Archive of Our Own ^beta

Simmons is staring at him.

Grif ignores him in favor of sticking his face into his bowl of cereal and noisily drinking the last of the milk in a way he knows will make Simmons wince. Well, which he knows usually makes Simmons wince. This time Simmons just keeps watching.

Yeah, something’s up.

Is Simmons gearing up to apologize? He’d come home last night exhausted, so tired that he’d barely gotten to the couch before crashing and sleeping, mumbling goodnight only when Grif pawed at him. He’d woken up at four, staggered to his bedroom, and then slept another five hours.

Grif may have snapped at Simmons earlier when Simmons, rubbing a hand over his face and yawning, had offered to throw breakfast together. But seriously, didn’t Simmons learn anything from those months of working himself ragged with Leonard?

“I’m gonna go watch TV,” he says shortly, swiping a paw across his whispers and flicking away a few milk droplets.

He’s so annoyed that he misjudges his jump. He hisses in surprise as he goes skidding across the kitchen tile, claws scrabbling at the floor. When he gets his legs back under him, he still feels a little dizzy. He licks his nose, hoping Simmons didn’t notice.

When he turns and glances at Simmons, though, Simmons is smiling. Not an amused smile, but a surprised one.

Simmons stands up and leans down. There’s a weird excited quiver in his voice when he says, “You might want to sit down.”

“Huh?” Grif says.

The next second he’s hit with a sudden rush in his ears. Vertigo smacks him over the head like he’s on an elevator rattling upwards at full-speed. The kitchen shrinks. The fridge shrinks. The table and the chairs shrink.

He wobbles, unsteady, flings out a paw to brace himself, and then stares as his fingers fumble clumsily at the back of the chair. His human fingers. His human hand.

Grif opens his mouth, but his face feels weird. There should be whiskers. He looks down at himself. There’s the ratty t-shirt and sweatpants he was wearing when Locus crashed onto his doorstep, and the old flip flops one of the Council stooges had thrown at him before the trial. He feels underdressed, the air-conditioning raising goosebumps on his bare skin.

Everything feels strange as he turns and looks at Simmons, who’s shrunk too, or at least now has to tilt his head a little to meet his gaze.

Simmons’s wide eyes swallow most of his face. The surprised smile is gone.

Grif works his jaw again, trying to remember how it works. Even amid the shock, he feels a surge of impatience. He was a witch for a hundred and fifty years and a familiar for three, it shouldn’t feel this weird to be a witch again--

It shouldn’t be possible to be a witch again. No one’s ever broken the familiar spell, even if a lot of people try to claim it’s possible with crap like true love’s kiss. You get whatever sentence the Council deals out, and that’s it. Sometimes you can kiss the Council’s ass enough to get time served, but even that’s usually fifty years or more into a century sentence, not--

Simmons broke the spell. Crap. If trying to take over the Mortal Realm gets someone a hundred years as a cat, what will the Council do to them when they find out a freaking mortal broke the strongest spell in the Other Realm?

Simmons makes a noise. It’s quiet, half-pleased, half-shocked.

The sound hits Grif in the stomach. It was definitely Simmons who did this. Leonard wouldn't have helped. He has no idea how Simmons managed it, but there’s a ring of pride mixed into that noise that’s impossible to ignore. Grif flexes his hands. He marvels at the feeling even as he realizes how screwed they are. He’s missed having thumbs so much.

He must make a noise himself, because Simmons jolts suddenly, eyes somehow going even wider, and words start spilling out like a flood.

“It worked! I mean, I thought it would. I hoped it would. All my research said-- but. Right. Yeah. Okay. Good. It worked. So. Uh. Payback.”

“Payback?” Grif echoes blankly, still staring at his hands as his thumbs curl and uncurl, still trying to figure out how to explain to Simmons how much trouble they’re in.

“You turned, uh, you turned me into a cat, I turned you into a person.”

Grif manages to tear his gaze away from his hands. He studies the pleased smile on Simmons’ face slowly. They’re standing close together. He can see the excited flush creeping up Simmons’ throat, watch the way his throat works as he takes a deep breath and smiles and concludes, “Fair’s fair.”

There’s only one thing Grif can do in response.

He covers his face with his very human hands and laughs.

“Well, isn’t this exciting?” Grey chirps, beaming at Carolina. “A family vacation!”

Carolina smiles back. She’d been surprised when her dad suggested a trip for spring break, but excited too.

“This would be more exciting if we knew what Leonard had planned,” Church complains, but the griping is half-hearted at best. He’s perched on top of his suitcase, headphones around his neck and his prized CD player in his lap.

There’s a roll of thunder and a flash of lightning under the closet door.

A second later, their dad steps out, barely hesitating as his eyes turn white. He doesn’t look dressed for vacation, still in a business suit, a small bag tucked under one arm.

“Hey, Leonard,” Church says with a grin, followed by Carolina’s, “Hi, Dad.”

“Carolina. Church,” their dad says. He smiles slightly. “I presume both of you are packed and ready.”

“Why do we need to pack?” Church says, grin broadening to smirk. “Isn’t that what magic’s for?”

Their dad raises an eyebrow. “Church….”

Carolina nudges Church’s suitcase, just enough that it starts to roll out from under him. As he yelps and tries to stay balanced, she says, “Probably shouldn’t sit on your suitcase. It doesn’t look steady.”

Church shoots her a look that’s half-amused, half-annoyed. “Could’ve let me wind him up a little.” The corner of his mouth twitches as he stands up and grabs the suitcase handle. “So, Leonard, any hints for our mystery trip?”

“Hm,” their dad says, a thoughtful noise. Then he steps back into the closet, leaving the door ajar.

“That figures,” Church says, shaking his head. “C’mon, sis, let’s see what nerdy vacation we’re in for.” Despite his words, he’s beginning to grin as he steps into the closet.

That smile vanishes as soon as the door closes and reopens and Doyle greets them with a wave and a cheery hello.

“We’re on vacation,” Church yelps, turning a betrayed look on their dad.

“And from what Doctor Church tells me, you’re due for an enjoyable time!” Doyle says, either oblivious to Church’s dismay or choosing to ignore it. He’s wearing a suit similar to the one he wore to The Five Seasons with Carolina. “I’m merely here for the first few hours. When I mentioned I was a patron of a certain theater, your father was kind enough to suggest that I accompany you.”

“Theater?” Church groans. “Like the one you went to with Carolina? With all the romance stuff?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Doyle says. Church starts to look relieved, then his face clouds over as Doyle says, “No, this is one of the premiere opera houses in the Other Realm!”

As Church stares, their dad clears his throat.

“But first we should check into our rooms.”

Simmons is still feeling pleased with himself when Grif starts laughing.

There’s a weird edge to the sound.

Maybe he should have warned Grif beforehand. But he’d been worried that it wouldn’t work, and besides, he’d wanted to see the look on Grif’s face as he realized what was happening. But now Grif’s laughing, shoulders shaking, and covering his face with his hands when Simmons wants to keep looking at his features, pick apart all the little differences between him and his sister.

Simmons had expected Grif to be tall. He’d been bigger than Simmons in cat form, after all. But he still wasn’t prepared, somehow, for Grif, human and tall and himself, blinking those familiar mismatched eyes at him in stunned amazement. His heart keeps pounding fast in his chest.

Grif finally stops laughing. He lowers his hands, flexing his hands like he’s testing them out or instinctively trying to bring his claws out, and stares at Simmons. His expression is just as weird as his laughter.

“Dude,” he says finally. “What did you do? The Council--”

It clicks then, the look. Grif isn’t happy. He’s worried.

“It’s just temporary,” Simmons blurts out. His stomach twists. He wants that look of amazement back. “I, uh, I am not sure how long it’s going to last, actually. It could be ten minutes--” Crap, he wonders how long it’s been. He didn’t think to look at the time when Grif started transforming. “--or an hour.”

Grif blinks.

“I couldn’t break the spell,” Simmons says. He can hear frustration color the words. “Even with the ley lines, there’s no way to gather enough power, I just-- it’s, uh, hm. God, I was gonna explain this. It’s. It’s more like the potion briefly tricked the spell into taking a nap?”

“A nap,” Grif repeats. He stares at Simmons for another second. Then he huffs out a breath. “Even when you’re figuring out a loophole to a Council spell, you’re a nerd. What does that even mean? How did you--”

He gestures, a little wildly, and almost smacks his hand into the wall. His lips curl back for a second, his eyes wide, and he hisses out a breath from between his teeth, or maybe just instinctively hisses.

Simmons guesses the cat habits are a little hard to break. He gets a little angry, thinking about it. Salem is going to be a cat for a hundred years. How long will it take for him to adjust to being a witch again? How long will it take Grif, once the ten years are up?

He shakes his head and refocuses. “I studied a lot of Doctor Church’s books. There are many examples over the centuries about attempts to reverse sealed spells, especially in, uh, instances of children sealing their spells, I still don’t understand why that’s not a thing witch kids aren’t taught until they’re sixteen or eighteen, when they can be responsible enough to-- Right. Not the point. But there were a lot of discussions about willpower and breaking seals. Mostly people didn’t have the, uh, conviction I guess to do it? And especially not in the face of a unanimous Council for the familiar thing. But uh, one thing I kept finding was that people couldn’t break the sealed spells, but they could force it into sort of almost dormancy for a little while. So I studied that, and then I remembered Felix’s knife. When I tricked it into thinking it, uh, had already killed Carolina.”

He pauses, swallowing. Even almost a year later, he still doesn’t like that memory. “But yeah, that made me think, what if I could trick your familiar spell into thinking you’d already served ten years? It wouldn’t be completely convinced because, uh, well, I knew it was a lie when I was making the potion, but it could trick it enough that you could. Well. Be human again. For a little while.”

When Simmons pauses to take a breath, Grif looks down at his hands again, which are just as big as the rest of him. Simmons forgets what he was about to say as Grif plucks at the bottom of his t-shirt, rubbing at the fabric with his thumbs.

The silence stretches. Simmons bites his lip. “I, uh, the potion ingredient list ended up being really interesting, actually. I had to--”

Finally Grif looks up. One corner of his mouth turns up. The gesture’s unfamiliar even if the amusement in his voice isn’t as he says, “Dude. If I’ve got like ten minutes or an hour, I don’t want to spend it listening to you listing ingredients.”

“Right,” Simmons mumbles, face warming. “So, uh. What do you want to do?”

Grif’s magic’s still dormant. His eye doesn’t change like a mood ring the way Kai’s does. There’s still an intensity in his gaze as he looks at Simmons that dries out Simmons’ mouth. When he licks his lips, Grif stares.

“A beer,” he says after a few seconds. “I want to open a beer with my own hands.”

Simmons brightens. “You can definitely do that.”

He knew asking Kai what Grif’s favorite beer was was a good idea, even if it was awkward. Honestly, she’s been a little weird ever since the bar. She keeps staring at him like he’s grown an eye in the middle of his forehead or something. This time, she stared at him for a while and then griped over Grif’s love of mortal beers -- “mortal stuff doesn’t last, you know?” It took a while for Simmons to decipher that Grif’s favorite brand wasn’t being made anymore. Primo Beer was no more as of 1997.

Turns out you can still find Primo beer on eBay though.

Kai had given him another weird look and then sighed a lot when he asked her advice on magically ensuring the beer wouldn’t expire.

All that’s worth it for the expression on Grif’s face when he opens the fridge and sees the six-pack.

Church slouches in his seat, wondering if he should just close his eyes and try to sleep.

He’s been dragged to a musical before. Tucker was in the orchestra for one of Donut’s cheesy school productions, and while Tucker had played it cool, Caboose had given Chuch puppy eyes until he agreed to attend opening night. So many people singing about their feelings. And opera’s even worse.

This one’s some pretentious story based on a real life couple, witches who fell in love during one of the witch hunt eras. It’s a sucker’s bet that it’s going to end in tragedy, even though any smart witch would’ve just ducked back into the Other Realm for a couple decades until it all blew over.

He opens his eyes when Carolina nudges him.

She looks amused. “It might be better than you think.”

“Carolina, they’re going to sing. About their feelings. And maybe dance. It’s probably going to be worse.”

From down the row, beside Leonard, Doyle turns and gives him a disappointed look.

Church slouches so low in his chair that he can’t even see the stage. It’s blocked by the head of the witch sitting in front of him, even though Doyle managed to score them great seats. If this was a Mudhoney concert, Church would be freaking ecstatic. Instead it just means he’ll have to watch the performers make weird faces as they sing if he actually pays attention.

Despite his conviction that this is going to suck, he still looks up as golden light sweeps over him.

There’s a glowing golden sphere drifting over the crowd and coming to a floating standstill in the middle of the stage.

This close, Church can see a bunch of intricate symbols and sigils pulsing slightly out of time with each other. He squints, trying to figure out what the symbols are, when the golden light gets brighter, and sound begins to spill from it. It’s quiet as first, then the sound swells, the distant cackling fire turning to a roar of an inferno.

Even as the noise expands, the sphere dwindles, until there’s only a single flicker of gold and then even that’s gone.

As soon as it is, fire engulfs the stage.

Church jumps, heart pounding, before he realizes they’re obviously magical flames.

There’s no heat, just the illusion of flames and the roar of the fire filling his ears.

Church leans forward, trying to get a better look. Imagine that at a Mudhoney concert. The crowd would go crazy. For the first time he thinks to wonder if there’s any alternative music in the Other Realm. There has to be, right? No one could see these kinds of special effects and not want to do something with them.

There’s that Prodigy song, Firestarter. Church can picture the whole thing in his head, the flames that would fill the stage and leap around everyone in the crowd as the band sings.

Doyle’s whisper is almost lost amid the noise.

“A bit of artistic liberty. Most presumed witches weren’t burned at the stake--”

Church turns and glares at him.

Doyle stops mid-sentence.

When Church turns back to the stage, there’s a woman standing amid the flames. They lick at the hem of her dress, dance over her head and shoulders as she straightens to her full height, her somber gaze staring towards the back of the theater, and opens her mouth to sing.

Turns out the stupid thing’s in Latin.

For a second Grif just holds the beer in his hand.

Condensation beads it. He can feel it against his skin, cool and slick, and has to resist the urge to rub his thumb up and down the brown glass just for the sake of using his thumb as much as possible. He can still remember the first time he had one of these, back in 1901, when it was claiming to be Hawaii’s original beer.

It wasn’t, of course, but Primo was the first company with staying power. And it’s good, cheap beer.

He twists the cap off with a practiced gesture. A couple years of being a cat hasn’t taken that from him at least.

He takes a long swallow, savoring it.

When he lowers the bottle, Simmons is watching him.

Grif’s hit with the prickling awareness that Simmons has been staring at him this whole time. That swallow of Primo hits his stomach and makes it do a funny little flip. He takes a second swallow, and Simmons smiles, a wide, delighted grin that brings that flush back to his face.

Grif’s stomach does another flip. He polishes off the beer and grabs two more bottles.

“Here,” he says, and tosses one to Simmons.

Simmons yelps in surprise, fumbling it but managing to catch it. He makes a face. “Grif, do you know what I had to do to get this--”

“Go to a grocery store?” Grif suggests, just to earn that familiar exasperated huff.

Simmons doesn’t immediately crack open his beer. Instead he follows Grif into the living room. “So, uh, after the beers, what else do you want to do?”

Grif throws himself down onto the couch. It’s disorienting, because the couch is too small and he’s too big, even though he knows that’s wrong. The couch is the same size it’s always been. He ignores the muscle memory that makes him want to twist himself into a pretzel or go cross-legged. He props his feet up on the coffee table instead.

Simmons sits down next to him, his beer still unopened. He’s worrying at the label with his fingers, still watching Grif like he still can’t quite believe his potion worked. Or maybe trying to catch the exact second the spell figures out it’s been tricked.

Grif has shifted an inch closer before his brain catches up with the rest of him. The back of his neck gets hot. He’s grateful that no access to magic means his eye isn’t shifting color like a snitch. He hastily twists off the cap of his second beer. He flips the cap between his fingers, reminding himself of his human hands and human body.

Simmons clears his throat. “Well?”

Right, he asked what else Grif wants to do. But Grif’s mind is blank. He shrugs and nods towards Simmons’ beer. “Crack that open and we’ll toast to your crazy plan actually working.”

Simmons smiles again.

It catches Grif off-guard a little, the strength of Simmons’ smile.

Simmons twists open his bottle and holds it out. When Grif doesn’t do the same, Simmons’ smile creases a little, confusion briefly clouding his expression. He wiggles the bottle. “The toast?”

“Uh, right,” Grif says, mouth dry, remembering the bottle in his hand. He lifts it up, desperate for a drink.

Their hands brush as the glasses clink together.

Skin on skin feels a lot different from fur on skin.

Grif freezes.

Simmons does too.

Grif has a second to absorb the details: the cool, dry skin, the awkward jut of Simmons’ knuckles against his own. Then he manages to unfreeze. This is stupid. He’s being stupid. Three years as a cat has turned him into a guy who gets intense just accidentally touching someone.

He brings his bottle to his mouth and drains it in a few quick gulps.

“Probably can’t take a walk,” he says, hearing the weird note in his voice too late.

Simmons blinks slowly. He takes a sip of his own beer. Then he gives a shake of his head. “No. Uh. Probably shouldn’t risk going outside Doctor Church’s wards, but we could, um. I don’t know.” He smiles again, but there’s an embarrassed edge to it now. “I guess I thought so much about how to do this that I didn’t think about what we could do if it worked….”

Grif’s hit by a wave of fondness. His chest gets tight. Well, that’s one upside to being human. He doesn’t instinctively purr. “Sounds like one of your plans.”

“Hey!” Simmons says, but it’s half-hearted. He blinks again when Grif stands up.

Grif takes an intense pleasure in opening and closing the fridge a couple times. He doesn’t have to stand up on his back paws, grapple the handle with his front paws, and then flail around for what feels like forever. It barely takes any effort at all, even if the door likes to stick.

The refrigerated air washes over him.

When he reaches for the freezer handle, Simmons asks, “What are you doing?”

Grif grins, his own plan beginning to form. “Celebrating.”

Simmons laughs when Grif sets the carton down on the counter. “You just ate. You cannot possibly want ice cream.”

“I always want ice cream,” Grif assures him. He heads for the cupboards. He knows Kai magicked up a bunch of knock-off Hawaiian snacks the other day. There might be some left.

“Grif!” Simmons says, turning his name into a laughing protest. He’s suddenly at Grif’s shoulder, rolling his eyes and smiling. He snatches the first bag out of Grif’s hand and waves it at him. “You’re a human again for the first time in years and you want to eat?”

Grif just grins at him and reaches for another bag.

This time when Simmons grabs for it, Grif straightens to his full height, holding the chips up as far out of Simmons’ reach as possible.

“Hey!” Simmons protests, reaching up. Grif’s so much taller than him now, though. He doesn’t even get close. He makes another noise in his throat, this one half-amused, half-annoyed, and grabs Grif’s shoulder, hauling himself up onto his toes and flailing at the bag.

He misses, wobbling wildly on the tips of his toes.

Grif instinctively grabs for him. Simmons is wearing his favorite pair of pajamas, the red striped ones that Grif makes a point of getting cat hair on whenever they argue. The fabric’s soft under his palm as he holds Simmons’ hip, and thin enough that he can feel when Simmons takes in a sharp breath.

Simmons is standing so close. Grif could count all of his eyelashes if he wanted.

It’s easy to distract yourself most of the time, when you’re a familiar. Those cat instincts always want to sleep and to eat, with an intensity that puts even Grif’s usual wants to shame. It’s easy to focus on that and avoid any other stupid wants that you might have, the impossible ones.

It’s harder when you’re a witch again.

Simmons swallows and Grif tries not to stare.

“Grif?”

His name sounds different, enough that it jostles Grif backwards. He drops the snack.

It lands at their feet, but Simmons doesn’t reach for it. Instead he takes a step back himself, rubbing at the back of his neck and laughing unsteadily. “I guess snacks are okay. Not like we aren’t, uh, drinking at like ten in the morning, right? Yeah. Uh-- the ice cream’s melting.”

Simmons is right about the ice cream. Grif distracts himself by rescuing it. He pushes aside everything else, narrowing his focus down to the flick of his wrist and the satisfying feeling of dropping each scoop into the bowls. At least this time he’s not sitting at Simmons or Kai’s feet, having coaxed them into doing it for him.

“That is so much ice cream,” Simmons says, the weirdness mostly gone from his voice.

Grif looks down. Both bowls are filled to the brim and already starting to melt.

He rolls his tense shoulders, shrugs. “Gotta celebrate somehow, dude. Just wait until my stupid sentence is over and we can celebrate in style.”

“Until--” Simmons says. He stops. He looks almost surprised, and then another smile begins to spread across his face. It’s a bright smile. It feels familiar, and this time Grif recognizes it. It’s a lot like the smile Simmons wore that first day he came home with Church’s stolen spellbook, full of giddy excitement. “Yeah. Until then.”

They eat the ice cream. It’s mostly melted halfway through eating it. Grif savors it anyway.

He savors Simmons’ scandalized look even more when he sticks his fingers into his bowl to get the melted ice cream the spoon misses.

Church won’t stop talking about the special effects.

Even when their dad is blind, it turns out that he and Carolina can still exchange an amused look as Church waves his hands around and says, “The music was stupid, but that fire was awesome! And the way that they made that last scream echo was-- There’s got to be some mortal-influenced bands in the Other Realm, right? Using those kinds of tricks? They can’t just waste it on opera.”

“They had those special effects for the show I saw,” Carolina reminds him. “That was a regular play.”

“Right. They can’t just waste it on theater.”

Their dad gives a small shrug and a very dry, “I don’t pay attention to current trends for young witches, I am afraid.”

Church makes a face. “Hopefully witch music isn’t stuck in the 1800s like the fashion. I’ll ask Bitters. He definitely seems like a dude who listens to grunge.” He goes briefly dreamy-eyed. “Just imagine if you could use some of those spells at a mortal concert.”

Carolina doesn’t trust that expression. She steps in close and drops her voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to hear about a wild party where a band showed up with crazy special effects, Church.” When he tries to give her an innocent look, eyes wide, she adds, “I will snitch.”

Church shoots her a wounded look, but also looks a little sheepish.

Their dad clears his throat. “If you two are finished, I wonder if you would be interested in hearing what we are doing next.”

“Depends,” Church says, grinning. “Does it involve singing?”

“Of a kind,” their dad says, which wipes the smile off Church’s face and makes Carolina laugh.

Carolina has seen pictures of the Grand Canyon. She knows they don’t do the enormity of the canyon justice. She bets the pictures of this canyon don’t do it justice either. The rocks are colored varying shades of blues and purples, and every careful step Carolina takes down the narrow path kicks up a little periwinkle dust.

In front of her Church laughs. “Of a kind,” he mutters, but Carolina can hear the smile in his voice as a goat leaps fearlessly down the wall, bleating out a melody that doesn’t sound like any normal goat at all, notes like windchimes and bells filling the air.

Above her, moving very slowly, hand on the glowing green railing that the canyon’s ranger had summoned for him, their dad says, “Welcome to the Magnam Vorago. The mortal realm may have the Grand Canyon, but we have this, and its singing goats.”

“It’s beautiful,” Carolina says. Even the air smells interesting, an almost herbal scent. She turns to look at their dad. “Have you seen it yourself?”

He nods. “I came with my parents several times over the centuries.”

Carolina takes another deep breath. There’s another chiming bleat, this one slightly higher as a baby goat follows the first down the cliff. She watches it join its mom or dad, and is struck by an idea. “After my birthday, we should all go to the Grand Canyon. Mom always says it’s one of her favorite places.”

It’s only when Church stops and looks up at her, eyebrows up, and their dad is silent behind her that she realizes what she’s said.

Her stomach twists. They haven’t talked about her mom, not really. It’s been all a focus on the present, schoolwork and spellwork and track. The rare times they’ve talked about the future, it’s been in terms of getting her license and considering colleges.

She doesn’t take the suggestion back. They should celebrate after her birthday. Take a nice long vacation after everything the Council and their stupid rules have denied them.

Their dad clears his throat. “I…. That sounds like an excellent idea.”

Church’s eyebrows lower, but he’s still giving Carolina a slightly weird look. Finally he says, aiming for joking and falling a little flat, “Fun for the whole family, huh?”

Carolina just looks back. He’s met her mom. And her mom’s met him. It might be weird at first, but there’s no way her mom won’t accept him as part of the family. It can be their first trip together. “Yeah,” she says, a little pointedly. “The whole family.”

After another second, Church snorts. “Sure. As long as we don’t invite Huggins.”

“She is not part of the family,” their dad says quickly.

Now Church’s grin looks a little more natural. “Hey. Don’t trash talk my mom, Leonard.”

Carolina turns to see their dad’s expression twitch. Clearly he knows Church is messing with him, but just as clearly he’s worried that Church is willing to invite Huggins along for the ultimate prank.

“Declining to invite her on a family outing is not ‘trash talking’ her,” their dad argues.

“Uh huh. We’ll see how she feels when I tell her you uninvited her from the trip,” Church says. His grin gets a little wider as their dad sighs and says, “She was never invited in the first place.”

Carolina takes another deep breath and smiles as Church keeps teasing their dad.

Simmons chokes on his beer when someone knocks on the door.

He exchanges a look with Grif, who hasn’t choked on his drink by virtue of having just finished it. He can spot the panic in Grif’s face, see it in the way Grif’s hands flex on his knees like he’s still trying to summon claws that aren’t there.

They weren’t expecting visitors. That’s one of the reasons Simmons chose today. Simmons specifically chose today because they’d be alone and Simmons could--

The knock comes again, and Simmons simultaneously relaxes and tenses even more as Locus calls through the door, “I brought over my latest test batch.”

“Crap,” Grif mutters. “I forgot.”

“You invited him over?” Simmons hisses accusingly.

“I didn’t know you were gonna de-catify me, dude!” Grif hisses back. He grimaces. He tries to make himself smaller, but can’t manage it more than his broad shoulders hunching in a little. “Crap, we can’t let him see me like this, he needs plausible deniability or whatever. Been in enough trouble with the Council.”

“Right,” Simmons says. He takes a deep breath. “You, uh, go hide.”

It probably says something that Grif doesn’t even grab one of Kai’s snacks before he disappears into Simmons’ bedroom. Just closes the door with a hasty thud that rattles the door-frame, like Grif’s forgotten his own strength when he’s human.

Simmons licks his lips. Now he just has to figure out how to get Locus to leave.

“Grif isn’t here,” he lies as soon as he opens the door. It’s only when Locus blinks at him that he realizes that he should’ve said hi. “Er. I mean. Hi. Sorry. Grif is at-- at uh--” Where else would Grif be? Simmons goes panicky and impatient at the same time. Every second he stands here thinking up a decent lie is a second ticking down to Grif being a cat again. “He’s at Salem’s. So. Uh. He’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Locus’ expression is making a slow shift from surprise to suspicion. “At Salem’s.”

“Uh huh!”

Locus just stares at him.

Simmons squirms for a second, and then, when Locus just keeps staring, breaks. He snatches the tinfoil-wrapped container out of Locus’ hands, hears himself say in a high, slightly strangled voice, “Thanks for the dessert!” and then closes the door in Locus’ face.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Locus says, his voice deadpan but somehow also tired, “If anyone else asks, I would suggest using a different excuse. Saberhagen is with the Spellmans at an Other Realm spa. Grif told me last week.” Then he walks away from the door.

Simmons sighs. He looks down at the tinfoil and then carefully unwraps it. The smell of chocolate hits his nose. He takes a deep breath, calming himself down. Locus might’ve thought something was up, but he left. Simmons has Grif all to himself.

He almost drops the cookies when Grif leans over his shoulder.

“Oh man, are those the Oreo stuffed chocolate chip cookies he promised?”

Simmons’ heartbeat pounds in his ears. He’s still not used to how tall Grif is or how much space he takes up in the room.

“Uh. Yeah. I guess,” he says. “They definitely look like chocolate chip cookies…. Wait, oreos?”

“Yeah,” Grif says, grinning. “Man, this is the best day.” As Simmons goes warm over the happiness in Grif’s voice, Grif snags the container from Simmons’ unresisting fingers and immediately stuffs one into his mouth.

“...Witches can’t get heart disease, right?”

Grif just keeps grinning.

“Okay, now this is what I’m talking about,” Church says, studying the menu.

The Modern Dragon’s name is a lie-- this architecture looks at least five hundred years old. But the place has clearly adapted to the times, so maybe that’s where the modern part of the name comes in. Well, if you consider 1920s furniture and costumes modern, which Church suspects most witches do.

A waitress passes by, the floating candles lighting all the diamonds sewn into her dress like they’re a bunch of miniature flames. He makes another mental note to ask Bitters about witch music. Surely some half-mortal witch has brought grunge to the Other Realm.

Leonard looks amused. “Did you believe I would forget to feed you both?”

“Yeah, Leonard, that’s exactly what I thought,” Church says, grinning. Then he spies the smaller menu. “Hey, if I skipped the main course, can I just get dessert--”

“No.”

“Had to try,” Church says.

Carolina rolls her eyes, smiling. She looks back down at her menu. Her eyebrows rise. “Ambrosia. Like what the Greek gods drink?”

“No, that particular recipe is a closely guarded secret,” Leonard says. “But this is an excellent interpretation. Sweet, without being cloying. And the restaurant has a non-alcoholic variation as well.”

“What?” Carolina looks closer at her menu. “Oh. Looking at the wrong spot. Maybe I’ll just have the rowanberry juice….”

Church wonders how many appetizers he can convince Leonard to order. The canyon was cool, but also that was a lot of hiking. So much hiking. His legs feel like limp noodles. Carolina, of course, looks perfectly fine. She’s probably not even tired.

“Hey,” she says mildly when he throws his napkin at her.

“You’re gonna have to give me a piggyback to the hotel,” he informs her.

She looks amused. “Unless Dad lets you have a couple of desserts, right?”

“I mean, that wouldn’t hurt--”

“Let’s try an appetizer and entrée first,” Leonard says, a faint smile on his face. “Then we shall see if you have enough room for dessert.”

Church is almost offended. “I’ll always have room for dessert.”

“He will,” Carolina assures Leonard. Then she frowns. A look of concern darts across her face. “Do you need me to read out the menu?”

“No need,” Leonard says. The maître d' had left a menu in front of him, either not understanding or not noticing his blind eyes. He’s left it there. “I have been here before. So long as they haven’t changed the menu substantially, I should be able to order my usual.”

“Boring,” Church says, and then gets distracted. “Hey, does this chicken have chocolate sauce?”

Carolina laughs. “Guess we know what you’re getting.”

“Oh, are we ready to order?” their waiter asks, stopping by their table. He whips out a notepad and pen. He smiles at them with every apparent ounce of sincerity. “Everyone’s looking nice tonight.”

Church resists the urge to sigh. Leonard had insisted they all change into something formal for dinner. He looks like a doofus. At least he’d gotten away with not wearing a tie, if just because Leonard can’t see he isn’t wearing one.

Then he gets an idea.

“It’s his birthday,” he says, pointing at Leonard.

The waiter tilts his head, never losing that smile. “Interesting. I remember Doctor Church. I waited on him in, oh, what was it, 1948? And I believe his birthday is in August.”

Leonard looks faintly amused.

“There’s no way you remember that,” Church protests.

The waiter’s smile doesn’t falter. “I’ve worked here since 1857. You learn to remember names and faces.”

“Yeah, but--” Church groans. So much for a free dessert or embarrassing Leonard with the servers singing Happy Birthday at him. “It’s my birthday?” he tries.

“Happy birthday,” the waiter says politely. No offer of dessert follows. Instead he turns to Leonard. “Your usual, sir?”

Leonard nods. “Yes, thank you.”

Well, it was worth a shot.

They’ve just finished the cookies and the last of Kai’s snacks, Grif’s fingers colored red from the paprika and other spices, when Gif starts to feel weird. There’s a prickling sensation on his face, the ghost of whiskers, even if none have sprouted yet.

His stomach drops. He wants more time. He doesn’t want to be a cat for another seven years. He wants--

“Simmons.”

Simmons turns, starting to frown at Grif’s tone, and then yelps as Grif hugs him. For a second, he’s frozen in Grif’s arms. Then he leans in and hugs Grif back. He clings awkwardly, like he’s never hugged anyone in his life, and his chin digs into Grif’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Grif manages to get out before the vertigo sweeps over him again.

He shrinks in Simmons’ grip, but Simmons keeps hold of him, until he’s a cat again curled up against Simmons’ chest.

For a long moment he’s too frustrated to speak, knows he’d just hiss instead. And yeah, he’s frustrated, but he’s also grateful. Simmons gave him over an hour of being a witch again. Just because he could.

He mumbles, “Guess we can’t do that again.”

“Probably not,” Simmons agrees softly. “Kind of pushing our luck, you know--”

Someone knocks on the door, sharp, hard knocks.

Simmons yelps as Grif instinctively digs in his claws.

“Sorry,” Grif whispers. “But who--”

“Cat inspection!” the Council stooge calls loudly.

Grif and Simmons stare at each other. Simmons’ face goes through several emotions, fear at discovery, then relief that he remembers Grif is a familiar again, then worry that somehow the stooge will figure everything out.

“Just play it cool,” Grif says. It’s probably a long shot, remembering how ‘cool’ looked on Simmons the other times, but at least the stooge is pretty stupid. They’re fine. They’re probably fine.

“Gri--” Simmons snaps his mouth shut as the door opens and the stooge walks in.

“My good fellow, you should really lock your door,” the stooge says. He still hasn’t figured out it’s 1999. He’s gone from the zoot suit back to the Victorian era. He’s even wearing a top hat, which he whips off as he smiles. It’s a weird smile. It takes Grif to figure out why. There’s a worried edge to it.

The worried edge twists, and the Council stooge looks confused as his gaze travels slowly from Simmons to Grif, who’s still curled in Simmons’ lap.

“Oh, uh, thought I had, daddio,” Simmons says. His smile is just as awkward. “I’ll, uh, leave you to it.” Despite his words, he doesn’t immediately move Grif off his lap. He looks down at Grif. Even if his fake smile doesn’t falter, Grif can see the worry in his eyes.

“Meow,” Grif says reassuringly. If the stooge had figured something out, he would’ve walked in and immediately started throwing around magic. Grif’s pretty sure he wouldn’t pretend to be a cat inspector anyway. Mostly sure. Fairly sure.

When the door closes behind Simmons, the stooge stares at Grif.

Grif braces himself. The stooge clearly knows something up, but Grif can play dumb. The stooge already thinks he’s stupid for helping Locus and for wanting to live with a mortal and pretend to be a cat. He can pretend to be even dumber.

But the question that comes isn’t one Grif expects.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“Huh?” Grif says, blinking.

The stooge points a finger. Grif hisses in surprise as magic swirls around him. It almost looks like the spell that Grey used on Church when he was falling apart. “Are you feeling anything unusual? Outside what you would consider to be normal as a familiar?”

When Grif stares at him, confused, the stooge’s lips go thin. “Our records indicate something unusual occurred today. It doesn’t seem to be a death, but--” He visibly hesitates. “Well, we weren’t certain what had happened, so I was sent to investigate.”

“Uh,” Grif says. He’s torn between panic and relief. They clearly don’t know what happened, but he doesn’t know if this spell will figure it out. His cat instincts clamor at him to swipe at the swirling magic. “Sounds like your records are messed up. I’m fine. Just been hanging out with S-- the mortal.”

The stooge’s lip briefly curls. “So I saw.”

Grif licks the tip of his nose. Now his fur wants to bristle at the contempt in the stooge’s voice. “Gotta pretend to be sweet, sometimes. Otherwise I might end up at the pound.” When the stooge keeps sneering, Grif adds, more truthfully, “It’s still better than living with Hammer.”

That registers. The stooge stops sneering. “Well.” He points again, and the spell dissolves. “You appear fine. Perhaps it was simply some mortal contraption causing interference.”

“Sure,” Grif agrees. He fakes a stretch. “I feel fine. Would feel better with opposable thumbs, but--”

“Unfortunately you have seven more years to your sentence,” the stooge says. He doesn’t sound too broken up about it. He glances around the apartment. There’s another curl to his lips, but he doesn’t say anything out loud.

“Thanks for the reminder,” Grif says sarcastically.

The stooge hesitates again. “If you experience anything unusual, report it immediately. I believe you still have the emergency button we left with you during the Felix and Locus incident?”

Grif snorts. He’s about to call out summarizing all that crap as the Felix and Locus incident as the understatement of the year when the stooge fixes him with a look and adds, “And while I understand your aim is avoiding the pound, you need to take care with these false acts of affection. Don’t get attached. We wouldn’t want a slip up.”

Grif doesn’t think about Simmons’ hand on his shoulder, their desperate hug only minutes before. He licks the tip of his nose and says, “I won’t get attached.”

“See that you don’t,” the stooge says.

It’s probably longer than that, but it feels like five seconds after the stooge leaves that Simmons bursts back into the apartment, flushed and anxious, like he wouldn’t have already been mind-wiped and not able to worry about Grif at all if things had gone wrong.

His shoulders sag with relief when Grif blinks slowly at him and says, “It’s cool. Your potion did something weird, but nothing they could figure out.”

“Oh, good,” Simmons says. He flops down onto the couch, almost knocking over some of the empty beer cans as he actually props his feet up and sighs.

Grif has a paw on Simmons’ leg before he hesitates. The hesitation doesn’t last long. He’s a familiar again. It’s not weird for a cat to curl up in someone’s lap. It’d be weirder not to, like something’s changed just because Simmons defied the Council and figured out a loophole to get Grif his body back, even temporarily.

He defiantly sprawls across Simmons’ lap, half-closing his eyes as Simmons settles a hand on his back.

Then he jolts upright as Simmons yelps, “Crap, I was gonna take a picture!”

Grif stares up, his fur still bristling in surprise. “A picture?”

Simmons goes pink. “I-- Uh.”

“First rule of breaking the law is don’t leave evidence.”

“I know,” Simmons says, but he still looks embarrassed and disappointed.

Grif carefully steps back into Simmons’ lap. He feels Simmons slowly relax, waits a couple minutes before he says, as casually as possible, “But if you want to be stupid, you can get Kai to teach you how to make a memory photograph.”

Simmons tenses under him, but this time Grif’s ready as Simmons squeaks, “Wait, a memo-- what?”

“Yeah, it’s one of her favorite spells.” Grif twitches his whiskers. He tilts his head up, watching Simmons start to smile. He can feel a purr building in his chest. Trust Simmons to be a sap. He keeps watching Simmons’ face. “And maybe if you make a photo for her she won’t turn you into a frog for doing this while she was gone.”

The smile freezes.

“Ha, ha,” says Simmons weakly. “Yeah….”

Grif miscalculates how mad Kai’s going to be.

But hey, an hour as a frog isn’t too bad, right?