to look at Neil and wonder when he had become such an important part of Andrew’s life.
Wymack doesn’t come out in the morning, so Andrew figures he’s giving Andrew and Neil some time, as much as he hates it. Neil must sense Andrew’s eyes on him, because he wakes up, immediately meeting Andrew’s. He looks both better and worse than yesterday—better in the sense that there’s not as much blood on him anymore, and worse in the sense that he looks like he went through the most unrefreshing sleep. “Good morning,” Neil says. Andrew wants to say that it’s not a good morning, seeing as Neil was tortured by his father yesterday and almost died, but he doesn’t. He can’t find the energy to talk, and Neil doesn’t make him. “I wanted to go see the other Foxes today. I’m healed enough that you don’t have to go.”
Andrew gives him a look that he hopes conveys how stupid he thinks Neil is being. He just gives a small smile in return, but grimaces when his cheek is pulled too far.
“Abby cleaned me as best as she could, but I’m still dirty. I need to shower.” Andrew nods and sits up, dragging his feet across the couch to himself and pushes himself to his feet. Without a word, he heads to Wymack’s kitchen and grabs the roll of trash bags and duct tape.
Neil is already standing, legs shaking like he can’t support his own weight. He sends a questioning look to the items in Andrew’s hands, but he just shakes his head. They make their way to the bathroom in silence, and Andrew makes sure to lock the door so Wymack doesn’t walk in on them, and then he gestures to the toilet lid. Neil sits down and lets Andrew take his shirt off with a mumbled yes. Andrew rips parts of the bags and tapes them over the bandages littering Neil’s entire form, then turns to the shower to start it. He watches Neil look down at his hands, or what used to be his hands. Before the trash bags got added, his hands were useless, wrapped in bandages. Now, with plastic over them, they look like stubs.
Neil attempts to shed his pants, but ultimately fails when he realizes that the bandages and bags are limiting his motions. He looks at Andrew, “Can you help?” With a sigh, Andrew steps in front of Neil, hand on his waistband, and checking once more that it’s a yes. At Neil’s nod, he helps the fae rid his clothes and pushes him into the shower. He closes the curtain to give some illusion of privacy as he takes his shirt, and with some contemplation, his armbands and socks off. There’s a thud from inside the shower that tells Andrew that Neil dropped a bottle because the idiot tried to grab it without viable hands. He pulls the curtain back enough to peek at Neil, looking at the empty space and back at the fae, raising his eyebrow in question.
“Coming in here?” he asks once he figures out what Andrew is trying to ask. Andrew doesn’t say anything, and Neil nods in agreement and steps back. Andrew lets himself in and picks up the shampoo bottle that Neil threw on the floor and dumps some into his hand before lathering it around and grabbing Neil’s head. He’s less than impressed that Neil is taller than him in this particular moment as he scrubs the soap deep into Neil’s scalp. The water comes out a murky brown, and Andrew shampoos Neil’s hair once more just to be on the safe side.
He lets the conditioner set as he scrubs Neil’s body aggressively where there’s no new injuries, and is slightly more gentle around the garbage bags.
After he’s done scrubbing Neil’s body, the two of them stand there in silence. Water drips down Andrew’s face as he stares into Neil’s eyes. He rinses the conditioner from Neil’s hair with more care than he’s had the entirety of washing Neil.
“You don’t have to hold back, Andrew,” Neil whispers as if he can hear the thoughts that are telling Andrew to pin him to the wall and devour him like he’s going to disappear tomorrow. He says it so sure, as if he knows the thoughts that keep Andrew up at night.
Andrew knows his limits, and he won’t push himself to give in to a foolish want, so he shakes his head. For the first time that day, he speaks: “Ask me later.”
Neil takes it as it is and nods. He gives a small smile before stepping around Andrew and out of the shower. There’s a rustle of fabric and then the opening of a door, and Andrew wonders how he managed to do either with his hands the way they are currently. Andrew washes his own hair and body, only realizing that he has no clean clothes when he gets out. There’s a knock on the door, too hard to be Neil. “I uh, got some clothes for you. Neil asked me to. They’re outside the door. Neil is waiting for you in the spare room,” he says before the footprints trail off.
Andrew opens the door and grabs the clothes—thankfully dark colors—and quickly shoving them on. He barely has his armbands on by the time he’s out the door and making his way to the room Neil is in. He took the bags off his hands, but it seems that’s it. He’s wearing some pants that are undoubtedly Wymack’s, but no shirt. Andrew makes his way over and helps Neil remove the rest of the bags, leaving him in bandages. He grabs the shirt next to Neil and puts it over Neil’s head.
They spend the next few minutes just staring at each other and saying nothing until Andrew turns and leaves the room. He can’t stand looking at Neil any longer or else he might punch him.
In the kitchen, Wymack is making some eggs and toast, and when he looks at Andrew it’s obvious he knows something is up with him and Neil. He minds his pay grade, though, and hands Andrew two plates with food on it, and a gruff, “The Foxes want Neil at the shop tonight.”
Andrew nods and heads back to the room, handing a plate to Neil. They eat in silence, the only sound between them the soft clanking of forks on the plates.
Andrew lies down on his side and watches Neil through tired eyes, and before he knows it, the world goes dark.
He doesn’t expect much when he and Neil show up at The Foxhole that night. That’s why when he walks in to find the shop to find bright orange streamers and balloons decorating the place, he freezes in the doorway for all of five seconds. Neil looks enamored by the sight and walks in. Every one that works at the shop is there, waiting for Neil.
Renee, Dan, and Matt are by one of the tables filled with some party foods talking, Kevin, Abby, and Wymack are talking in another corner, Seth and Allison—despite neither of them working here—are making their way toward Neil, and Nicky is tweaking a cake with some phrase on it that Andrew can’t read from here. It’s all the people he surrounds himself with daily, and people Neil considers family.
If held at gunpoint, Andrew might admit that he doesn’t despise all of them as much as he did when he first arrived at Palmetto. The only person that’s missing from his group is Aaron, though he should stop expecting anything from his copy at this point.
Neil looks back at him as he walks around and says hi to everybody. The others look devastated for all of five seconds before gathering Neil into a huge group hug. Andrew watches from the outside with no desire to join the group. He walks over to the cake that he saw Nicky tampering with earlier so he can see what it says. Neil laughs from beside him where he is now standing at the cake. It says: Congrats on not dying!!
‘What do you think my funeral cake would say?” Neil says, a small smile on his face so it doesn’t pull his injured skin.
“Congrats on dying,” Andrew deadpans. It gets a laugh out of Neil, who immediately holds his cheek with one hand and wipes the smile off with his other hand. By then, the rest of the Foxes join the two of them at the table filled with food and start topping off plates and handing them out.
“I got some booze, Neil!” Nicky shouts, holding a bottle and waving it around. Neil wrinkles his nose at that and shakes his head at the offering. “Your loss, dude,” Nicky says as he’s filling up cups for everybody else. Somebody put a speaker on the table and turns some obnoxious music on, and suddenly people are dancing.
Andrew sits on one of the tables for a bit before Neil makes his way back to him. “I don’t want to dance.”
“Then don’t dance,” Andrew replies raising an eyebrow. Neil rolls his eyes and stands in front of Andrew.
“Take me to the roof?” And how could Andrew say no to that? He stands up, grabs two slices of cake, and leads Neil to the stairs in the back of the shop. Upstairs is technically Wymack’s office, but Andrew doesn’t mind that. There’s a door on the back that leads to a ladder to the roof. He lets Neil climb up first, handing him the plates once he’s sure they won’t get dropped then follows immediately after.
Being on the roof makes his chest swoop looking down at the world, but it’s nothing in comparison to the way he feels when he’s next to Neil. Neil hands him one of the plates and takes a bite of his own cake. It’s chocolate, so he doesn’t like it, but Andrew knows he tries it because Nicky put effort into making it. After forcing a few bites down, he hands the plate to Andrew for him to finish. It’s gone in less than two minutes.
“You know,” Neil says, lying down on his back to look at the stars. “I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere. But here, with you guys at The Foxhole? I feel like I was never meant to be anywhere else.” He says it with such surety, like it’s true. In a way, Andrew feels the same. He’s never had a stable life until he found the shop, and sure, his life in mundane and every day is similar, but he belongs in a way he hasn’t before.
Andrew moves so he’s lying down on his side facing Neil. Neil is looking at the stars, eyebrows furrowed like he’s thinking of saying something he knows he shouldn’t.
“Earlier, you said to ask you later. Is now a good later?”
Just to mess with him, Andrew says, “What do you want to ask me?”
“Will you kiss me?” And who is Andrew to deny that? He leans forward, grabbing Neil’s jaw with one hand to pull him closer. They’re breathing the same air for all of one second before Andrew leans forward and takes Neil’s lips between his own. For the first time in a long while, Andrew Minyard feels settled.