Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tonight is the second-most important day of the year: the practice run for the first-most important day of the year, Easter. Bunnymund bounds ahead, keeping a steady pace as he closes in on the Hudson, fast.

The tunnels are faster, but there’s something so impersonal about using them all the time. Of course, he’ll use them when he’s running the real deal. He’s practical to a fault, as his colleagues love to remind him. It’s the part of him that still obliges his Pooka heritage. As far away as he’s gotten from their strict philosophies, he can’t seem to shake the intense practicality. So much so that he’s already rerouting the entire evening in the back of his mind, trying to think out how he can deliver to the middle latitudes as late as possible, so the eggs stay fresher.

Count the eggs going into your basket and have a plan in place to get them out.

That’s what his late mentor used to say, long, long ago. He was already odd for a Pooka, but that mostly manifested in an intense hyperfixation on eggs. Every other aspect was the same rigidity most other Pookas had understood on an instinctual level. Except for Bunnymund.

The river gets closer and closer, and he goes through dozens of minute subconscious calculations. Slowing a few paces before speeding back up. Modulating his strides. Aligning himself with the light wind. This section of the riverbank is a concrete ledge, and he fixes his gaze on a specific point to aim at. His nose twitches. He presses his ears back as much as he can.

He catches the ledge with the tips of his hindpaws. His body sinks to a crouch, his arms raise, and then he throws them down as he launches into the sky. He pulls his limbs in, making himself as straight as an arrow as the river shrinks beneath him. At the peak of his jump, right over the middle, he twists for a second to give a thumbs up to the moon. It's not full, but it is waxing. Manny can see him if he's watching.

He starts the descent, and the weightless feeling that presses against his center reminds him why he occasionally tries to fly. He’s not built for it in the slightest, absolutely prefers the more reliable routes, but there truly is something exhilarating about besting gravity.

Too late, Bunny remembers that gravity can—and will—punch back. As the opposite bank gets closer, there’s a much tighter margin of error than he thought. His descent is possibly too fast, possibly too far out. The floating in his gut turns from ecstatic high to impending doom. He resists the urge to squirm frantically in midair and mess up the trajectory even more.

All right, all right, he tells himself. I’ve got this.

He throws his arms out, feeling the air drag. Being immortal, he won’t die from impact on concrete or water, but he’d rather actually make the jump. Save his own dignity. His heartbeat pulses in his ears when a sudden gust of air ruffles his fur and pushes him definitively over land. Cold air. Unseasonably cold air.

Bunny lands, rolls, and pops back to his feet, looking around.

“Where are ya!” he calls.

A nip of cold at the tip of his ear answers him. He spins around, the collar of Jack’s hoodie slipping through his paws as Jack flies backwards, laughing.

“What’re you doin here?” Bunny asks. Jack was supposed to have moved to the southern hemisphere for the season. Jack lays his staff over his shoulders and yokes his arms over it, scoffing.

“How about, ‘Thanks for not letting me eat it back there, Jack?’ I could’ve just let you fall in the river—I thought about it, too!” He snorts as one of Bunny’s ears twitches. “Easy, Kanga, I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d help out.”

“Dare I ask why you ‘just happened’ to be nearby?”

At that, Jack’s smirk fossilizes into something less convincing. He waves a hand. “Nothing important, just going around and causing trouble like I usually do!”

“Uh-huh. What constitutes as ‘in the neighborhood’ for ya?”

“Oh, you know…” He twists his hands around his staff like he’s trying to strangle it. “Pennsylvania?”

Not the answer Bunny’s expecting. But if his hunch is right, not one he hates.

“Gotta bone to pick with that state, huh?” he ventures. “Why? Didja want a few more weeks of winter this year?”

Jack stops fidgeting, catching on. “Yes! Exactly! That would have been perfect.”

“Hm… Bunny makes a show of scratching his ear. “Seems to me they deserve one more cold snap, then.”

For once, Jack is speechless. For a second, anyway.

“Never thought I’d hear that from you. Incidentally… I may have already indulged myself.”

Bunny nods and moves past him, saying, “Well, it should have enough time to melt before Easter. Shame if it inconveniences anyone, though.”

Jack just shrugs in reply, another cold wind stirring up around him. He rises about five meters before turning back.

“I meant to ask: you sure you only need me for the Chile and Argentina legs of the delivery route? I probs can’t help at the equator, but I could—”

“No, I’m good,” Bunny says. He edges away, anxious to get back to the practice run. He’s losing time. “Thanks, though.”

A hand around his elbow stops him from bounding off.

“We will help you as much as you need, y’know. Remember like ten years ago when the shadows—”

“Different circumstances.” Bunny pulls away. His ears flatten. “‘Sides, that wasn’t exactly a regular Easter.”

Ten years ago, the boogeyman suddenly stopped being the boogeyman, but the shadows kept stirring up trouble. The Guardians—plus the ex-boogeyman and his romantic partner, another immortal with a high tolerance for evil—took up a more intense relay to make sure Easter happened at all. It ended with Toothiana being blinded, a child almost entirely being turned into a fearling, and everyone exhausted.

But as Phyrric victories go, technically it had worked. A rush of Belief flooded through him. They were able to hold the line against the encroaching darkness. Regrouped, tried other things, succeeded. The child was eventually saved, and while Tooth was still blind, she’s been able to work with it and live to the fullest.

Still, something rankles him about asking so much of the Guardians. It’s his holiday. Even North’s Christmas help only extends to lead-up prep and a few simultaneous legs on the larger continents. And since the global population tapered from eight billion to six billion over the last century, it’s not even that frantic anymore.

No. He’s got it.

Jack lets out an exasperated sigh but doesn’t press the issue. He wishes Bunny well and flies away. As he vanishes behind a cloud, Bunny grows twitchy in the stillness. He’s still losing time. So much that he’ll need to make another run in a few days to make sure he’s down to the exact millisecond he needs.

Without further thought, he puts paw to concrete and bounds into New York City.

Every year, there are more and more houses with yards. It’s strange to see in the city known for its awe-inspiring concrete and steel buildings, but it is what it is. Not like Brooklyn was ever wall-to-wall like Manhattan, but it’s infinitely quieter nowadays. Which is to say, still too much of a ruckus for Bunny to tolerate long-term.

He slips down into an open-air subway station for a breather. He takes a moment to listen to the rumble of the trains and admire the handful of stars determined enough to shine all the way through the lights of the city. Sometimes, he wonders if he should try to go back out there someday. Nothing’s waiting for him—not much is waiting for him, he corrects himself—but maybe it would be fine to just look. Just for a decade or two.

Nah. He has duties here, and there’s no reason to dwell on the past. Only the future to come—

A wave of energy washes through him like static. Each strand of fur stands up straight. His whiskers vibrate. As the feeling peaks, it all collapses with a violent shiver down his body, from ear tip to hindpaw. And then it lingers longer than it should.

Magic, Bunny immediately identifies. It’s a familiar kind at that, but he can’t quite cut through the sensation of déjà vu and nail down what exactly it is.

“Aster!”

He spins around at his rarely-used given name, and someone runs into his arms. Everything else he’s thinking about vanishes from his mind as he takes stock of what exactly the hell is happening. A human looks up at him. They’ve been crying, but there’s a spark in their eyes. It’s such a focused, sober gaze, that he’s almost too stunned to realize they’re an adult, not a child.

“Who—How—”

“The past creates the future. Constantly building. Can’t have one without the other.”

They close in on him even more. He steps back, mind going so fast that it can’t catch on any of the ten thousand questions he wants or needs to ask.

“It wasn’t your fault. None of it. I promise.”

They’re not one of Ombric’s people. Another step back. Not part of Cheirok’s family. Step. Don’t recognize ‘em from anywhere, so not even some sort of celebrity. Step, step.

The human lets go of him and digs into a bag at their side. They carefully draw out a cloth-wrapped bundle. The break in their rambling allows him to un-tense for a moment and start to organize his thoughts. But everything is happening so much and so fast that when they hand the bundle to him, he automatically takes it.

Bunny pushes a few folds aside. A bit of green stone peeks out, swirls of yellow and blue roiling just beneath its polished surface. His gut clenches. They’ve just handed him a powerful artifact they shouldn’t’ve had access to. Something his mentor created to help better maintain the timelines. Bunny finally notices a distant tingle at the back of his mind: the egg statues back in the Warren, calling an alert.

“How did you get this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

The light of an oncoming train sharpens the planes of their face, plunging the other half into shadow. They grin widely, looking like they’ve been caught in their secret.

“Oh…” they say.

“Who are you!” he roars, throwing all his calm off a cliff. He drops into a stance, tucking the artifact into one arm and reaching for his boomerang. As he does, however, he’s made suddenly aware that he’s at the edge of the subway platform, and the foot he’s moving slips off.

The human quickly grabs him, steadying him before he completely falls. More questions, more confusion. They look at him, the train’s headlight close enough to illuminate their entire face again.

“Sorry about this,” they say. “But I think we’re almost done.”

They shove him away from the platform. In the split-second he has, Bunny curls around the artifact to protect it.

The train slams into him at thirty kilometers per hour.

Chapter Text

Something will happen! your brain yells.

The unwelcome internal notification comes complete with light nausea and a sensation like a fist clenching around your heart. You’re pretty sure that, despite what your spiraling thoughts are trying to conclude, you aren’t actually dying. Not this time. It’s just the usual specter of chronic anxiety haunting you. How long ago was your last dose of medication? Not that it even works one hundred percent of the time. Most times it does, and you’d be worse off without it, but there’s nothing like taking a pill and winning the lottery of inefficacy.

Or maybe this is what running around New York City until one in the morning on only three hours of sleep does to a person.

Both, you decide.

You rub your eyes and lean your head against the window of the subway car, not daring to close your eyes even though you want nothing more than to sleep. An announcement garbles down from the speakers, letting you know you’re at your stop. Subway doors open. Watch the gap. Step to platform. Just a few blocks up to your Brooklyn apartment. Ideal place to collapse of exhaustion and not get up for ten hours.

You’re about to follow the two other disembarking zombies up to street level when movement catches your tired eye. The back of your mind reminds you that you’re at a subway station as you turn to look out of instinct; it’s definitely just a train—

Something slams into the station ceiling hard enough to shatter a light. You wake fully at the impact, already swerving out of the way as a shower of sparks falls down. The two other riders turn at the commotion, and then do what you should: run like hell. A second light bursts from overload, and you reverse to dodge those sparks, too.

It’s over as soon as it starts. Not even a lingering cloud of concrete dust. If only someone could tell that to the adrenaline still shooting through your body, commanding it to be more on edge than usual.

There’s a groan from down the side of the platform.

“Hello?” you call. Another groan. You look over the side. With the lights out, the area below is completely dark. Squinting, you barely catch the movement of a human-shaped blob of shadows. “Oh, shit! Are you okay down there?”

A thick Australian accent mutters, “Twice in one night? Sure… Not gonna question…” You lean over the edge, trying to see through the darkness. The voice calls out, “Hey! If you’re still there, help me up before another one pulls in!”

A dark arm reaches up. You blink a few times, trying to adjust your eyes to see better, and then reach out. The both of you swipe past each other a few times before clasping hands. They’re fuzzy. You suppress a shudder, having not expected anything except the feeling of warm skin. He must be wearing fur gloves in March for some fucking reason, and you focus on hauling him out of danger.

“Give me your other hand!”

“Can’t. I’m carryin’ somethin’.”

“Then hand it to me and I’ll put it up here first.”

He hesitates.

“I can’t help you up without better leverage!” you cry. “The trains run every ten minutes, and it’s been about five already!”

He sighs, lets go, and then a cloth bundle bumps your finger. You let him place it into both of your outstretched hands.

“It’s fragile,” he tries to say sternly. It comes out a little dazed. “And it’s already cracked. Be gentle.”

You quickly yet gingerly place it back from the edge of the platform. It wobbles a little bit, and you take an extra second to make sure it doesn’t roll away. Then you’re back over the edge, both hands out and ready. The fur gloves are a little slippery against your skin, but your tight grips are more than enough to power through it. You get your legs underneath yourself.

“On three,” you say. He grunts affirmatively. “One, two, three!”

For a second, it’s all straining arms, and your lacking balance almost sends you over instead. The pull shifts a half second later, so quickly that you trip backwards, as you drag him up into the light.

Oh… yeah, you need to get some sleep ASAP. Frankly, you’re half convinced you passed out on the subway.

Before you is a two meter tall rabbit, maybe two and a half with the long ears hanging down the sides of his head. Your mind rationalizes the absurd sight as a fursuit. Several of your friends are part of the furry fandom, and they’ve dragged you to a few conventions. You’ve seen a lot of different suit styles, from the toony to the hyperrealistic to the ones that are basically fur wrapped over a human frame. The rabbit is closest to the latter style, but there’s something uncanny about its realism. The whiskers twitch on their own. The ears flutter and twitch independently of each other, with no sound of a servo accompanying them. His paws move clumsily, but with too much dexterity as they rub and stretch over his face. Most damning of all, however, are the lines of blood trickling from his nose and forehead. Not decoration—actually flowing blood as evidenced by the new stains on the paw he pulls away from his head.

“I’m guessin’ that’s a stunned silence,” he says. “Not a costume. Not a hallucination. To top off the crazy, I’m actually the—”

He finally looks at you properly. Then he turns to look at the uptown platform across the way. He turns back, eyes hard, and then dashes over to the bundle on the ground, putting himself between you and the exit. He tucks the bundle into his elbow and draws a boomerang from a holster. All in the space of two seconds.

“The hell was that for?!” he yells, lowering into a ready stance. “You workin’ for someone or what?”

“Woah, woah, woah!” You raise your hands in surrender. If you’re getting mugged, you’re going to walk away from it no matter what. “Please don’t hurt me. I have no idea what’s going on!”

“Why’d you throw me in front of the train?”

The confusion comes over you so fast, you forget to be cautious. “The hell I did!”

The rabbit cocks his head and looks you up and down. He glances at the other platform again. You see now that the paw holding the boomerang is shaking, and he’s squinted one eye shut to keep the blood out of it. He’s clearly a skilled fighter, ready to throw down to defend himself and that bundle, but he’s clearly in no shape to really mess you up. Hurt you, sure, but his wild glances toward street level make you think he’s looking for an exit rather than a fight. You hope, anyway.

You try a different tact: “Look, this is clearly weird for both of us. I need to get home and sleep, you need to…”

“To get answers to this nonsense!”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not gonna find those answers with me.” You swallow and try to keep your voice even. “Will you please let me go?”

His stance softens a little, even if he refuses to disarm himself. He takes a deep breath.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Y-you first,” you stammer out. You may be a country mouse who moved to the city, but you’re not stupid.

The rabbit straightens, pulling himself up tall and proud. He looks down his short muzzle at you.

“I am E. Aster Bunnymund, the Guardian of Hope, the Easter Bunny,” he growls. “And I will not stand for this sort of—where d’you think you’re going?”

You walk past him, shaking your head. Using your recently perfected city walking gait, you run up the steps and turn out the doors of the station. That’s more than enough New York for one night. Easter Bunny, indeed.

“Hey!”

You speed up, willing the energy granted from the adrenaline spike to keep you upright until you get home.

“Hey!”

A hand hooks around your elbow. You thrust your arm back quickly. It collides with him, hard enough to make him cry out and wheeze, and you sprint.

One and a half blocks up is a bar you frequent regularly. It’s owned by a few transplants who also moved from your home state, and they themed the entire place around it. You usually go for the nostalgia, the familiarity, the ability to let your childhood accent back out to play a little. Tonight, you slide through the entrance, breathless, looking for sanctuary.

“Well, hey there!” Gillian, the owner’s son and one of your best friends, calls out. He starts to wave, and then his customer service smile turns into a concerned glare. He’s at your side immediately. “What’s wrong”

“This guy…” you wheeze. “There’s a guy following me.”

The words are barely out of your mouth and Gillian is calling for two more people. They surround you and lead the way out to the sidewalk where the rabbit is waiting, boomerang put away and a fist on his hip. Gillian stops just in front of him, dwarfed by the rabbit’s height, and he looks up and down the street.

“You see him?”

“He’s right there!” You point at the overlarge animal.

Gillian, follows your finger, only to squint and peer down into the neighborhood across the way.

Gillian turns back to you. “He must’ve run away?”

“It’s the giant fucking rabbit right in front of you!”

He’s right there. Even if you’re brain is making up the rabbit part, he’s still right there! The rabbit tsks and leans to the side to catch your eye.

“They can’t hear me, either,” he says.

Gillian softly calls your name and leans into your field of vision. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You go to another bar before us?”

You’re going insane. Your brain has finally moved on to gaslighting you. You shake your head and bury your face in your hands, saying, “No, no, no,” over and over again. Gentle hands start leading you back into the bar. You quickly peek out from behind them, but the rabbit is gone. Completely vanished. Just a dark street with intermittent lights on it.

Gillian sits you down at a table, and he hands you a tall pint of water.

“You okay?” he asks again. “You drink earlier, or take anything? No judgement, just want to know if you need an ambulance.”

You swig a bit of the water down and shake your head.

“Cool. Let me walk you home.”

He makes you finish the water before trudging beside you the entire hundred and fifty meters to your building. You fumble your keys out of your bag and open the door.

“Night,” Gillian says before you head in. “Get some sleep, okay? I'll see you at lunch tomorrow.”

“I will,” you mutter, deciding to figure out how to thank him later. “See ya.”

The front door clicks shut behind you, and as if on cue, the energy from all the weirdness tonight drains away. You stumble into the elevator, somehow hit the right floor button, and prep your apartment key. It takes three, shaky tries to unlock, but then you’re in. Home. Safe.

It’s one-thirty in the morning. Not bothering with changing or even taking off your shoes, you collapse on your bed before something else happens.

Chapter Text

“Ocean Avenue Historical Apartments.” Bunny situates himself on the roof opposite the building the human enters. “All right then.”

He looks at the artifact one more time. Much as he’d rather get to the bottom of this tonight, they’re obviously not gonna cooperate, and he doesn’t want another scene. Most humans can’t see him, but the last thing he needs is his suspect being hauled off to a hospital, or worse. On the one hand, he understands. Most people outside of the Guardians’ circles, even with the recent revivals of superstitions and old beliefs, think they’re going crazy when they see a giant talking animal. On the other hand, this human started it.

He taps his foot to summon a tunnel. One of the large stone eggs hops out of it.

“Keep an eye on who comes and goes.”

He describes the human to the egg, emphasizing the need to scout and nothing more. There’s only so much trouble it can get into, but if the human can see spirits, then they’ll pick up on being followed right away. An uneasy feeling squirms through Bunny, but before he decides anything, he needs to clean himself up. He hops down the tunnel back to the Warren.

The other stone eggs and a bunch of regular eggs swarm him as soon as he enters the hub area. They all start chattering in alarm, but he lets it roll off his back. He knows already, he knows what went wrong! He grits his teeth. It’s not their fault he’s bruised and tired. He shouldn’t snap at them. A few turns later, and he’s at the storage room next to his house. As horrifying as the empty display case is, it heartens him that he can refill it instantly.

“There we go,” he says to the winding line of eggs behind him. “All better.”

The artifact is egg-shaped, of course. It’s roughly the size of an emu’s egg, with a similar overall hue. He places it back where it belongs, staring at for a moment.

His late mentor, Calymma, created it a long time ago. He had been hiding out on Earth for a while at that point, writing things down and exploring the planet. He had been, as the Earthlings called them, a Renaissance man. The Pookas just called them Observers. Now, if you had asked the Pookas, Observers were no great officials, nor the most excellent thinkers. They had jobs to do, and they did them in the hopes of being assigned elsewhere, or with the resignation that this was the most they could accomplish. Luckily for them, the hierarchy of the Pookas had a few more rungs below that. Bunnymund came from one of those rungs. Despite the assignment to an Observer technically being a step up, the masters let him know it was, in fact, not.

As Bunny had learned here on Earth, there were ten thousand ways to be cruel and benevolent simultaneously.

He wipes a speck of dust from the egg’s pristine, smooth surface and turns to leave.

“Artifact back already?” the eggs ask, regarding him curiously. They shuffle around, twisting their carved faces to each other with grinding murmurs.

“Yeah,” Bunny replies. He heads to his kitchen to finally wash.

“Great battle?”

“Uh…” He winces as he wipes the blood from his head. The gash closed long ago, but the bruise’ll be there another hour or so. “Actually, they just kinda… handed it to me…”

“They?”

“Singular they.” Now that he says it out loud, it seems ridiculous. Outclassed by one human. “But they did manage to toss me in front of a train, so I’ve got a few eyes on ‘em. They’re lucky I didn’t push it further. Hey!” he says, shifting the subject. “Didja see the intruder when they came through? Is the Source of Spring okay?”

They affirm that the Source is untouched, but unfortunately, the eggs did not witness the break-in. Bunny pats his fur dry and all but collapses on a couch in his sitting room. The eggs stand in front of him for a minute before they shuffle out, back to their posts. The sounds of egg production outside create a soothing rhythm for him to fall into. He hasn’t needed to sleep for so long that sometimes he just forgets until he hits a point of exhaustion like tonight. But he still doesn’t fall asleep, much as a nap would help. He’s so tired that his mind becomes a mass of white noise and his eyes unfocus into a blurry haze.

Something’s not adding up. He tries to run through the night, but his mind can’t catch on anything except the broad overview. And eventually, it runs right back around to Easter preparations.

Have to check on numbers soon. Make sure they all line up in order of harvest. Last check three days before to make sure they’re all pristine. No cracks on any of ‘em.

Pristine eggs. Unblemished. No cracks.

No crack.

No—

Bunny barrels back into the storage area before he consciously realizes he’s up. A few stone eggs rush in behind him. He throws open the case and snatches the artifact out, carefully rolling it over in his hands.

“Fuck,” he says, wrapping it back up and placing it in a satchel.

The crack it’s had for hundreds of years is gone.

“North!” Bunny yells, shoving his way through the agitated yetis. A few try to grab him, but he escapes down a tunnel. When he reappears a few paces later, he says again, “Where’s North?”

He heads up to the loft where the Guardians’ usual meeting place is. The sounds of the workshop are muffled under the loud pulse in his ears. He inspects the clutter of levers and buttons around the table until he finds the one he’s looking for, and he slams it to the on position. There’s a blinding flash outside as the northern lights beacon billows across the sky.

“Bunnymund!”

North storms across the workshop, dual swords in his hands. The yetis part to let him pass, yelling and pointing. Bunny just sets his satchel down gently and waits.

“Why are you invading my workshop!” North yells into his face.

“I’ll tell ya when everyone else gets here.”

That’s when North notices the flipped lever, he yanks it to the off position and starts to tell off Bunny again when a spot on his chest glows silver. Bunny wraps his arms around his bag as the former boogeyman manifests next to North, his own sword at his side. He looks around for a second before landing his gaze on Bunny.

“Oh, the rabbit’s angry again, I see,” he says

“This doesn’t concern you!” Bunny retorts.

“Thank goodness for that.”

“Enough from both of you!” North yells. He gestures at Bunny with the sword still in his hand. “You will explain why you are here, now.”

Bunny’s nose twitches, as does his eye. But he’s trapped between North’s rare anger and the boogeyman’s smirk.

“Fine. Someone stole my time artifact and replaced it with an almost identical one.” He watches as both their faces slacken. Even Pitch has the decency to look shocked. “I’m pretty sure the culprit still has it, too.”

“All these years,” Pitch says, “you had the ability to flit through time just… hidden away?”

“Yes...” Bunny doesn’t like the look on his face.

“Damn. Imagine that.”

“Wishin’ you knew bout it before the shadows dumped ya?”

The boogeyman opens his mouth, then closes it again before pursing his lips. “I—I’m just saying it would be… fortuitous for the shadows if they got their claws on it. Dangerously so.”

“Luckily,” Bunny spits before he realizes what he has to admit next. He clears his throat. “Luckily it seems to be just a human. They handed this fake right to me.”

The boogeyman’s face breaks into a smirk again. “Oh? One human? The Easter Bunny can’t handle that by himself anymore?”

“Kozmotis,” North warns.

“They aren’t just a human!” Bunny says, glad his fur obscures any blush he might be prone to. “For one, they can see me, and for two, they’re able to throw me in front of a train!”

The boogeyman snorts, clumsily turning it into a cough. He wheezes a few times. North looks up at him wearily.

“Koz. Go, please.”

With no more comment, no more objections, he glows silver and teleports away. North rubs his head and drops into one of the chairs. He and Bunny wait in silence as Jack, Sandy, Katherine, and Toothiana finally drift in.

“All right,” North says, quieter than he’s ever been. “Explain.”

Bunny recounts the events of the night to them, glossing over his detour with Jack. The sprite looks subtly grateful at the omission, and Bunny will have to find a way to get an update on the groundhog’s reaction to the surprise snow. When he finishes, Tooth and Sandy are distressed, and North strokes his beard for the thousandth time.

“This time egg—” North says.

“Time artifact,” Bunny mutters.

North glares at him and continues, “So time egg is usable by anyone? Not just Pooka?”

“Yeah. Technically it’s a proof-of-concept that my mentor created for a periodical showcase. I dunno, maybe he was hoping to move on to a different job than Observer. It didn’t impress the judges enough, so he just brought it back and let it sit in storage,” Bunny replies. “The major innovation was using stone instead of mechanics for the material. Was kinda the basis for the rest of everything in the Warren. But it was hard to tell how these things were judged.”

“And it looks identical to the real deal?” Jack asks.

“The real one has a mean crack up its side. Got it after the battle when I crashed down to Earth.”

There’s silence. Bunny had told the Guardians about that final battle long ago.

Who: Pookas versus Pitch Black. What: the battle for Earth’s safety. When: too long ago to care about specifics. Where: Earth’s orbit. Why: to prevent the shadows from destroying everything.

Winner: Pitch.

So many ships and battalions were destroyed. As far as he could tell, Bunny is the only one to have escaped the onslaught and made it to the planet. Given the Pookas’ obstinance, however, it wouldn’t surprise him to find a long-lost conclave deep in the stars.

And they can keep it for themselves.

The silence starts to stretch on too long for Bunny’s liking. He clears his throat to break up the pity the others are throwing his way. Far too late to change anything. But not too late to prevent something.

“So, yeah. Potent artifact,” he says.

Tooth holds out her hand and asks, “May I hold it for a moment?”

Bunny tenses a bit, but he reminds himself it’s just Tooth, and this is just a fake. He hands it to her, making sure she has a decent grasp before pulling his hands away. She weighs it in her hands a bit and then rolls it over. Bunny guesses she’s trying to get a handle on it the only way she can since being blinded.

“Not as heavy as I thought it’d be, given it’s stone” she says.

Bunny shrugs. “Time is lighter than rock.”

“Mmhm… This is a fake, though?”

Bunny blinks then shrugs. “I’m… tired right now. I meant to say that wood is lighter than stone.”

Tooth sets it on the table for stability and keeps running her fingers over it, listening to the chirps of her attending mini-fairies and occasionally muttering locations for them to retrieve teeth from. Jack and Sandy have bent their heads towards each other, shrugging and talking low. North shakes his head.

“This is bad, yes, but you say you know person responsible?” he asks.

“As I told ya, they pushed me in front of a train.”

“It seems odd they would give you time egg—artifact before attempting to kill you.”

“I don’t understand it, either, but who am I to try and understand someone like that?”

“Also, how did they get onto platform without you noticing?”

Bunny pauses at that. He remembers the flash of magic roiling through his body. He’s sure he knows what it is, but—

At that moment. Tooth gives a small cry of surprise, and she and the artifact vanish.

A crackle of magic emanates out from where her central mass was two seconds ago. It feels familiar, and not just because it’s the same magic from a few hours ago. It activates his sense of déjà vu so much it feels like the name is right there on the tip of tongue.

Wait… His gut goes cold. It is Déjà Vu. Oh, no.

“Tooth!”

The others scramble to their feet, surrounding her now-empty seat. Sandy summons handfuls of dreamsand and rises into the air, spinning in place to watch their backs. The mini-fairies accompanying Tooth start emitting screeching chirps and zigzagging over the spot. Jack kicks the chair away and slams his cane into the floor a few times.

“No trapdoor!”

“Of course, no trapdoor!” North yells. One of his hands clasps the hilt of a sword.

“Guys…” Bunny says. He could kick himself for this. “Guys!”

There’s another crackle, a small pop, and then Tooth reappears, gasping and clutching the egg. She hovers for half a second, and then she drops from chair height down to the floor. The fairies scramble over to her, bumping into her face and hands.

“Tooth!” Jack cries. He reaches down to help her up.

“Am I back?” she asks.

“You’re back! You’re back.”

“Where did I go?”

Bunny slides over and gently takes the artifact from her. “Lemme get this out of your hands before it happens again.”

“Where did I go? It was so loud…”

“I don’t know.” Bunny wraps it back up and places it in the bag. “But I know it was sometime in the past.”

“Bunny,” North says, leaning over to him. His normally rosy face is pale as the snow outside. “Explain.”

“I… I’m sorry, I thought this was a fake, but it… It’s the real artifact.”

“The crack—?”

“Dunno. But clearly that’s how the human snuck up on me. They traveled from a different time.”

So many things aren’t adding up still. He needs to check up on his scout, redouble the guards to the Warren, schedule in ten rounds of double checks before he heads out next Saturday night. Next Saturday! He still has Easter! Bunny drops back into his chair, head swirling from everything.

“Bunny?” Jack’s voice interrupts his spiral. “You okay? You’re crying.”

He looks to each of his friends, who watch him, worried expressions on their faces. Something drips through the fur on his face, and when it reaches his mouth, he tastes salt.

“Why always me?” Bunny whispers. “A hundred years ago, the boogeyman nearly snuffed out the last light using Easter. Ten years ago, the shadows tried it again. Why’s it always my holiday?!”

No one answers. North simply drops his large, heavy hand on Bunny’s shoulder and says, “I’ll call Ombric.”

Chapter Text

A genuine New York chorus wakes you up the next day: cats screeching, two ambulances passing by, and your upstairs neighbor starting their day job as a Vintage Nightbimbo Flashcore streamer DJ. You startle upright, head swirling from the cacophony, nearly falling off your bed. As soon as your sneakers touch the floor, however, you halt. The city quiets down to a more reasonable rumble. And your mind slows down enough to remember why you’re still in your clothes from yesterday.

Easter Bunny indeed…

With a sigh, you toe your shoes off, flinging them into the designated footwear corner of your studio. They land next to an expensive pair you haven’t had a reason to wear since your one solo gallery debut three years ago. The paintings from that lean against the wall, gathering enough dust to ruin them.

Or, maybe I can try to sell it as part of an exhibit, you think. That’s the art: paintings that saw their day and then got dusted over. It’s a metaphor for… I dunno, stagnation and failure. Nostalgia?

You peel off your clothes and take a shower. The hot water bangs its way through the pipes and down to your tight muscles. Without anything to distract you, there’s only the previous night to think about. If you’ve got everything right, a guy—taking on the guise of a rabbit for some reason—got on the tracks. You helped him, and then he proceeded to yell at you, follow you, and grab you. Gillian was a helluva pal and escorted you back to your apartment building where you promptly passed out.

The only part of this your mind can’t reconcile is the rabbit thing. Last night, you’d been positive that he was a genuine, seven-foot-tall talking hare, but… but come on! The Easter Bunny? You shake off the thought and, as you shampoo your hair, you think about how you’ll thank Gillian for his help.

He's also an artist, though you only have a thin circle of overlap in your circles. Gillian went to SCAD, but never graduated. Things just got in the way for him, so he moved back to the city to help his parents run the bar. But it was apparently just enough time in an “Art Institution” to make the jaded hipsters of the NYC scene be repulsed by him. You, with your public university art BA, are not immediately impressive to the mainstream contemporary art critics, but at least you’re able to get along with the people who like to imagine themselves downtrodden just because they haven’t hit it big (yet). And also just some genuinely great artists you love learning from. It's because of this wide circle that you’ve been able to get a grant that allows you to work only part-time, at one of the mid-sized galleries four hours a day, two to three times a week. Hence being on the subway at one am last night and being able to wake up the next day at—you glance at the clock in the next room as you towel off—ten-thirty in the morning.

The alarm on your phone goes off, reminding you of the lunch you’re going to in a few hours. If worse had come to worst, this was going to be your wake-up call. In a way, you’re glad you managed to wake up before it. You never had a good relationship with alarm clocks, spanning all the way back to childhood. Even if your mind always wanted to take you back to those good ol’ days where the throwback bell alarm got you up for school every day. At least your parents always had pancakes or biscuits waiting for you when you finally stumbled downstairs. Here, it’s all on you to organize or attend in a timely manner. Not to mention never knowing how these things will go.

You spend the next forty minutes putzing around the apartment, changing into fresh clothes and nibbling on a half-stale cookie to have something in your stomach. You listen to the national weather report. The anchors are blandly ecstatic about a sudden, unprecedented snowfall in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, and they joke woodenly about how unreliable the groundhog is these days. Finally, you contemplate what you’re going to add to the new painting you’ve been working on. Your latest series is three months of paintings, each created over the course of one week. The tentative title is Weekly Ana-Vlogs, with the idea that you start a canvas and paint over it every day for a week. Adding and subtracting colors, covering everything up or using paint thinner to take it all off, thick impasto and flat layers alike.

This week’s painting is a bent canvas board with the remembered likeness of your parents’ house on it. It’s tucked between regularly spaced trees with varying leaf colors dotting the broken, suburban sidewalk you raced your bike up and down for years. In the corner, barely visible between the bushes, is a dark shape, one that’s haunted your paintings and sketchbooks before.

That thing goes when I get back, you decide as you grab your backpack. You stop along the way to wait for Gillian since he’s coming, too. He makes his way down to the street wrestling his bra into place. You thank him for last night, offer to pay for his lunch, and then head to Newkirk Plaza to wait for the uptown train.

“Hey! Hope you don’t mind, but my cousin is visiting,” your acquaintance Chrissy says as you sit down at the table. She gestures to the person behind her. “This is Jesús! They live… somewhere near the Spain-France border, right? Where was it again?”

Jesús smiles politely. “Yes, I am from a small village near there.”

They both sit down, and you shift your chair over to make room for them. Jesús looks at you, and you look at their cousin. For some reason, you find it odd that they’re related, but cousins rarely look as similar as siblings. Maybe it’s the way that she stares at Jesús, as if confused as to why they’re here. But, Chrissy shakes her head and starts talking about the menu. You glance at yours, and then blanch.

Twenty dollars for their signature meal: a quiche. Correction, one single slice of quiche. The cheaper items aren’t much better, what with them demanding ten dollars for three royal-frosted cookies. Not even big ones, if you can judge from the scale of the photo. The cheapest item is one cookie for four dollars, and the best deal is a refillable cup of black coffee for nine-fifty.

Due to a glitch in the federal systems, about half of all US citizens’ Universal Basic Income simply wasn’t disbursed for the month. Thanks to the government putting a moratorium on rent, utilities, and all loan payments, it’s not like you’re a single dollar away from destitution. But you are feeling the pinch. Normally you’re at museums and off-off-off Broadway plays and volunteer opportunities and various mixers for thirtysomethings, but you’ve had to reduce it down a bit. Thankfully, half your friends did, too so you aren’t alone at least. This is also a known expensive restaurant you failed to look into before coming, so the sticker shock isn’t surprising, even if it’s unwelcome.

Jesús leans over to you and murmurs, “The quiche is very good. I recommend trying it at least once. Either that or the shepherd’s pie.”

“It’s twenty dollars good?” you ask, skeptical.

The corners of their mouth twitch upward. “I imagine so.”

“So, you’ve never had it.”

“This is my first time in the city, yes.”

You look them over, trying to suss out the joke. They remain serene, yet focused. Maybe it’s just a language barrier?

“Do you happen to speak any other languages?” you ask, trying to see what in your roster might work better.

“Of course,” they respond. “Russian, Esperanto, Korean, Japanese, Basque, Latin… Many others, too.”

‹‹Spanish?›› you ask, feeling a little silly for not trying right away.

“Sí.”

‹‹Okay. Let me ask again, then. This is your first time in New York City? Ever?››

‹‹Yes,›› they reply, confounding you further. ‹‹Not my first time in this country, but the first specifically in this city.››

‹‹So how do you know the quiche is good?››

‹‹Does anyone else here speak this language?›› they suddenly ask, darting their eyes around.

‹‹Yeah, everyone. The US doesn’t have official languages, but it may as well be one. They teach it from birth.››

‹‹Hmm…››

You’re getting a little uncomfortable. That seems unfair. They might just be different than you’re used to. Nothing weird or dangerous about that. You just nod and try to play it off as a quirk of your upbringing, and then bury yourself back in the menu for the time being. They catch your eye and nod to the menu in your hands. When the waiter comes, you order the quiche and a cup of coffee, not caring what Gillian’s getting to add on top of that.

When the food arrives, it and the friendly chatter drags you from your weird funk, especially when your friends ask how your art is going.

“No show acceptances,” you grumble, stabbing at the crust. Turns out it is very good, even if it’s not quite twenty dollars good.

“No show acceptances yet!” Chrissy recites. She enjoys looking on the positive side of things. Easy enough to do when you get an internship with the GreenWitch Art Collective. Still, hard to argue with positivity. She continues, “Besides, you’re still working on a new project, right?”

“Yeah, analog vlogs… Ana-vlogs. I was super busy yesterday, so I have to try and make up for it tonight when I work on it.”

“What’re you gonna paint for yesterday?” Gillian asks. Jesús, who had been focusing intently on their plate, perks up.

“Uh… Well, I sketched in Central Park for a few hours yesterday. Thought I’d glue the sketch on there and paint it, see if that was something.” You shrug. “I dunno, this week has been extremely uneventful, so it’s probably not going to be the best painting of the series.”

“First of all,” Gillian cut in, “That’s the point of the series, right? You’re creating a diary of sorts, so maybe some of it is going to be mundane as fuck. Secondly, ‘uneventful?’ Maybe up til last night, but come on!”

“Oh my gosh, what happened?” Chrissy asks.

“Some weirdo approached them at the subway and tried to grab them! Chased them down the street!”

Jesús gives a small cough. You wave your arms, trying to re-rail the conversation.

“Look, I was exhausted so maybe it was some guy or maybe it was a hallucination!”

“You were pretty spooked, though,” Gillian says. “No one gets that scared over nothing.”

You run your tongue over your teeth. What you’re about to say is so stupid, but if it’ll get them off your back…

“The guy introduced himself as the Easter Bunny,” you mumble. “And I swear, at one am, he resembled a big-ass rabbit. It was late, and I was tired. The end.”

They both try to object, even though Chrissy has to pause to keep herself from laughing before she’s able to conjure a sympathetic and worried tone. Jesús shifts beside you, and you once again feel their odd gaze boring a hole in your temple. They’ve been nearly silent this whole lunch, but every time you’ve been the center of attention, they’re completely focused. Once or twice, your mind did that thing where it wanders and hyperfocuses at the same time, and you had a random imagining of Jesús in their hometown, surrounded by others just like them, celebrating something. Each time, you shook it off. No need to have fictional daydreams about this weird person.

Hey, if you’re far from home in a foreign country where the only person you know is a semi-estranged cousin, it makes sense to be a little quiet and awkward, yeah? you remind yourself.

Chrissy stops herself from laughing and mercifully drops the matter. Talk turns to other things until finally the checks are paid and everyone departs. As you and Gillian wave goodbye, Jesús turns around one last time to stare directly at you. You freeze a smile on your face and wave as politely as you can, rushing you and Gillian out of there.

Gillian is quiet the entire train ride back. He’s usually a little more animated, so you prod and try to ask him what’s wrong. He shrugs.

“Just Chrissy being Chrissy,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs again and still doesn’t say anything until you’re dropping him off at the bar. Then, he sighs.

“You notice how she never asks me how my art is going?” he says. “It’s always talking about her newest grant from the Met or asking if you have another gallery show. Her whole cousin was here from a thousand kilometers away and she barely interacted with them!”

Now that you think about it, you realize that all Chrissy ever asks you about regarding your art is if you have an opening or are working on a vague “new project.” Never really how your sketches are going, if you’re attending a workshop, or how the project you’ve been working on and talking about nonstop for weeks is turning out. And Gillian? You blush as you realize and hug him.

“Oh, man I’m sorry I never realized!”

“The worst part,” he continues, “is that I don’t think she’s doing it on purpose. I think she’s just like that.” He pats your shoulder. “Thanks, though. It sucks, but some people have different definitions of friendship. Would be nice to be appreciated on principle, though.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ve got other friends who’re on the same wavelength as me,” he replies, winking.

You make plans to hang out on the weekend, figuring that your favorite places will be ghost towns as others attend Easter services. Great time to run around Manhattan like twenty-somethings trying to manifest a Broadway show life. Satisfied, you head back to your studio, clean a little, and attack the canvas. You tack the park sketch over the weird figure, then uncover it, then hang a towel over it so you can focus on incorporating the sketch elsewhere and not have it looking at you. Time passes in a blink as you meld into the zone.

Hours later, a scratchy, staticky sound yanks you back to reality, where the sun is almost done setting despite the midday you’ve been painting. You check your laptop and phone before realizing the sound is coming from the ancient intercom buzzer. You press the call button.

“Hello?”

‹‹Greetings,›› a strange, yet familiar voice says at the other end. ‹‹This is Jesús from lunch. May I speak with you about something?››

How did they get my address? Light panic starts swirling in you. Personal information like this hasn’t been available for decades. Learning about things like “phone books” in school had bewildered you and your classmates, because why would people have ever accepted what amounted to a free doxx list?

‹‹Hello?›› they say again. ‹‹I’m sorry for the intrusion, but this is an urgent matter.››

“Uh… hang on a second!” You snatch up your phone and dial Chrissy.

“Hey, friendo! What’s—”

“Did you give your cousin my address?” It comes out more accusatory than you initially meant. On the other hand, there’s a stranger at your doorstep.

“Sean?” Chrissy replies. “You’ve met Sean?”

Your mind glitches for a second at the answer. Maybe Gillian was more right than he thought.

“No, Jesús! Visiting from Spain. You brought them to lunch!”

There’s a small pause, and then Chrissy laughs.

“I don’t have a cousin named Jesús? I know it’s the twenty-second century, but my family is almost exclusively of British Isles descent, and the part that isn’t is Moroccan.” She pauses. “Are you okay? The bunny man didn’t come back, did he?"

Your heart leaps up to your throat and you want to rip her in half for the jab. Before you can, the buzzer crackles yet again, and you hear your name.

‹‹Are you still up there?›› Jesús asks, though it only nominally sounds like a question.

“Hey,” Chrissy says. She sounds genuinely worried now. “Do you need me to call someone?”

You start to answer, only to gasp sharply and drop your phone. Chrissy’s tinny voice shouts up at you from the floor, but you’re too frozen to pick it up. Any sudden move feels like it will shatter the moment you’re in right now, and that’s the best-case scenario. Because Jesús now stands on your fire escape, glaring at you from just past the drafty, brittle window in its thin wood frame.

Chapter Text

“Sit down, Bunny! For goodness sake, you’re making me nervous!” Katherine cries.

Bunny looks up from where he’s pacing around the table and stares at her for a second. After North contacted Ombric, he forcibly relocated the meeting to Santoff Claussen. Bunny hates to be away from the Warren for this long, but what choice does he have at this juncture?

“Well, the longer I go without answers, the more nervous I get,” he replies, bouncing on his toes.

“When we’re ready, we’ll send Andre. They’re our best liaison,” Ombric says. He doesn’t look up from the mass of tomes surrounding him and his daughter on the table. He flips a page. “They know how to ease people into the idea of magic so they don’t freak out and are able to see us.”

“Seeing us ain’t the problem,” Bunny reminds him. “They can already do that. I’m more worried about them possibly having an artifact of their own. And using it.”

“To what end?”

“Yeah, that’s why we need to question them.”

“Bunny,” Katherine says firmly. He stops fidgeting at her tone. “I think you’re looking too far ahead and would be better off thinking about clues that could help nail down why this has happened. We’re trying to prevent something, not trying to find reasons to escalate it.”

Bunny opens his mouth to object, but she looks him in the eye while pointedly opening another one of the tomes and starting to read it. He returns to pacing. Either Katherine or Ombric shifts on their chair to make it creak. The sound blasts through the oppressive silence, snapping Bunny out of his thoughts. It also triples his restlessness. He sighs and heads for the door.

“I need to take a run,” he says.

“All right,” Katherine responds, still not tearing her eyes away from the books.

The stinging cold of permafrost under his paws reinvigorates him enough for him to finally concentrate. He leaves a swath of trampled wildflowers and billows of petals in his wake. The weak but strengthening sun warms his face. The taiga may only wake briefly each year, but what a glimpse it is. Soon enough, Bunny loses himself to the rush of air and scent of plants surrounding him, letting his thoughts settle into a light buzz at the back of his mind.

He can’t not move around. Sitting still is such agony even when he’s not anticipating news and research. He knows it needs to be done—that’s why he went to the Guardians as soon as he realized something was wrong—but he has no idea how those two can sit for so long. How can their brains work without motion?

All right, he finally thinks. Time for thinking.

What had he learned about them in the brief time he spoke to them? He comes back to the same things he’s told the others: had artifact, pushed in front of train. Artifact, train. Handed him the artifact, he reluctantly remembers. Gently, and it was wrapped carefully.

“It wasn’t your fault,” they’d said. “None of it.”

Of course, it wasn’t, he says to himself, though he’s unsure what they could be talking about. It’s not that he’s never made mistakes, but he has a better track record of solving others’ mess-ups. That’s what makes him a Guardian. Admittedly, it’s a little annoying kicking the shadows back to the dark every so often, but that’s the job.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He decides it was, ultimately, an extremely generic thing to say, which to him amounts to evidence of guilt. Of some sort. Maybe a little. Over the last twelve hours or so, he’s considered the idea that this poor human is being manipulated by an outside force. The shadows, perhaps—they’ve been quiet for a decade or so, seems about time for them to attempt a comeback. If not them, then any number of groups set on disrupting the natural flow of magic for whatever joyless reason they’ve convinced themselves of. Used to be one of the big things in the early-to-mid twenty-first century. Bunny shudders as he remembers and sends out a plea to the universe for zero repeats of the 2020s.

He runs out of half-baked assumptions for his half-asked questions and just runs. His muscles are on the verge of spent when the empty landscape is marred by an odd shape coming over a hill. Bunny slows and squints, trying to see if it’s an animal or something else. He raises himself up on his hind legs. The shape suddenly pivots and starts for him. Bunny rises to his full height and stands his ground. Just in case.

The shape resolves into a large wolf. If dire wolves weren’t extinct, he would have mistaken this for one. But of course, life is less than simple when magic gets involved, and as the wolf closes the last hundred meters, it shifts into a tall humanoid covered in hair with canid-like ears and sharp fangs poking out from its muzzle-like face. The wolf man stops a little way away from Bunny.

“Do you know where Santoff Claussen is?” he asks breathlessly. “I need to speak with the wizard who lives there, or one of the Guardians, if they’re available.”

Bunny tenses. “Why?”

The wolf man huffs, but replies, not the least bit irritably, “Because a great world danger is rising. Only swift, decisive action now will prevent disaster.”

Bunny opens his mouth to ask a question or two, but a loud boom suddenly echoes over the fields. Both of them look up to the hills. A rift opens just above the ground, and a wave of Déjà Vu courses over the area. Bunny draws even with the wolf man. They watch as a human drops out of the rift, running as soon as they hit the ground. The human glances over their shoulder and two things happen. Firstly, Bunny recognizes the human from the previous night. He draws his weapons and starts bouncing on his toes again.

Round two it is.

The second thing that happens riles him up further and paralyzes his guts. A swarm of shadows pours through. The rift snaps shut, thankfully, cutting off any more. But one is too many. He’s ready to end this perverse parade and finally question its grand marshal.

Bunny turns to the wolf man and asks, “That your ‘great world danger?’”

“No,” he responds. He shifts his form enough to grow fierce claws. “But I’ll take it.”

“Good. Got a name?”

“Skreeklavic Shadowbent, leader of the Werewolfian Hordes of Transylvania.”

“Well, Skreeklavic, you’re in luck. My name’s Bunnymund,” Bunny says. The other looks at him a brow ridge raising. “Guardian of Hope.”

Skreeklavic barks out a laugh that turns into a howl. Bunny joins with his own yell and they both take off into the fray.

The human glances up at the noise. Bunny expects them to veer away, but instead they let loose their own whoop and make a beeline right for them. That’s almost enough to make him reconsider everything. Up until the moment where the swarm follows them in lockstep. Skreeklavic transforms into a wolf and races ahead, fangs bared. Bunny pauses only to summon a few eggs from the Warren.

“You go left, you go right,” he orders them. “Try an’ squeeze ‘em to the middle so we can cut ‘em down easily. You lot are with me.”

He shouldn’t be so excited. The shadows returning en masse is a terrible sign. Knowing this doesn’t stop a relieving giddiness from bubbling up inside him at having a solid target in front of him. His pulse pounds in his ears as he and the eggs start moving.

Bunny tosses his boomerang when he’s only three meters out from the closest tendrils of shadow. The sun glints off them right before impact. The shadows collapse as soon as they’re hit, writhing ineffectively on the ground, unable to stitch themselves back together. Bunny catches his weapons and moves on, glad it won’t be a long fight.

“Yeah, Bunny!” the human cheers.

They skid to a stop nearby, beaming. They’re clutching at something at their side, a dagger of some sort that keeps catching the sunlight and throwing it around. Unfortunately, Bunny doesn’t have time to ruminate on anything, as Skreeklavic lets out another howl. They look out over the field to see the shadows moving towards them, herded into a narrow swath by the eggs. Skreeklavic nips at their heels to keep them moving. The human hisses and before Bunny can order the eggs with him to do anything, the human settles into position behind him, close, but not touching.

“Make a wall!” Bunny orders.

The stone eggs line up in front of them and brace. Bunny raises one boomerang up, waiting for the perfect timing. The wave of shadows hits the eggs and crests over him and the human behind him. A few tendrils try to reach down and grab at them, but Bunny crushes them instantly. He turns to check his back and narrowly avoids getting his face sliced by the dagger the human wields. Except, it’s not a dagger. It's a jagged shard of glass. As it slices at a dark tendril, they melt away with a crackle of Déjà Vu. Bunny tracks the glass as it swings back down. For a second, his own green eyes reflect back at him, and he swears the edges spark with magic. The shard slices the tip of one of his whiskers, making him wince.

There’s a gasp, and the human cries, “Sorry! Sorry, are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” he replies.

The human smiles wide and reaches out as if to inspect the whisker. Before they make contact, though, they snap to attention and start dragging him.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Bunny cries. He tries to push them back, but he stumbles from the surprise and from one of the eggs getting underfoot.

“One—two—three—”

In the corner of his vision, another, thicker tendril bursts from the main mass. It slams down in the exact spot he’d been seconds earlier. But thanks to the human… The shadows are melting fast in the daylight, but they’re not going down without doing as much damage as they can.

The tendril, heaves itself up, drooping and dissipating at the edges. The tip bobs between facing him and the human. The human twists around awkwardly, throwing their free arm in front of Bunny and holding at the shadows at mirror-point with a tight grip. The tendril bobs for only a second more before lunging. It wraps around the shard and yanks.

“Augh!” The human falls to their knees, clutching at their hand, which blossoms with red. It’s actually quite an alarming amount of blood, Bunny notes. The human sways dangerously far, almost unable to keep the hand up.

“Push it back!” he orders his eggs. They tighten their wall and push forward, giving Bunny room to spring into action. First, he levels the human out and helps them hold the injury above their heart. That should slow the bleeding a bit. He thumps his foot and calls to one of the stone eggs. “Grab some bandages and chocolate now! When ya get back, start helpin’ to stop the blood flow, make sure they keep it elevated, and keep them from passin’ out!”

A long few seconds later, it returns with the supplies and takes over.

Freed, Bunny looks around. A nearby howl tells him that Skreeklavic is still up, and he watches as the wolf man clamps his jaws around a more solid shadow and shakes it around, growling. Looks fun enough. He hurries to Skreeklavic’s aid.

“Y’alright?” he calls, fending off a tiny strand trying to sneak up on them. The large wolf huffs and bears his teeth in affirmation. “Bonzer! Let’s finish this, then!”

He looses his boomerang once again. They crash through most of the remaining large clumps of shadow, turning them to puddles of sizzling ooze. His eggs do much the same, punching through any tendrils that try to rise and stomping through the heaps of the fallen. Skreeklavic drives his front paws into them and scrapes them into the ground until they’re nothing but a wispy mix of darkness and dirt. It only takes a few more punches and kicks before they’re surrounded by patches of nothing, evaporating as quickly as they showed up.

Skreeklavic transforms back and looks around, panting slightly. “Is that all of them?”

“For now,” Bunny replies. He claps a paw to the wolf man’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“It was not a problem at all.” Skreeklavic tilts his head back and forth, his long, furry ears twitching. “Easter Bunny—”

“Just ‘Bunny’ is fine.”

“Well, Bunny, I’ll quickly run the perimeter to make sure that’s all of the pests around here.”

“’Salright by me. Once you get back, I should be done tending to the human and we can get back to town.”

Skreeklavic nods and rushes off as a wolf again. Bunny dismisses his fighting eggs and heads back to the human. Thankfully, they haven’t passed out, but they’re shaking badly. A pile of bright red gauze litters the ground beneath them. They hold another wad on their palm, which rests on top of the attending egg. Bunny kneels in front of them. They look up, a little dazed, but they smile at the sight of him. He takes that as a good sign.

“You doin okay? You ate the chocolate, right?” he asks. They tilt their head slightly in a nod. “Good. Gimme your hand.”

He gently lifts it into his paw, nudging the egg until it sidles up next to the human. They give a sigh of relief and lean on it.

“Thank you,” they whisper.

“Yeah… This might feel a little weird.”

Bunny summons up his magic and takes the gauze away from the wound. Blood wells up, but it’s a lot less than before. Cut is shallower than initially expected, too. He dips a fresh piece of gauze in water, cleans away the blood, and presses two of his fingertips down onto their palm. The human hisses as he slowly traces the slice. Their trembling turns into a full-body shiver. But they gather themselves together and tough through it. When his first pass is done, they relax a bit.

“That’s a lot better. Is it super bad overall?” they say.

“No. Might have a right doozy of a scar and some numbness, but no severed tendons or messed up bones.”

He looks up from what he’s doing. They’re smiling again, that same damn tender smile they’ve been flashing him for the last few minutes. He blinks, confused and slightly uncomfortable.

Are they trying to fl…? Nah, he decides. He focuses on their hand again.

Three more passes later, and they’re sitting upright, most of the skin has knitted together, and the bleeding has completely stopped. He reaches for the first aid supplies and retrieves another bit of chocolate.

“Was there magic in that?” they ask, though he suspects they know the answer.

“To help you keep calm and reduce pain. Here.”

He hold it out to them to take. Without missing a beat, the human leans forward and closes their teeth around it. Their lips brush against his fingertips. Bunny freezes in place, mind boggled. The human sits back and glances at him. Their smile disappears when they catch his expression. They suck the chocolate into their mouth and chew hurriedly. They refuse to look at him again.

Are they...?!

He can’t wallow on this. He needs to ask about the artifact or the mirror shard or the shadows. He needs to ask how far in the future they’re from because he knows a hole in time when he sees it. He needs to ask what kind of timeline he’s in for if they think that’s an appropriate reaction to being offered chocolate. Bunny opens his mouth.

“What’s your bloody name?”

That startles them. They swallow and say, “You don’t know?”

“Not yet.”

They laugh and then give the answer. Surprisingly, Bunny feels a measure of frustration lift from his shoulders. A name isn’t much, but it’s a start. It’s one mystery solved.

“Bunny!”

Bunny makes one last pass over the human’s hand before getting up. He tells them not to move and joins Skreeklavic a few meters away, making sure to keep them in his sight as they speak.

“What’d you find?” he asks.

“That rift seems to have been the only point where the shadows come through. I didn’t find another source anywhere nearby.”

“Doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

“I heard some time ago that the Boogeyman was defeated. I now assume that’s not true.”

Bunny sighs. “No, it’s true. The shadows work on their own now.”

“You sound disappointed that he’s no more.”

“Wish that were the case. He’s unfortunately changed for the better.”

“You’re friends?”

“No!” Bunny barks. He calms himself and asks, “What else’d you find? Anything?”

Skreeklavic huffs. “Yes, and it’s exactly what I was afraid of. Why I came looking for the Guardians.”

“Ah,” Bunny says. “Well then lemme get you back to Santoff Claussen. I have a few friends who’ll be interested in help—Hey!”

Bunny looks back at the human just in time to see them disappear through another rift. He bounds over, even as he knows he’s too late. It seals up just as he gets there, and he has to stop short to avoid tripping over the attending egg. He lets out a string of swears and kicks at the ground. The egg excuses itself down a hole back to its home. Skreeklavic places a clawed hand on his shoulder, pulling Bunny out of his tantrum. The wolf man doesn’t say anything. Bunny just leads him to the village.

Hours later, after getting Skreeklavic situated in Big Root and a quick visit back to the Warren to help with Easter prep, Bunny sits at a table with Ombric and Katherine, listening to what Skreeklavic has to say.

“Have any of you heard of an entity known as the Stranger?” They shake their heads. Skreeklavic nods, as if he expected that answer. “It’s an entity that revels in dividing to conquer, in rewriting facts. It recently reappeared in my people’s land after millennia of keeping it away. Now, it’s managed to worm its way into their hearts and minds so thoroughly that I have been ousted as leader and exiled. Rest assured, it won’t stop at Transylvania’s werewolves.”

“How did it manage to oust you?” Ombric asks.

“By making itself hard to recognize until it’s too late. It always approaches as a friend, as someone who only wants what’s best for you. By the time people started realizing what was going on, it used that sympathy to garner the benefit of the doubt.”

“So, it can look like anything?” Bunny asks.

“Anyone,” Skreeklavic corrects. “It seems to be limited to appearing people-like.”

Bunny is about to ask another question when his eggs signal the alarm again. He grits his teeth and strives to ignore it for now, seeing as how they’d set it off earlier to alert him of a patch of rotten egg plants. As if they don’t always have one or two of those per year, no matter how careful they tend the yards. But then he realizes this particular alarm is coming from several continents away—from the sentry he placed in New York City.

Chapter Text

Chrissy’s muffled voice screeches up from the floor as you inch backwards across your kitchen. The front door is only a meter and a half away. But you keep staring out the back window, where the stranger—allegedly named Jesús—stands motionless on the fire escape. Their head slumps to one side, shoulders relaxed, arms hanging loose at their sides. You catch the minute motion of their limbs swaying, pendulums at the whim of an otherwise undetectably spinning planet.

There’s a threat in that looseness. Jesús had gone from the front buzzer to the back window too quickly. Too silently.

You take half a step back, reaching back to where your chair should be. Your hand jolts the chair into the tiny kitchen table you scrounged from a dumpster. It makes a sharp skrt against the wood floor. Chrissy asks if that’s you making that noise. Jesús’ fingers twitch, but they remain beyond the window. You chance another step. Your other arm slowly rises to the level of your head. The edge of the bult-in cabinet knocks into your fingers. It’s not painful, but you wince and mutter, “Ow,” automatically.

They step towards your window.

You slip farther until your back is against the door. There’s little room between it and the cabinet to fit yourself, especially without turning and taking your eyes off Jesús. But you manage. Your fingers stumble over the cold metal lock and twine with the clinking chain. Chrissy screeches at you at the top of her lungs. She begs you to answer her, make a noise, cry for help, something! So, you oblige her by throwing open the door and slamming it closed behind you as you exit. You hear the window glass shatter as you run down the hallway.

You skip the nearest stairwell in favor of the one on the opposite side of the building. Still, as you pass, you shove the door to it open in the hopes that Jesús—or whoever they really are—hears it open and close. Hopefully, they’ll opt for that path and ignore the loud slaps of your bare feet running farther. You make it to the stairwell and throw yourself in.

The building is five floors tall—six including the ground floor. You’re on floor three, so you don’t have too far to go before you hit ground level. You’re ready to burst out the streetside exit when you remember the basement. It also has an emergency exit, but it’s a little more hidden. You’d lived here a year and a half before learning there was a basement at all. You hesitate for two seconds, and then a door echoes open somewhere above you and Jesús thunders down to catch your elbow before you can move.

You blink, anxiety running wild. You’re still standing at the bottom of the stairs. The door above opens. There’s no hesitation as you kick open the ground floor exit and then carefully dash through the door leading to the basement. It kills you to slowly, quietly open the door, just as carefully replace it, and then creep down the dark steps.

The basement is populated by three tenant cars, two transport vans, and a maze of dusty boxes. One of the van’s hoods is open. The building manager had sent an email a month ago asking if anyone needed rides to the airports or the far boroughs for Easter weekend. You tiptoe over to it and try the sliding door’s handle. It opens with a squeak that may as well be a sonic boom.

You freeze. Hold your breath. No movement around you. No doors opening.

Is it really wise to potentially corner myself? you think. There’s a thudding noise. You jump in the van and squeak the door closed.

The interior of the transport van is messy. It must’ve been loaned out to carry large equipment recently, as the back seats are missing and there’s a chalk-covered moving blanket bunched up on the floor. There’s a shuffling noise and muffled murmurs from outside. You chance a peek through the side window. There’s a clear view to the stairwell door you came through, or as clear as it’ll get in the light of the three and a half lights on around you. The murmuring gets louder, twists into a snarl. The closed door flinches as something thuds into it from the other side.

You should duck. Wrap yourself with the moving blanket. Pretend to be a pile of un-noteworthy junk. But you keep staring. There’s one or two more thuds, and then the door handle twists, creaking somehow louder than the van door did. A figure stands at the threshold, tall and imposing. It reaches out to its side, feels along the wall and flicks on a light switch. The basement floods with soft yellow light, and to your relief, the figure at the door turns out to be Barnold, the maintenance man.

He looks around and calls out, “Is there anyone in here?”

“Yes!” In your rush to greet a friendly face, your fingers slip on the handle a few times. You get ahold of it and throw the door open. “Barnold! Just me. Oh gosh, I’m so glad you’re here!”

You trip over the cold cement floor, meeting him halfway. He walks assuredly, back straight. Was he always that tall? No, you realize, Barnold is usually stooped from decades of fixing motors and HVAC units. Special occasion, maybe? Taking advice from his doctor?

“This is gonna sound weird, but this person who said they were my friend’s cousin is stalking me. They broke in through my fire escape window.”

Barnold doesn’t respond. That’s unusual; normally you have to try and invent an excuse to get out of a conversation with him. That, his posture and… he doesn’t smell right. Barnold grows and smokes his own weed, so a two-meter-wide bubble of dank air always surrounds him. Now though, he smells like nothing, the mustiness of the basement rushing in to fill the void.

“I dropped my phone. Can you just… walk me up the street to my friend’s place—Holy shit!”

A huge dog pads into the room. Barnold glances at it.

“Did you get a dog?” you ask.

“Always had one,” he replies. You’ve never seen this animal around the building.

“Wh-what kind of—”

“Wolfhound.” Barnold glances to the beast then back at you before adding, “Mix.”

Wolfhound indeed. The dog trots over to him. Its shoulder easily comes up to his waist. Barnold doesn’t move. Doesn’t scritch it behind the ears, doesn’t pat its head, doesn’t really acknowledge it at all. Something presses at your side. You jump in surprise, then fall over yourself when a second huge dog sidles up beside you. The van creaks, and a third peers down from the roof with eyes too keen for an animal. It thumps its paws down and growls. The other two follow suit, their hackles rising. Looking back at Barnold, you suddenly see the same looseness in him as was in Jesús.

That is Jesús. Somehow.

Your breathing picks back up, and a lump forms in your throat. Your vision clouds with tears as the two definitely wolves advance and the third leaps to the nose of the van, slamming the hood shut. You slump against the van, trying to hold your sobs in. Your mind races from thought to thought until you reach a wild but inevitable conclusion:

Oh, the rabbit was real, huh?

A loud bang reverberates through the basement, coming from somewhere behind the van. The wolves perk up. The one on the hood spins around, pins its ears against its head and snarls. It barely begins before something whacks it in the head, causing it to fall to the ground next to you with a yelp. The other two rush around the van, teeth bared. Another two whacks. Another two yelps. The thing currently shaped like Barnold huffs. Something leaps onto the van in your peripheral vision, and you’re about to accept a fourth fucking wolf in the picture until it catches not-Barnold’s eye. He turns all his focus to it.

You have one second to register the rabbit from the previous night before he lands on not-Barnold’s chest, hooking his boomerang around the man’s neck.

The rabbit leans in close to the man and says, “Hey, stranger.”

Then he drives one of his hind paws into the man’s face. Not- Barnold hits the floor with a sickening crack and enough force to make him bounce up halfway on impact. And then he crumples, motionless.

The rabbit smiles, pleased with himself, and then he turns to you. You wedge yourself closer to the van in the vain hope you’ll suddenly gain the ability to phase through it. He halts, assesses you, and then puts his weapon away. He squats and holds his empty paws where you can see.

“It’s all right,” he says softly. Like he’s trying to calm a wild animal.

“You’re real,” you whisper hoarsely in reply. You remember something else from your encounter the night before. “Last night… did you say you were the Easter Bunny?”

He mouths the words, “Last night,” but breezes past it to say, “Yeah, I am. Name’s E. Aster Bunnymund.”

“Aster…” you repeat, hauling yourself up.

He smiles at that, ears perking up. You start to scooch from between him and the van when something bumps against your ankle. You look down and jump back. You’d forgotten the wolf was down there in the brief calm, and its paw twitches violently. Just as you were getting put back together, the anxiety swarms back in, clogging your throat and making you envision teeth piercing through you over and over again.

“Easy, easy. Breathe.” The Easter Bunny cups his paws around your face, making you focus on him. “Listen, you’re doin’ great, and you’re gonna continue to do amazing. I knocked that thing down, but it isn’t gonna stay down, and neither are the werewolves—”

“The what?!” you choke out.

“Shh…” He brings his face so close to yours that it’s all you can see. You retract your neck a little. “It’s okay.”

He keeps bringing his face closer and you can’t help but think, Is he…? He lays his forehead against yours, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re glimmering like they’ve got stars in them. Then he pulls back and looks at you and how you’ve turtled your neck so far that your shoulders hide your ears. He immediately pulls his paws away from your face and gives you some breathing room. Then he just holds out a paw to you.

“I’ll cover you until we get you to a safe place. Okay?”

It’s hard to forget that the last time you both met, he accused you of attempted manslaughter and tried to grab you. But you take his hand. Your senses go a little fuzzy and everything feels… safe. Safe enough, anyway.

“Okay?” he repeats.

He’s still holding out his hand. Yours is still stiff by your side. You have half a mind to tell him to piss off when a shuffle nearby catches your attention. Not-Barnold has swung one of his arms up and placed it on the ground as if to push himself up.

“The Live Oak. Just down the street,” you say as if giving rickshaw directions. You lift your hand. “But If I even think you’re taking me elsewhere, I’ll make sure everyone in this damn city hears me.”

“Fair enough.”

You thrust your hand into his, and he dashes for the exit. The both of you practically fall into the alley behind the apartment building. He looks around and spies a pile of broken furniture. He drops your hand long enough to wedge as much of it as he can under the doorknob.

“It’ll slow ‘em down, at least,” he says. Something rams into it from the other side. “A little.”

He pulls you around the side of the building. Enough light is gone to make the streetlamps pop on. Loads of people walk up and down the street. New Yorkers eat a later dinner, after all, and the nightlife early birds are just getting started. Plus, it’s not like the city ever fully empties of people. You point the Easter Bunny in the direction of Gillian’s, and he starts moving with you still in tow. Right into the oncoming foot traffic.

“Hey!”

“Sorry!”

“The hell?”

“Scuse me!”

“Jackass!”

“Watch it!”

You try not to think about what you look like to these people. Barefoot. Bug-eyed. Barreling past them without looking. It’s the same as last night: everyone can see you acting foolish in public, but the rabbit is invisible. Your toe snags on a brick sticking up from the sidewalk, and you go down. The Easter Bunny scrambles to help you up. As he does, he does a double-take up at one of the adjacent buildings.

“Well, thank you, me,” he mutters. “Oi! You up there!”

He doesn’t seem to get a response, so he hurls a boomerang high into the air. It connects with something on the roof with a faint thok. Something shifts. It peeks over the edge and—An egg with a face. That’s an egg with a face. Easter Bunny. Right.

“Sound the alarm!” he shouts, pointing to your building.

As if on cue, three hairy people skulk out of the alley. A guy talking on a phone jumps back as they sniff the air. He reels for a second, then shoves his phone back to his ear and powerwalks past. A few other passersby look up, but just make a wide berth. The egg tips slightly and then dances frantically in place. The Easter Bunny winds up and throws his weapon again, barely watching as it sails away. He tugs you again. Behind you comes a yelp, a chorus of howls, and then a counterpoint of “What the fucks?” from pedestrians. He blindly reaches up into the air and catches the returning boomerang without looking.

You desperately want to know why people can see the—oh gosh—werewolves but not the giant rabbit, but you more desperately need to get to Gillian’s. Your adrenaline is falling off. Part of you just wants to pass out on the bricks. But the Easter Bunny clamps down on your wrist and keeps weaving through the streets, turning at your directions. Finally, the Live Oak Bar is in sight.

“There!” you cry happily.

And then for what seems like far too much tonight, your mind hollers about things happening. You reach—will reach—the front entrance. And then you get—will get—rejected by the host/bouncer. It’s like seeing double. Except, no, it’s your mind working overtime to concoct worst-case scenarios. And yet… that wasn’t a worst-case scenario the encouraged you to take the Easter Bunny’s hand.

You slow. Then you stop, giving in to the anxiety. The rabbit keeps going for a second before he notices his empty paw. You glance at your disheveled clothes and lack of shoes and then head for the side alley.

“I can get into his apartment from here,” you say as the rabbit trots up behind you. “He gave me his door code—”

The employee side entrance bursts open, revealing Gillian struggling to wrench off his apron.

“My friend’s in trouble!” he yells over the bar’s hubbub. “I’m gonna make sure they’re alive!”

You’ve never been happier to see him, but before you can rush to hug him, the rabbit grabs the back of your shirt and shoves you behind him. He throws one arm out in front of you and draws his weapon with the other. The action propels your backwards into the trash cans in the alley. Gillian jumps at the commotion. He snaps his attention over to you and slaps his hands to his mouth.

“Holy shit!” He rushes over to you. You shove past the rabbit’s arm, much to his annoyance, and wrap your arms around Gillian. “Chrissy called and said you were being stalked and you just stopped responding—”

The Easter Bunny saunters over. He glares at Gillian for a moment and then waves his paw in front of his face a few times. Naturally, Gillian doesn’t notice. Instead, he wanders inside, yelling to his parents. You start to follow him through the door when the rabbit catches your hand again.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You grit your teeth and hiss, “What did I say about if I think you’re trying something funny?”

“I’m not doing any… I’ll let you go in—”

“Gee, thanks for the permission.”

“—After all this, one of my allies will probably be by to check up on you in twenty-four hours or so. And they’ll probably ask if they can bring you to a place called Santoff Claussen. It’s a small village in Sibera—full of magicians, extremely well-protected.” He squeezes your hand in a way that makes you ask yourself Is he?! again. “Please take them up on that and… watch out for Gillian, okay? Stay safe.”

“All right, I’ve got an hour and a half to get you settled in my room,” Gillian says. He looks you up and down. “Damn, you look rough.”

You glance back at the alley, but only the trash cans remain.

“Got any gummies?”

It’s a miracle you’re still awake at this hour. The bar is winding down. The traffic noise has dropped significantly. You’re wrapped in very soft pajamas that Gillian popped in the dryer to warm. And you’re pretty sure he buys fifteen milligram gummies instead of the usual ten milligrams.

All for the better, probably. You were just feeling the effects when you suddenly remembered that your anxiety meds were still in your apartment. This’ll do for tonight. Especially since you don’t want to be just calm, you want to zone out completely. So, you’ve been cruising for the last few hours. Gillian and his family live above the bar, and his room is just high enough that you can see the tip of Manhattan twinkling in the distance. Slowly watching its shine fade into false stars is a magic all its own.

That’s what I’ll add to the Anavlog tomorrow, you tell yourself. The false stars of New York City.

Your eyes swim for a second, causing the lights to bloom with flower-like rays. Like asterisks. Aster… You sigh and try not to think about what the Easter Bunny said to you. If someone does come, they have an uphill battle make you believe they aren’t in league with whoever—you struggle to think whatever— Jesús really is.

What bit of skyline you can see tilts ninety degrees when your heavy head lolls to the side. Not much time left until you zonk out, hopefully. The lights are still fuzzy, and they seem to zoom and flit about. They’re joined by strings of more golden light that start to engulf the air.

The strings and tiny lights grow slightly brighter. And closer. They’re basically right outside the window. You blink. The smaller lights take on the affect of small birds. They flit around an extremely round head covered in a corona of golden hair.

Huh, you think, letting your head loll to the other side. If werewolves are real… and the Easter Bunny is real… then I guess it stands to reason that—

You don’t get to finish that thought before sleep body checks you into the darkness.

Chapter Text

You wake up to silence. No Bimbocore DJ breaking it down. No cats fighting with raccoons and making it the whole street’s problem. No alarm. Your eyelids are too heavy to raise, but a soft orange light filters through them. You lay like that for a little bit, easing your muscles to life. First, a twitch of the toes and fingers; then rotating ankles and wrists; finally bending knees and elbows as your body tenses in a very satisfying stretch. After a night of such ideal sleep, there’s nothing you want more than to brush off the chaos of yesterday as just a weird dream, but…

You open your eyes.

But that’s what you told yourself yesterday morning, and the night still happened. You slink out of Gillian’s bed, roll your borrowed pajama sleeves up to your elbows, and pick your way to the foreign bathroom. If last night were a dream, you wouldn’t be here.

Down in the apartment kitchen, Gillian dances around, singing off-key to one of his playlists. The smells of bacon, biscuits, and gravy permeate the air. He pokes at the stovetop, bouncing in time to the music, one hand across his chest to keep his bosom from getting too wild. You laugh through your nose and scurry back to his room to grab the nearest binder you can find.

“Would this help?” you ask, holding it up.

He jumps at the noise, then looks down at how he’s literally trying to hold himself together. He motions for you to lay it on the table and sit.

“Sleep well?” he asks, doling out the bacon. He’s about to sit down himself when he zooms over to the microwave and carefully extracts a big, steaming bowl. He sets it on a trivet, and you raise your brow.

“Tell me these aren’t instant grits. I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

“This is literally what you’ve eaten at the bar! You think we have the time or prep power to make liters of scratch grits every day?”

“I’m gonna tell on you! Where are your parents?”

“At a wedding in Queens. I’m running things by myself today cause they’re in the wedding party.”

You laugh but leave the bowl where it is to grab some water from the kettle and tip two black teabags into your mug. Gillian watches you. You realize you haven’t answered his question.

“Yeah, I slept really well, actually. That gummy hit the spot, thanks.”

“It sounds like there’s an unspoken ‘but’ in there.”

“You’re an unspoken butt.”

“Yahaha!” He slips around the corner to put the binder on. “Seriously, though, ‘but’ what?”

You wring your hands. “But last night was weird in ways I’m slowly coming to grips with.”

“Two nights in a row of being stalked’ll do that, I imagine.”

You lock eyes with him as he comes back around. He smooths his shirt down. Something’s scratched at the back of your mind since that horrible phone call with Chrissy, and again when the rabbit waved his paw in front of an oblivious Gillian. You wonder if it’s worth getting him to confirm your suspicion, so you try to buy some time to think how to ask. You gesture at the spread.

“All this and no pancakes? I don’t get the Gillian specialty?”

He sighs and stabs at his bacon. “I fucked up the batter and didn’t realize we were low on flour. Called for delivery instead.” He stabs the biscuit next. “Accidentally triple-ordered because the connection flickered, so have as many as you want when it gets here.”

“Shit, let me throw you some cash—”

“No, it’s fine. You got my lunch yesterday and I won the UBI coin flip.” He gnaws on his food. “If you don’t wanna talk about what happened, that’s totally fine.”

“No, no it’s just… Do you remember Jesús from lunch yesterday?”

“Yeah. Wait, they were stalking you?!”

“But you remember them. You saw them eating with us?”

“Yes?”

Your spirits lift. He remembers. “And you remember Chrissy introducing them as her cousin, right?” He nods. “Well, Chrissy didn’t remember. I called to ask if she’d given them my address for some reason, but she just said she had no cousins named Jesús. Didn’t even seem to recall that she brought a guest whatsoever.”

“Sounds about right,” Gillian mutters. He apologizes hurriedly as you get up with a huff to rinse your plate. “No, you’re right, I’m being bitter, but that’s my thing and is separate from this. This, however, is weird. I can’t actually imagine her being this oblivious. Why…?”

You look out the window as you scrub the dish, searching for a satisfactory answer. You want to just say “magic” and be done with it, but that’s not enough to make him believe you. He’s into all sorts of spiritual practices—astrology, crystals, tarot—but that’s different from the Easter Bunny and werewolves. And you really need him to believe the werewolf thing.

Gillian’s parents have a small bird station by the kitchen window. They’ve set up a seed feeder, a nectar feeder, and a bath, and it always has some sort of creature in it. Today, there’s a pigeon bobbing for seeds and three hummingbirds. One of the hummingbirds is busy eating, but two play in the bath. The early sun glints off their iridescent feathers, shifting the colors from violet to gold to green as they hop around the water. A paper towel tube leans against the wall to create a slide into the water. One of the hummingbirds clambers up it and then tosses itself down into the water. Its companion grins and claps its hands as the first playfully splashes it—

The bird has hands. You peer closer at the two of them.

“Gillian!” you hiss, waving him over. Your heart starts pounding at the thought of showing him. “Come look at this!”

He rushes over and readies his camera. “Aww!” he says when you point out the two in the bath. You watch him, waiting for any realization to hit. It doesn’t.

“Those two are moving a little weirdly, don’t you think?” Please see the hands, please see the hands, please see the hands.

He tilts his head and shrugs. “I guess? You usually see them hovering, so maybe that’s it.”

One of the birds suddenly sees you. Its human-like mouth drops open, and it taps its companion on the shoulder a few times. It reels when it sees you staring back, and they zoom away from the bird station.

“Oh. Bye guys!” Gillian waves as they go. You swallow thickly.

“You didn’t think there was anything unusual about them?”

Gillian plays with his smoky quartz necklace and says, “I’ve never seen that species before, if that’s what you mean.”

You play it off as casually as you can muster and help clean the dishes. Gillian finds you some fresh clothes and tosses your nighttime outfit into the wash. You chill around the table. He looks like he’s about to ask you something when his phone buzzes.

“Pancakes?” he says excitedly. His smile drops. “Ah. A customer. Read the sign, friend, we don’t open for another five hours!”

You look over his shoulder at the feed on his phone. Three people stand outside the front entrance. The person at the front goes to knock on the door again, and one of their companions turns to face the camera. It’s the same round face with wispy hair you saw last night before falling asleep. The third looks to be a large, broad man with an impressive beard.

“No! Go away! I’m not serving one person before opening…” Gillian grumbles. You dash past him and head for the stairs. He yells, “No, no, no! We’re pretending we’re not here!” after you.

You race down the stairs into the bar itself. Gillian can’t see all three of them. So those two are like the Easter Bunny, who is real. And if the Easter Bunny is real… You dodge through the tables and upturned chairs and grab the door handle.

The Sandman, Santa Claus, and a human with a stifling aura stand there. You hesitate, trying to rediscover all the words you’d concocted on the way down. But a childish awe overcomes you, followed by a childish uncertainty that renders you mute in the presence of perceived authority. The human follows your sightline to where it rests behind them. They smile and step forward.

“You must be the one we’re here to see. I’m Andre. One of our acquaintances told us where to—”

“Sorry! Sorry, no, I’m sorry.” Gillian pushes his way between you and Andre. “I’m the manager on premises today, and while I appreciate your patronage, we do not open until the afternoon. Please come back at two-thirty.”

“Gillian, please let them in. I want to speak with them.”

He looks at you with a pained expression. Andre speaks again.

“My apologies for calling on you so early, but I am indeed here to speak with them about… recent events.”

Gillian looks at you. You nod. He heaves in a deep breath and opens the door wider. Andre walks through, and Gillian starts to close the door. You block it from shutting all the way, earning you a confused look from him. As you try to think up an excuse, Santa squeezes through—as in, seems to compress himself until he can fit through the smaller crack in the door, and returns to his normal mass after he’s in. It’s weird to witness, though not quite as weird as the golden stream of sand that filters the openings above and below the door. It rejoins itself in the middle of the air and forms the Sandman. He nods to you and floats in. You shut the door, suddenly remembering that gaining entry into homes somehow is a key feature of their fairy tales.

Gillian flips a chair down from its perch and offers it to Andre, then sets two more up for you and him.

“Just so you know, I’m a pretty level-headed guy,” he says. You roll your eyes, but he continues. “I’m a Libra Sun, Aquarius Moon, and Sagittarius Rising. So, I’m not unreasonable.”

Andre perks up as soon as Gillian starts rattling off his astrology. They rub their chin thoughtfully and nod.

“I absolutely understand, and I appreciate your forwardness,” they say. “But before I begin, may I ask where you acquired that crystal? It’s beautiful.”

There’s a tap at your shoulder. You look and see Santa standing over you. He winks and points to Andre.

“Watch this,” he says softly.

You try to surreptitiously lean over. “Shouldn’t we be trying to get him to leave? Or shouldn’t Mr. Sandman put him to sleep?”

He chuckles at “Mr. Sandman.” When he pulls himself back together, he replies, “Trust me, you will want friend for this. And we… we have learned hard way how and how not to persuade people to come into safe custody with us. First step for him, though, is Belief. Watch.”

Andre holds Gillian’s necklace in their hand. Gillian chats with them about it.

“Life can get especially chaotic, so I try and attract a lot of stability to myself. Hence the smoky quartz.”

“I see, I see. That way your Libra nature will see as few upsets as possible.”

“Exactly.”

“Have you been recharging it regularly?”

“Uhh…” Gillian shrugs. “I try to do a full moon charge every once in a while. But, I’m kind of a night owl, and I always wear it—”

“Then please allow me to do a quick charge right now.”

Andre holds the crystal up in a sunbeam that has snuck its way in between the curtains. They turn it, muttering under their breath, until the sunbeam narrows to a thin point. It hits not just the crystal itself but buries into its center. The whole crystal glows until it looks like a shining, two-dimensional shape. Gillian sinks into his chair. His eyes gleam and an awed smile blossoms on his face. In all fairness, it is beautiful.

“You’re seeing this, right?” he asks.”

“Yeah.”

“This sort of magic is real.”

The glow peaks and then quietly dissipates. Andre lets the necklace dangle for a second before handing it back to Gillian, who holds the crystal in his palm.

“Oh, it’s warm…”

“Indeed,” Andre says. “That should better attract the energies you desire. And now, if we may discuss…”

“Wait, Gillian says, looking at you. “You don’t seem surprised at all this.”

“I’ve… seen some things like it recently.”

Realization dawns on his face. “The rabbit? The giant rabbit was—”

Andre rests their chin on folded hands. “More specifically, he is the Easter Bunny.”

“The Easter Bunny was chasing you?!”

Santa bursts into raucous laughter, causing Gillian to fall off his chair. When he pops back up, he turns his head, searching for the source. And then he locks on to Santa Claus and the Sandman across the way. You feel a little better about yourself since Gillian seems to be struck with the same reverent speechlessness you had been earlier. He pulls himself to his feet using the chair and looks like he’s about to say something when his phone buzzes again. He glances at it and jogs over to the front door. After a minute of speaking with the person there, he kicks it closed, locks it, and pats the box he’s carrying.

“Who wants pancakes?”

The second half of the discussion goes smoothly. It’s much more difficult to mistrust someone having a meal with you. Here, with a good friend, two Guardians of Childhood, and a reassuring liaison, you start to relax. Just as the Easter Bunny had said the night before, they offer you safety in a small village.

“Santoff Claussen?” you ask. Everyone else pauses, questioning looks on their faces. “Uh… As—I mean, Bunnymund, sorry…”

“Ass works, too, for him,” says Santa—real name North, you’ve learned. “Apologies. Keep going.”

“When he dropped me off here last night, he said that someone would show up to take me there.”

“When he… ‘Last night,’ you say?” North, Andre, and Sandy all look at each other. “Hmm, I see…”

“What does that mean?”

Sandy clears his throat. He’s spoken so little this entire time, and never above a whisper. You wonder if he can even exceed twenty decibels.

He says, “Bunny was accounted for all last night. He heard his scout sound the alarm, but I and some mini-fairies were tasked with checking up on you.”

“But he was here!” you insist. Sandy nods.

“We believe you.”

“So, either he lied to y’all and came here anyway, or it wasn’t really him,” Gillian says. “Which is it?”

They share another look, and Andre says, “We do have a rational explanation for it. However, we would prefer if we waited until we were in the village to explain in full. For security reasons.”

“Oh... okay,” you reply. You stand hesitantly.

The Guardians stand as well, and North draws a shining snowglobe from his pocket. Gillian starts slowly collecting the plates and silverware, not looking at you. He checked up on you, helped you through two nights of unexplainable confusion. What had North said? That’s you’ll want a friend for this? Yeah, actually, you do.

“One condition!” you say quickly. North pauses where he’s winding up like a baseball pitcher, foot kicking into the air and everything. “Gillian comes, too.”

Gillian—whose eyes had been glued at the snowglobe about to be thrown wildly in an enclosed space filled with breakables—jolts his attention to you.

“Please?” you ask.

“Hell yeah!” He jumps up and hugs you. Then, with a serious face, he addresses the others. “We’ll have to leave tomorrow, then. Because!” He holds up his hand to any objections. “Because I’m the manager on premises today and was supposed to be for the rest of the week. I’m gonna have to make a few calls to get someone to cover me. And that’s on top of food ordering, food prep, FIFO rotation, and ensuring we’re ready for the quarterly health inspection we’re due for. And you,” he points to you. “You need to grab some stuff from your apartment before you run off to another continent.”

You set off to your tasks. Andre travels back immediately to set up the accommodations. Sandy stays with Gillian, floating over his shoulder as he goes into restaurant mode. As you leave with North, Gillian forces a hairnet and a thorough hand wash on him if he insists on staying in the kitchen.

You appreciate North’s presence as you approach your apartment building and the nervousness returns. Your heart drops when you see your front door slightly ajar. Jesús must have left it open when they chased after you. Without a word, North heads in before you. When he clears the apartment, you slowly take stock of the damage. Window glass litters the floor, as you expected. But it seems like Jesús decided to upend anything that wasn’t nailed down. Your mattress is askew, books and zines lay under the window looking a little water damaged, and of course, your painting is face-down on the floor next to a bright smear of paint.

You sweep up the bigger pieces of glass, knowing you’ll be finding shard for the next few months. Carefully, you bend down and get your fingers underneath the edges of the canvas board. As you feared, the paint had been wet when it fell. It pops free with a gentle tug and a crack of dried paint that connects it to the floor. There are spots of glitter when you turn it around. Or rather, there’s minute specks of glass stuck in the paint. Amazing how glass can get into the damndest places on its own without anyone noticing until it’s too late. North looks over your shoulder and holds out his hand.

“Can I see that?”

“Yeah sure,” you reply. You hand it over to him.

Except his hand isn’t there anymore, and he’s retreated two paces. He manages to catch it after fumbling it a few times.

“Sorry!” you say. He looks at you oddly. “You asked to see it, right?”

“I was about to…” He shakes his head. “This is very nice! But may I ask what dark figure in corner is?”

Ah. That thing. It had survived the glass. “That is a cryptid or something that I came across back in high school. Us bored teenagers in the suburb had this rite of passage where we went out to the undeveloped and rewilded areas during the full moon to look for the monster.”

“Monster?”

“It never had a name that we knew of. Also, the eyes didn’t glow.” You point at its face. “They reflected some of the moonlight, but not that much. This is just artistic liberty.”

“So, you did see it.”

“It’s what made me realize I needed to leave the suburbs at some point. Even if I was content to stay there for another ten years. Why?”

He drums his fingers against the edges. “My job is to protect children from creatures that wish them ill. This looks like such a creature. I will ask around and see if your monster was—or is—real threat. Perhaps not. I hope not. We’re dealing with a lot right now.”

You call the building manager to report the broken window and to let them know you’ll be away for, North estimates, about a month. Most of your remaining money for the month slithers away from your account, but North assures and reassures you that everything you’ll need will be provided, and then some. Eventually, there’s a series of five knocks on the door, and an ancient, stooped man appears in the peephole. You’re reluctant to let Barnold in, but with your backup and the harsh smell of weed preceding the man, you let him place a plank of plywood over the windowpane. He then talks your ear off for an extra fifteen minutes before you’re free to shove as much of your apartment into a piece of luggage as you can.

You shove your anxiety meds on top and start to zip it closed when North plops down your painting supplies and your fancy shoes on top. The ones you haven’t worn since the gallery opening.

“Take hobby with you to prevent boredom. You seem type to need lots of quiet time between loud times. Also, bring nice, Easter-y outfit.”

“Why?” you ask, a little too defensively. The image of Bunnymund cupping your face flashes in your mind. North raises a brow.

“Because we like to celebrate where we can, and holidays are always good excuse for parties! I will host one. Bunny normally hosts, but due to circumstances, I don’t know if he’s gotten that far.”

“And if it turns out he does have something planned?”

“Then we get two parties!” He grins.

Can’t argue with that logic, though his confidence in you having two parties as well is probably misplaced. It would be nice to socialize again, though; your usual haunts have been getting stagnant, to say nothing of being able to go out at all this month. You throw a decent outfit into your luggage and pack up your paints. Back at the bar, you find the Sandman furiously kneading biscuit dough in the kitchen, Gillian looming behind him like the legendary early twenty-first century chef Ramsay. You go to sleep that night feeling a little better, though terribly anxious about that “rational explanation” they refused to tell you. And perhaps even more anxious about meeting the Easter Bunny yet again.

Chapter Text

Bunny purposefully hasn’t checked the time. It’s already Thursday; barely two more days to go. All egg plant harvesting has ceased in favor of painting the ones they have. Most are doing just fine going down the line, but every so often one of them scuttles up to him with uneven lines or patchiness or half the design simply unapplied. A blank one that slipped through bumps against his elbow like it has been for maybe half an hour. Bunny has, instead, opted to refine the one in his hands.

“I swear I’m gonna get rid of all thin-line designs,” he grumbles. He’s sworn that every year for the last three hundred.

A soft tingle runs to the tips of his ears. He finishes the egg and sets it down to join the others. Bunny gets up and stretches. The blank egg throws itself against his foot.

“All right, take it easy down there!” He picks the poor thing up. “We got some more helpers comin’ in right now, and they’ll be able to make you up all beautiful!”

He scoops up a few more that need a second pass and heads through one of the tunnels to meet Tooth as she flies in, a hundred or so mini-fairies in tow.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says as a few dozen fairies swarm him and try to perch on his shoulders. A few try for his ears, but he twitches them to stop that before it starts.

“Of course!” Tooth replies. “There’s more than enough of us to help. Thanks for asking.”

“Don’t mention it. To anyone.” He starts walking down the tunnel.

“Oh, not this again!” She flutters just ahead of him. Tooth grabs his shoulder and uses it as an anchor to pivot until she’s facing him roughly head-on. She’s blocking his path and wearing a bit of worry on her brow. “Can you accept help or not? Usually you’re disgustingly pragmatic…”

“Well, things were going well enough this year, weren’t they? Then that human—”

“Oh, that’s right! They’re arriving soon, aren’t they? How exciting,” she chirps.

“Mhm…”

“Well, don’t get too excited.” She shakes her head. “They’re not the malevolent terror you initially thought they were, according to Andre. That’s a good thing!”

“Ye-es. Yes, it is,” he replies slowly. He pushes past her and starts assigning fairies to areas once they get back to the production hub. “You all herd the eggs through these checkpoints. You put the colors on. Doesn’t have to be exact, this batch is more watercolor-like. The dye’s a little thinner so it doesn’t muddle too badly at the overlaps. Now, once that’s done, you all direct them into the quick-dry stations. If there are any where the dye isn’t sticking or sloughs off or looks plain ugly, send ‘em on to me.”

That’s about all he can do for quality control on that batch. The poor fairies are about as big as the eggs themselves, so they can’t exactly do touch-ups. But, they like to play and be creative when not on duty, so he figured he’d help a few dozen blow off some steam. Meanwhile, the eggs needing touch-ups squirm in his arms, so he heads over to a comfortable seat. Tooth hovers across from him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask North for a few yetis,” she says.

“Their union says it’s their vacation time. The only exception would be a global crisis of belief, like last decade.”

“I thought the werewolf said this could turn into one.”

“Could being the keyword. There’s still a lot we don’t know at the moment. And I’ll be honest, I want to get through the weekend before thinking about it too hard.”

“I wish world-ending scenarios worked like that.”

Bunny sighs. He starts to say something, then thinks better of it and says, “I’m not keen on the idea of the cracked artifact being out of our hands, but there’s as good a chance it’ll explode upon use as it will work as intended, broken as it is. Not to mention, the most recent encounter I had with the human and the shadows calms me a little.”

“What?! How—Every time you even think about Kozmotis, let alone the shadows, you start growling!”

“Yeah, but time travel is involved now. There are limits to what you can do. Those shadows, for instance, had to have been sent from the future. How far in the future, I’m unsure, but I have reason to believe it’s…” He pauses, remembering how the human didn’t hesitate to eat from his hand. Still baffling. “I believe it’s at least a few months from now. With luck, a year. Basically, we’ve got some leeway.” He folds his arms. “Like you said, I’m pragmatic, and that means working smarter, not harder.”

Always having a plan to get your eggs out of the basket.

Tooth shrugs. “If you say so.”

They sit in silence, though she starts flitting around the area after a minute or so. Unlike most of their other friends, Tooth also has a kinetic mind, unable to stay still for long without anything to occupy her. At least Bunny has these eggs to focus on, and focus he does. His vision tunnels to nothing but finishing details. He makes a noise of acknowledgement every so often to what Tooth says. Eventually, the pile of eggs in front of him is down to two. Bunny reaches for one of them, and a parade of fairies and stone eggs bursts into the area.

Flower crowns encircle the tops of the eggs and smaller ones cap the fairies’ heads. They bring their chatter with them. Their voices overlap at such a rate that he can’t keep up. Toothiana goes rigid. She floats to the floor and takes a few, hesitant steps to the nearest egg.

“Hang on,” she says when some of her fairies swarm her and try to lay a crown on her head. They’re overexcited, however, and try to throw it over her head. “I said hang on!”

The fairies scatter at the shout. Even Bunny jumps. He watches in confused bewilderment as Tooth snatches the crown that’s halfway on her head and presses it to her nose to take a deep sniff. That’s when he sees what the crowns are made of. He dashes over and starts grabbing them off the eggs.

“Who did this?!” he shouts. The chatter dies completely. He holds up the rings of flowers. “C’mon, whose idea was this?”

Tooth reaches over and yanks him by his collar.

“First of all, do not yell at my girls like that!”

Her wings beat fast enough to make her rise. She lifts him until only the very tips of his hind claws touch the ground anymore. She can’t look at him directly on purpose anymore, but Bunny receives the brunt of her glare regardless. A few fairies chirp in support of her, but quiet again. Bunny is about to tell her exactly why these flowers need to be left alone when she leans down to the ones in his hand and sniffs those.

“Second of all, are those chocolate-scented flowers?”

“Yeah,” he replies. Tooth cocks her head and lowers him back to the floor. She fiddles with the flowers in her hand, smelling them every so often. He continues, “They’re modified poached egg daisies, courtesy of my mentor.”

“Why chocolate?”

“He was enamored with the stuff. Loved experimenting with it and taught me all sorts of recipes. However, he had… interesting reactions when he ate it himself, so he spent a long while trying to find ways to consume it without really eating it.”

Toothiana holds up the crown. “He ate daisies?”

Bunny nods. “Well, they’re common, easy to grow, and have a mild flavor. Do you wanna try, I can make us some tea.”

“Bunny, in the minute and a half I was shunted to the past the other day, I smelled these flowers. I smelled floral chocolate.”

He doesn’t know what to say. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her accidental excursion except that she was too disoriented to take in her surroundings. And almost as soon as she was aware she’d gone, she was back. Bunny hadn’t given it much thought due to the lack of useful information, not to mention he was much more concerned about the un-cracked artifact being real at the time. So to hear this, especially how sure she is, rattles him. It opens a whole new line of possibilities. New variables he has to stick into this already overstuffed equation.

“You don’t happen to remember anything else from where you went, do you?”

She thinks. “It was loud. There was a siren going off and dozens of other voices shouting all around me, but in the distance.” She furrows her brow and her crest flattens against her head. “The air was stuffy. The only thing that cut through was the flowery chocolate.”

His nose twitches. His whiskers quiver, the one that got nipped at the end feeling like an itch he can’t scratch.

“Do you think you could remember a bit more if you try?” he asks. “It could be nothing to do with the Stranger, but—”

“But there’s someone else you hope it could be?”

Tooth lays a hand on his shoulder. A gentle smile and a pity-filled look creeps across her face. At first, Bunny has no idea what she’s referring to, and then realization hits. He hands over the two final eggs to the fairies and bids them all goodbye.

“Bunny?” she calls after him. “Don’t you run away!”

“I was due in Santoff Claussen ten minutes ago. Help yourselves to the food in the kitchen!” he yells back. He gathers up a few supplies, including the artifact, takes his first look at a clock in hours, and cringes. He was due in the village an hour and a half ago. He tosses a few more things into his bag and then taps his foot.

“Bunny!”

“If you need anything, the eggs’ll take care of ya. Appreciate you lending some fairies, ta!”

Right before the tunnel seals behind him, he hears, “What are so afraid of?!”

The tunnel opens in a side alley. Over the course of a few too many kicks to the head and subsequent sprained ankles, he’s learned not to appear suddenly in the middle of a street. Especially in a place where all the humans have enough Belief to see all manner of things. Bunny slowly raises his head out of the hole. When no one comes within kicking range, he hauls himself all the way out.

The village is lively. There’s always a rhythm and verve to it, but that’s as much from the overflowing magical energies as it is from the people being people. Though judging from the conversations jumping from mouth to ear, a lot of the buzz is from the several new visitors living with the local wizard.

“Oh. Bunnymund, hello!”

A young woman of about eighteen waves and greets him. A huge scorpion sits on her shoulder, and one of her hands is cupped to hold a calm swarm of beetles.

“G’day, Rina,” he says. He glances around the crowds beyond her.

“Koz isn’t here today, relax,” she says with an eyeroll. “The wolf man—Skreeklavic, was it? He was asking after you. I think he went to the garden to see if you’d gotten sidetracked there.”

He thanks her and heads off. Skreeklavic is, in fact, strolling through the community’s garden rows. He sniffs at a few of the odd-looking plants and nods appreciatively to the more conventional crops. He looks up and takes Bunny’s paw into both of his hands to shake.

“Hello again, friend,” he says. He turns in place, taking in a deep breath and the surrounding sights. “Once this is all over, I think I shall establish an ambassadorship to this place. That may have been our mistake in the first place: we closed ourselves off from the rest of the world for so long that we forgot how to make friends. Yet, we were so starved for them that we forgot healthy caution.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Bunny replies. “I’ve learned over the years that evil thrives on people who allow it to stay in their hearts. The Stranger can be as convincing as it wants to be, but at the end of the day, the people listening ought to know the difference between right and wrong on their own.”

“A profound statement!”

Skreeklavic starts walking back to Big Root at a brisk pace. Bunny follows reluctantly. The villagers greet him as he passes. Every so often, he stops to chat, offering advice for this or that, or he simply says hello. Skreeklavic waits for him to finish his business each time, but more than once he clears his throat to drag Bunny away. After all, they’re very late. Bunny starts to view this as a personal challenge.

He's sure he’s won when a bunch of children spot him and run over. They crowd around him, tumbling over each other to ask him questions or give them hints on where he’s going to hide their eggs.

“You know I can’t tell you that. That’s the challenge!” he says.

A young kid, maybe round the age of five, sidles up to him and looks at where Skreeklavic is looming nearby.

“Who’s the big doggy?” they ask.

At that, Skreeklavic—who had been glaring severely—straightens up a bit more. His ears are on the side of his head, like humans’ are, but he still manages to angle them in a way that reads as trying to be as regal as possible. Bunny crouches down.

“That’s the leader of the werewolves,” he replies.

He picks them up to help them see better. Their eyes go wide as frisbees as they take the tall wolf-man in. Skreeklavic tries to straighten himself even more. Alas, it seems that although a giant, talking rabbit is just fine to them, a giant doggy with wild hair and sharp fangs is a step too far. The child shrinks back. They bury their face into Bunny’s chest and clutch at him. Skreeklavic deflates a bit, but Bunny just chuckles.

“That’s usually how first impressions go for me, too, out in the rest of the world.” Bunny weaves through the kids to keep walking. Once the path is clear, he turns and walks backward, watching the werewolf bookend the flock still following. He gestures at them all, smiling. “But once they get used to you, you can’t shake ‘em for nothing!”

Skreeklavic smiles in return, and sure enough, one of the older kids turns and starts talking to him. The kid in Bunny’s arms looks like they’re past the bout of shyness and heading off to a nap. As Bunny adjusts his hold on them, he bumps into someone behind him.

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I should really watch myself—”

He freezes as the human turns to him as well. A glimmer of excitement shines in their eyes. It snuffs out as they register who he is. Neither of them move for a second. Bunny holds his breath, trying to pull the moment out for just a little long. He still hasn’t prepared what he’s going to say to them first. An apology? Something straightforward? He doubts they’re young enough for a random fun fact to assuage them.

They clear their throat. The moment collapses. Then they offer their hand for him to shake.

Chapter Text

Gillian wakes first the next morning, raring to go despite the fact y’all aren’t leaving til the night. His parents are confused about the sudden trip, but they’re also glad he’s getting out and experiencing the world, so they let it slide. You and he help around the restaurant and apartment until it’s time to catch your 9 pm “flight.”

North and Sandy join you on the train and escort you to Grand Central. At first, you think it’s odd that they’d tell you to go to one of the most populous places in the city, but the thick walls of people smear together, and from their perspective, you and Gillian are also part of the masses. Maybe a whole one person glances your way when North throws the snowglobe. If they see you disappear into a glowing wall, that’s not really your problem, and you personally know how easy it can be to shift straight to denial, especially in a city as weird and vast as this one.

With a single step, you go from a dark, musty subway to a warm, cozy house. A house filled with odd whistles and bangs and all manner of energy crackling in the air. Gillian grabs your arm as a wizard stands before you—decked in grand robes and a pointed hat, no less. He spreads his arms in greeting.

“Welcome to Santoff Claussen,” he says. “I am Ombric Shalazar. Welcome to my home, Big Root.”

There are a thousand and one new things to take in with every glance. From the clearly-thrumming-with-magic brown walls of the house to a young-looking woman who introduces herself as Katherine—and Mother Goose—to the mechanical whozits and whatsits galore flitting from room to impossible room. And then you pass a window on your way to put your luggage down. The town beyond looks like it’s straight out of a children’s book or a slice-of-life science fiction cartoon. At least ten types of architectural movements are represented in the buildings you can see. Yurts on top of cottages; swirling art nouveau decorations next to its sister, art deco, which clashes upon wooden lintels painted with folk art from somewhere in the vast Eurasian steppe. To say nothing of the people buzzing from doorway to doorway and through the streets. Some are dressed as ostentatiously as Ombric and others are dressed quietly or according to their trade.

Katherine allows you and Gillian to gawk at the town for a little bit before showing you the room you’ll share. It’s of modest size for two people. You won’t be sleeping on top of one another. You set your things down and follow Katherine back to a larger workroom. Ombric and North are in the corner conversing in Russian, heads bent over something mechanical. They look up when you get back and offer you some chairs around a table covered in many small plates of food. You then have to quickly shift your mind from where it left New York at night and into the morning here in Santoff Claussen.

“Eat. We’re just waiting on Bunny to start the full briefing,” Ombric says before turning back to the project in the corner with North.

Your mouth goes a little dry. You’ve almost forgotten about having to meet him again, caught up in the whimsical place you’ve landed. Gillian leans over and catches your eye as he shoves something crunchy in his mouth. Almost instantly, his eyes flare in delight and he’s handing the plate to you. So, it goes for a while, waiting and trying different breakfast snacks and brunch entradas. Gillian has a ball trying to identify what they are.

“Ooh, I’ve seen something like this in Little Italy a few times. Heavier than you’d think, but tomatoes and cheese can sneak up on you like that. That looks like a table cheese, though, maybe Gruyère.” He takes a bite. “Yeah, something like that.”

He goes on like this for a while, and you find it hard to reconcile with the artist he always introduces himself as. He’s completely ecstatic with this discovery of food in front of him, and you have to wonder…

“Why’d you go to SCAD?” you ask suddenly.

He’s in the middle of swallowing, and he pauses. He has a short coughing fit, but once he gets through it, he replies, “Major was Art Preservation.”

“Yeah, I know that,” you say, patting his back a few more times, “but why SCAD? Why not go to a local college for that?”

He sighs and takes a drink. “Is it stupid to say I went because I wanted to experience the South? That sounds stupid, it’s not like I’m a first gen immigrant—”

“The US is big and varied. Sounds valid to me.”

“I think…” He takes another bite and chews slowly. “I think because my parents got excited at me suggesting it. Uni wasn’t really on my mind until all the pamphlets came in the mail. And then I went back home so—as they say in my actual native parlance—bada bing, bada boom, it doesn’t matter. Things went back to the way they always were, and the way they’ve been ever since.”

“If you could try again, would you?”

“Nope.” He shrugs, and you resume your silence.

The others start to get antsy around you. North keeps opening and closing his fist around a crystal that glows with the pressure. Katherine taps a few clock faces that’re scattered around the room. Around forty minutes after you sit down, it becomes clear that the Easter Bunny is late. The Guardians are irritated, having trouble quietly conferring in the corner. It’s in Russian again, but the tone is clear.

Their volume starts rising, and you decide to say, “Since it’s taking a while, maybe you can show us around town first?”

The Guardians look at each other. Katherine steps forward and nods. “Follow me.”

Santoff Claussen’s streets are smooth to walk over, despite being paved with cobblestones. Magic, you decide. Same goes for the cartoonishly disproportionate telescope perched on top of a regular house. It looks like it would be more at home in a lone facility atop a mountain peak, yet here it is, complete with handmade wooden ramps leading to the eyepiece. Across from the telescope is a multi-story mural. A painted collage reminiscent of the early Memetics movement, the artist’s name painted in the Impact typeface at the bottom center.

Katherine takes you to a small shop that sells bits of resin. As in, the petroleum-based crafting material popular in the early 2000s. The shop is filled with all manner of trinkets despite crude oil having been highly restricted and regulated for three generations.

“How?” you ask.

The stooped, wrinkly elderly woman smiles large and launches into a detailed explanation of formulas and synthesized materials. You glean what she’s made is virtually identical to plastic resin but without the petroleum base. She gives you a few thin square samples and says she’ll show you the process if you come back.

Upon exiting, you take one of the samples out and examine them. The texture is so odd. Your mind expects glass, but it’s slightly too light and slightly the wrong temperature. Holding it up to the sky, you see how transparent it is, with only a few air bubbles trapped within. No wonder the old artists and game suppliers were so enamored. And yet, this is still just an imitation. You and Gillian turn it around and around, marveling at the closest approximation you’ll likely see this close outside a museum. Katherine watches nearby, speaking to another townsperson. From the corner of your eye, you see her suddenly reach to you.

“Watch out!” she cries.

Too late. Something bumps into your back. As you turn automatically, you hear a now-familiar drawl.

“Oh, sorry! I really should watch myself—”

You and the Easter Bunny take each other in properly for the first time. No, this isn’t the first time you’ve met, obviously, but it’s the first time you’re on an even keel of circumstance. He looks equally surprised. His ears drop behind his head and his jaw sets tight. This moment was always coming. As soon as you agreed to come here and get more involved in the goings-on of holiday characters, this meeting was doomed to happen.

You haven’t thought this far ahead. What do you do? Thank him for saving you the other night, despite how awkward he made you feel? Chastise him for yelling at you the night before that? Perhaps you need to go back a little further. Perhaps you just need to start over all the way. Try something old-fashioned.

You clear your throat and extend your hand for him to shake.

He stares at it without moving. Beside you, Gillian grunts, affronted on your behalf. Irritation rises up in you, too, and a snarky remark bubbles up from your heart. Before it can pop out of your mouth, however, he shifts, and you see the sleeping child in his arms. The irritation snuffs out. Katherine swoops in and takes the kid. Then, he’s able to reach out his own hand and connect with you.

There’s a beat.

Again, you come to the realization that you haven’t thought beyond this point. You should say something. Or, he should say something. Neither of you say anything. Instead, Katherine and Gillian talk over each other.

“This is—” the both offer at the same time. Then comes the awkward dance of insisting the other go first, but you and he wake from the still moment.

“Bunnymund,” you say. He says your name in much the same way: neutral, straining. The standstill resumes.

“Greetings,” comes a new voice behind Bunnymund. Adrenaline surges through your veins as a werewolf closes in, claws outstretched.

You stumble back, nearly going down and taking Gillian with you. There’s a small commotion as Gillian flings himself between you and the werewolf, Katherine shouts, the child wakes and starts crying, and Bunnymund restrains the werewolf—who backs down with a confused look on his face. Gillian helps you up. Bunnymund turns to you.

“He’s a friend. This is Skreeklavic Shadowbent, leader of the werewolves. He’s here to help.”

You think you haven’t heard quite right. “Leader of the werewolves that attacked me the other night?”

“As of the moment, my people are under the proverbial thrall of an interloper,” Skreeklavic replies. “I can explain further at Big Root.”

“Will you also explain the other angle to this whole… ordeal that Andre and North mentioned?”

“What?” Bunnymund says. “What part did they leave out and why?”

“I feel that’s something you should’ve worked out with them once you got back from helping me with the werewolves the other night.”

“I didn’t—” He pauses and nods. “The time travel part.”

“Excuse me?” Gillian says. Bunnymund just motions to follow him back to Big Root.

Bunnymund draws out a familiar-looking bundle and sets it on the table. He unwraps it, and you finally see the glossy green egg. He pauses, eyes darting over everyone except you. You swallow a snort.

He really has an aesthetic, doesn’t he? The egg spy from the roof, this thing.

Gillian doesn’t have the same self-control. He chuckles and nudges you with his elbow. “Of course it’s an egg.”

One of Bunnymund’s ears twitches. “Yes,” he says. “My mentor was fascinated with ‘em. Anyway—”

“Ooh, cool! Are they a rabbit like you? Can we meet them?” Gillian asked. Katherine makes a strained noise in her throat, but Bunnymund isn’t too shy to immediately answer.

“No. He’s long gone. Anyway—”

“I’m so sorry,” you say. He brings himself to flick his eyes to you for one second.

“Anyway, this artifact can take a person through time. In fact, you—” He gestures to you. “—handed this to me at the subway station from somewhere else in time that night.”

“That’s why you got hyperdefensive when I pulled you up from the tracks.”

“Mhm.”

The two of you pretend not to notice Gillian, Katherine, and the rest lean in, curious. You clear your throat.

“So, you’re saying this time egg—”

“Artifact.”

“—Artifact came from a random place in time.”

“From the future, I believe,” he replies. “Because you… you knew my given name.”

You remember the excited sparkle in his eyes from when you repeated that name in the garage right before getting dragged to the bar. “Aster?”

“Mhm.”

You keep ignoring the others leaning in even closer. “It’s a nice name.”

“Just ‘Bunny’ will do, thanks.”

“How does it work?” Gillian cuts in. “I know it’s all magic and such, but why bother bringing us here if you can just go back in time and sort it all out?”

“Do you even need to be here?” Bunny snaps.

“He’s my friend, here at my request,” you reply firmly, pressing your lips thin to prevent yourself from stuttering. “Any important information I need to know, he needs to know, too.”

There’s a threat implicit in your tone, one you’re pretty sure doesn’t pass muster in front of a bunch of magicians and immortals. But Gillian slips his hand in yours and squeezes, and you know you made the right bluff. At the very least, even if they can call it right away, they’ll know you have teeth. You’ll learn how to use them better.

Once again, Bunny just nods and says, “Mhm.

“So, to answer your question, time travel works mostly how you think it would. Using this artifact or his mirror—” He points at Ombric. “—you will be transported through time. Technically you can travel anywhere on the timeline, provided it’s already happened, but your life timeline is easier to get to.

“The timeline is flexible, but it likes to keep a certain shape. Say a boulder falls on a raccoon in the year 1800. You can go back and save the raccoon at that moment, but you’ve only bought it a temporary reprieve. It’s still likely to die soon, probably by being crushed by a tree or a different boulder.”

No one says anything for a moment, and then North crosses his arms. “Quite, uh, quite macabre example, Bunny. But I follow your logic.”

“What if you brought the raccoon to the present?” Gillian asks. “Would it be doomed to be run over by a rickshaw? Or a train?”

“Maybe?” Bunny replies.

“So, time is fixed? Nothing matters?” you murmur. You mean to say it to yourself, but the whole room turns to you. Bunny’s ears drop and he rubs his paws over his eyes.

“Oh boy, I’m explaining this wrong. It’s not that things don’t matter. It’s not that we’re ‘doomed,’ that’s a bad word for this. I’m just saying the timeline hates wrinkles, and it’ll try to un-wrinkle itself as much as possible. To go back to that poor raccoon again, if it originally got crushed by a boulder in 1800, but you go back further and bring the baby raccoon to the present, you might accidentally crush it in your hands. Or, it’ll be well-taken care of for its expected ten years and then slip off a step.”

“What Bunny is trying to say,” Ombric says, “is that the wrinkles vary in intensity. It’s rare that saving a raccoon from a grisly fate would result in a massive shift of consequences for the timeline. Whereas it would be quite an intense change to…” He gives a chuckle. “To try and prevent the eruption of Thera, which decimated my home of Atlantis way back when. Nowadays, it’s called Santorini and looks quite different.”

You process that, starting to understand the mechanics of it all. “So, what does that mean for what’s going on now?” you ask.

“I can answer that.” Skreeklavic says. “The werewolves have a legend. Long ago, an entity called the Stranger appeared to my people during a time of peace. It insinuated itself into our community, and when it had earned a level of trust, it tried to stir up unrest. We resisted, but then the crops failed, and there was little game caught. It then tried to sow disharmony by implying a conspiracy to let food be scarce. Some agreed with the notion, but many did not. The next year, the same thing happened. This time, more people agreed with the Stranger’s idea, but the majority kept them in check. Until the next year, when food became especially scarce.

“This time, the Stranger blamed the one who had been in charge of resources, twisting the unfortunate string of coincidences as proof that our lifestyle was an affront to nature itself. This time, it managed to influence just enough people to induce a schism. The ancestors of my pack managed to get away largely unscathed, and ever since, we have kept watch to make sure the Stranger did not infiltrate us again.

“Alas, despite our best efforts, the warning faded into being a mere story. Then, it was too late, and I found myself the scapegoat of its most recent attempt.” He nods to you. “I do not think it is a coincidence that Bunny’s artifact went missing right as the Stranger returned, nor do I think its interest in you is random. I am deeply sorry that you have been mixed up in this. I will do my best to correct it quickly.”

“As will we all.” North claps his hands on Bunny’s and Skreeklavic’s shoulders.

It’s of some comfort, even if you have a terrible feeling that this is barely the tip of the iceberg of conflict.

Jet lag catches up to you and Gillian around early afternoon. Despite napping before you traveled, the stress of learning about time travel and this Stranger all in one day knocks the energy out of you. Even Gillian, who was seemingly too excited to be tired. He sinks like a stone, and it’s not long before you hear his even breathing. You drift in and out for several hours until insomnia sets in. The early evening light streaming in between the slats probably doesn’t help, either. You get up, envious of Gillian’s easy sleep. As you exit your room, a familiar urge starts building. That’s when you realize you have no idea where the bathroom is.

You open the nearest door only to be met with a closet, a pile of books, and a completely bare room. You shift uncomfortably. Not in emergency territory yet, but you need to find something soon. So, you start throwing every door open.

A workshop. Another workshop. A third workshop—although maybe it’s the same one, but with multiple entrances. Another old room. A library, and then several more, strengthening your theory of rooms having multiple entrances, even where they logically couldn’t. This is a wizard’s house, after all.

You try to keep breathing evenly as the pressure mounts. The last thing you need is to un-dam the anxiety on top of this. It’s not that big a deal. It just seems immortals may have fewer certain needs than humans and tend to forget about that.

Closet. Closet. Another fucking closet. None of them water closets!

You start skipping doors. Why are there so many doors? There can’t be enough square meterage in this tree to hold all these rooms and hallways. You don’t turn around, but you get the feeling you wouldn’t be able to find the way back to your room by yourself.

You power through an intersection without looking. Wrong move, as someone gives a shout and barrels into you. You throw your hands out to restabilize only to find your equilibrium doubly upset. Because you’re not in the intersection, not quite yet. You are falling into it, though. There is a shout, however, and a hand stops you from falling.

It’s Bunny. He has an odd look on his face, but now isn’t really the time to decipher it.

“Can you please, show me where the bathroom is?” you ask.

Understanding crosses his face. He points down a hallway and says, “Follow me.”

Chapter Text

He leads them through the hallways, pausing once or twice to count the doors. Ombric’s been busy since he returned from his voyage years ago. Spent a century out in space and now his house is more cluttered than ever. Bunny pokes his head through a few doors. He knows there are shortcuts around here somewhere. That wizard only keeps one bathroom consistent, and it’s the one he created when he adopted Katherine, who was a mortal child at the time. She doesn’t even live with him anymore, but it’s baked into the fabric of this place.

Bunny checks over his shoulder. The human trudges behind him. Not squirming in discomfort, but adults usually don’t. He thinks. It’s rare that adults have enough belief to see him, so he’s never really developed the right interaction skills with them. He does know that treating them like larger children usually doesn’t go over well, though. So, he says nothing and continues silently leading the way through the dark house like a confident burglar. Finally, they close in. He’s right about to point, right about to say, “There, at the end of the hall,” when they charge past him. He stops. They hurry to the end of the hall and grab the knob of the correct door. Then they look at him, confused.

“You said this one, right?”

He wants to answer “No” for the sake of precision: no, he did not say anything, are they messing with him, and for what reason? Instead, he nods. They wrench open the door and slam it behind themself. He’s left alone in the hallway staring at the closed door.

I guess that’s it, he thinks, I can go. He doesn’t move. They won’t be able to find their way back by themself. Right. He can guide them. It’s the least he can do. Absolute bare minimum, even.

The toilet flushes. The faucet kicks on and off. The human exits, looking relieved. They startle when they see him still there, and in the proceeding quiet, their stomach growls.

This is stupid, Bunny finally realizes. I’m being stupid.

“Let me get you something to eat,” he says.

“Oh! No, it’s fine. I—”

“Please.” He folds his hands together. “I shouldn’t have let the weirdness get this far out of hand. Even with circumstances being what they are, there’s no reason I should be acting this way to you. Please, let me make it up to you.”

They un-tense and then reply, “Okay.”

The kitchen takes another journey and a half to find. It’s well-stocked for once. Katherine’s doing, probably. She’s the only regular visitor around here with her head screwed on. Then again, even she forgot one of the more important things in the care and keeping of mortals, so maybe it’s just sheer luck from all of them.

He starts opening cabinets, the ice box, and the pantry to see what he’s working with. “Any requests?” he asks.

“Wagyu beef tartare topped with sturgeon roe pâté and seasoned with saffron.”

Bunny slowly turns to them. They stand there, arms crossed, back straight, chin held high. The corners of their mouth turn up slightly. He feels himself start to smirk, too, but he wrestles it back in favor of a deadpan stare to match their challenge. They fold almost immediately, snickering. Bunny snorts.

“‘Fraid I’m a little short on ingredients.”

“Ah. Shame. I’m good with almost anything, really.” They think for a second. “Nothing too heavy?”

“Hmm…” He takes stock of the kitchen again. They shiver and wrap their arms around themself. “Cold?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s spring, but New York is cozier than this.”

He grabs some vegetable broth and hovers his hand over a sack of potatoes. “How hungry are you?”

“Enough to notice, but not starving.”

“Think you can wait an hour and a half? It’s late out.” He grabs a few potatoes, several carrots, and an onion.

“It feels like the afternoon to me. I can wait.”

In that case, he knows what to make. It’s simple, but it’ll do. He scrounges up a few old, but probably still good dry herbs, a jar of peas from the ice box, and a small store of barley. He gets the broth going and sets to chopping everything. Once everything is in the pot and simmering for the next while, he joins them where they’ve sat at the small kitchen table. Like most everything in the house, it’s cluttered with random nonsense. They gently push it out of their way.

“So,” they begin. “You’re Bunnymund. The Easter Bunny.”

“That I am.”

“You cook.”

“I’m better at baking and chocolate.”

“Makes sense for your line of work.”

He laughs and scratches his head. “Yeah, a lot of what’s associated with me and the others is actually true. A little on the nose. But that’s just my life.” He nods to them. “What about yours?”

“I’m one of thousands of artists trying to make it in the big city.”

“How’s that going?” Their wry smile drops a bit. Bunny holds up his paws. “I’m not trying to pry or anything, you don’t—”

“You’re fine. It’s just not where I wanted it to be after ten years. I got a solo gallery opening at this small place called i farfalle a few years ago, but I haven’t been able to land anything since. I keep bugging the assistant curator at my job about upcoming juries, but I rarely make it past the application stage, never past the second round. Not even for a multi-artist showcase.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He stirs the broth. “What kind of art?”

“Painting-slash-multimedia. I work on canvases with oils and tempera, but I’ll incorporate charcoal, graphite, and small found objects.” They laugh. “I took a shine to Jackson Pollock when I was young, and I’m so glad I got to see some of his last remaining paintings in person. You know, he never primed his canvases and used paint that easily degrades. Very ephemeral. An Abstract Expressionist through and through.”

They start talking about their favorite artists and key inspirations. A lot of 20th century postmodernists, some early 21st century contemporary jokesters. It’s odd for Bunny to comprehend. For him, it’s like these artists existed just yesterday. For the human, they’re long a part of history, hindsight placing them into categories easy to build linear narratives around. They drop some names that shock him; when had time progressed past those artists’ lifetimes? What year did they end up dying, and how had he missed it? He tries to remember the last time he wandered the human cities just because—not on a mission, not for Easter prep—and he simply can’t. It hasn’t crossed his mind to do it in so long. He settles in to listen to them ramble, fascinated.

After a pause in their gushing, he asks, “So, are you currently working on anything?”

They nod. “Yeah, I’ve been creating a sort of journal-painting series. A way to look back on my life over the course of a week, and then several over the course of months.” They frown. “It’s been difficult to work on it over the last few days, though. Due to everything.”

“Sorry,” he replies. He scoops some barley into a bowl and then floods it with the soup. He places it in front of them and they wrap their hands around it. The warmth makes them sigh in relief.

“It smells great.”

He watches as they tip the first spoonful into their mouth, a whisper of uncertainty creeping up on him. It’s been a long time since he cooked for someone else. This is incredibly simple, and they’re used to dining on the vast, diverse array of metropolitan cuisines. But they light up and start attacking the bowl.

“This is wonderful!”

He’s relieved, though he shrugs nonchalantly. He sits across from them again. “It’s nothin’ special.”

“I could stare at a whole pantry and take three times as long to come up with something half as good. I’m still relying on meal kits half the time. This is genius.”

“Well…” It’s always nice to be complimented. “Thanks.”

The bowl doesn’t last much longer. After they finish, they both sit in silence again, but it’s far more comfortable than the others they’d shared before. A few minutes later, the human suddenly sits up straight and looks out to the hallways.

“Shit,” they hiss. Bunny follows their stare, fur on end, anticipating an intruder. “My meds are back in the room.”

He laughs at himself for that, then quickly assures them it’s not anything they did. He picks up the bowl to wash. “C’mon, then. We’ll be able to get you there quick enough.”

“Good,” they reply. “If I don’t take it regularly, I start seeing the bad future.”

Bunny pauses at the sink. He thinks about them on the taiga, counting steps. Two hours ago, rushing to the bathroom door he had yet to show them.

“Can you?” he asks, looking them dead in the eye. “See visions of the future?”

“No,” they say, definitive. Then their brow furrows. They stare through the table, thinking. “N-no?”

“Because a few days ago, we were attacked by shadows that came through a time rift. You—you from sometime in the near future—also came through. You yanked me out of danger long before it happened.”

They look at him like they’d done the night they met. They shake their head. “I’ve never. Before. I’m not a wizard, I wasn’t born with powers.”

“Most aren’t. They learn. How long have you had your chronic anxiety?”

“Since about ten. I had my first existential panic attack because the future was unknowable but coming anyway.” Something about that memory, though, catches them. “I think. I’ve had so many that it’s like seeing double sometimes… But maybe it’s been a little worse in the last few weeks.”

“I ask because—and I don’t mean to scare you, but I think you ought to know—if you are an oracle, I think that tells us why the Stranger would be after you.”

Their face immediately takes on a wan affect. They interlace their fingers together in front of them on the table and stare at them. Bunny winces. He truly hadn’t meant to raise an alarm. They have proven neither that the human’s an oracle nor that that’s why the werewolves attacked them. But he can understand why a normal person might be thrown off by it.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He hovers a hand over their shoulder for a second, then places it on them. They glance at it. Their gaze goes up his arm to his face. They don’t shrug it off. A decent sign. “We don’t have to figure it out right now. Sleep on it, and we’ll ask Ombric tomorrow.”

They laugh sardonically. “I don’t think I’m sleeping after this.”

“Don’t worry.” Bunny digs out a crystal from his bag. “I know a guy. Let’s get back to the room.”

Sandy meets them at the guest room. The human carefully extracts their medication from their bag. Before Bunny can offer to grab water, they choke it down dry, grimacing and shivering. They climb into bed and settle down. As they do, Bunny catches sight of a large rectangle propped up to the side. From the light of Sandy’s glow, he can just see that it’s one of their paintings. Not quite abstract, but very expressive. It seems colorful, but he can’t see the fullness of the colors right then. He catches their eye and taps the edge of the canvas board.

“Very nice,” he says.

They wince and look up to the ceiling. “No, I’m so behind on it for this week.”

“You’ve got time. I promise.” He smiles. They return it. “G’night”

“Night.”

With a flick of his wrist, Sandy sends them to sleep. Bunny takes another look at the painting. The house in it is rendered so vividly, so lovingly, that he suspects they know this house well. Their childhood home? A partner’s? Many fictional depictions of the Easter Bunny and Santa and the others bestow an omniscience to them they don’t actually have. He wishes it were true. It would make some things easier. His job is to protect children and make sure they grow up content and well-adjusted; the dark figure in the corner and their anxiety suggest a failure. Bunny brushes it off before he can lose himself to the mire of useless “What-Ifs.”

“They asleep?” he asks.

He turns to see Sandy teasing their dream out above their head. The golden sand shapes into a rabbit. Into him. Sandy looks at him, one eyebrow raised and a wry smile on his face.

“No,” Bunny says. Sandy switches eyebrows. “There’s a million and a half reasons why it’d be inappropriate even if I was interested.”

Sandy shrugs and floats away. Bunny starts closing the door when a strange shuffling catches his attention. He swerves back. The other human—Gillian, was it?—babbles in his sleep before turning over. Bunny waits. Gillian’s breathing returns to normal, and Bunny shrugs. He shuts the door and starts the search for Ombric to tell him his suspicions.

Chapter Text

“Three of… clubs?”

Ombric hums and lays down the ace of clubs. “Go fish,” he says.

It would be humiliating enough if the only person you were failing in front of was the most powerful wizard on Earth (self-proclaimed), but others have opted to watch the assessment. According to Ombric, it’s a rare opportunity to see how magic manifests in standard adults rather than children and/or people from Santoff Claussen who grow up believing from birth. There are about ten other people crammed in the room besides you and him: one good werewolf, one Gillian, three Guardians, and five students. After an hour and a half, you’re fifty-five-fifteen-thirty on intuiting cards and hidden objects: most completely correct, some dead wrong, a lot mixing up details like suit and value, or color and size. The pressure is getting to you, and you’re taking deep steady breaths to keep the shaking at bay.

A bell gongs outside, marking noon. Ombric dismisses his students for lunch and sees them out. As soon as they leave, you release all the tension in your body and slump onto your arms, covering your face.

“I think we’re done here,” you say.

“I would agree, but Ombric is thorough,” North replies. He, Sandy, and Katherine were quiet throughout the assessment. On the one hand, it was nice not to feel pressured by any input; but on the other hand, an unresponsive crowd might be even more unnerving. North continues, “He perhaps has three or more other trials to give exact determination. I think you have proven your ability, though you will need training to use it properly and call upon it at will. Bunny also seems sure of your abilities.”

A swirl of sand chimes as it bursts outward from Sandy. The faint tinkling make North and Katherine do a double-take. They glance at each other and then shrug. Sandy just looks privately pleased with himself. You inhale slowly.

“That’s… cool, I guess, but can we put that off a bit? All this attention is giving my meds too much of a workout—”

“Medication?” Ombric re-enters the room. “What medication?”

“For anxiety,” you say.

He throws up his hands. “Well, why didn’t you say something earlier!”

“I… it’s none of y’all’s business?”

“Yeah, they need it to function normally,” Gillian says, raising his voice to aggro the attention. “I’ve seen them without it. You don’t want to.”

You silently thank him for speaking up. He responds with a wink and a pair of finger guns. Truth be told, you figured Bunny, North, or Sandy would have said something if it was relevant.

“No, no, don’t misunderstand me.” Ombric paces a tight circle on the door’s threshold. “But the same chemistry that keeps neurons from overreacting also dampens the ability to use and perceive some magics, including prophecy and scrying. Therefore, we will need to repeat this trial again once it has passed from your system. Please refrain from taking the medication again.”

You clasp your hands together to keep from swinging at him. Instead, you say, “No.”

“Did you not hear me just now?” Gillian asks. “They need those meds.”

“They also need to confirm how deep their abilities run so we can determine exactly what is at stake should they be captured!”

“Father!” Katherine storms over to him, standing between you two. “This is no way to treat our guest. They are under a lot of stress lately, much of it due to our business inadvertently involving them. We are here to try and alleviate that stress, not cause more of it.”

“Which I will be better able to do once I have a full assessment of their abilities!”

“What the heck am I walking in on here?”

You all turn to one of the myriad of doors on the walls. Bunny crosses the threshold, and you suppress the urge to laugh at the sight of him. Not at his expense, but in sympathy.

His fur is uneven, sticking up in places due to flecks of paint or dried dye, and his ears fall in slightly different directions. The leather bandolier that crosses his body is in disarray. Brushes are shoved into pockets and slots with no care or order. Many of them glisten, un-rinsed from last use. He holds a small, steaming cup in one paw and a squirming, unpainted egg in the other. He raises the egg up to his face, pursing his lips as it gets close. At the last moment he stops, squints at the object in his hand, and then brings up the cup to take a sip. He sets the egg on a table, as well as his satchel.

He looks like how you feel in the week leading up to one of the gallery’s annual galas. You swear you can see under-eye bags through his fur. Bunny looks around at everyone.

Ombric says, “They lean strongly toward confirming your suspicions, but I couldn’t come to a definitive conclusion due to outside factors.”

“Bunny, is that coffee?” Katherine asks.

He takes another sip. “Yeah. I stopped in Türkiye on my way here.”

Mild horror crosses Katherine’s face. Bunny just blinks blearily and nods to Ombric.

“You’ve been using that mirror again?”

It’s not a question, even though it’s phrased like one. Ombric stiffens and clasps his arms behind his back. His face becomes neutral, but not neutral enough to evade suspicion. Not to mention a chatterbox of a man going silent is a dead giveaway. Bunny sighs.

“Let’s go see it,” he says, and he starts heading out the door. The rest move to follow, including Gillian. At the door, he pauses and motions for you to follow.

“C’mon. I wanna see this.”

“It sounds like Guardian business,” you say.

“Who cares? The rabbit mentioned it in his time travel presentation. Sounded like another time machine or… I dunno, it can scry on the past. I want to see it, and frankly, you deserve to know this stuff with everything going on.”

You admit, seeing the time egg that started this whole mess was one of the most intriguing parts of the adventure so far. A magic mirror in the mix? Sounds even more fascinating. You follow Gillian when a pitter-patter behind you makes you glance back. The egg Bunny left skitters from one edge of the table to another, peeking over the sides. You rush over before it can commit to jumping, startling it.

“It’s okay,” you tell it.

Gillian hisses for you to hurry up. You hold out a hand. It contemplates for a moment before stepping into your palm. You close your other hand around it, like you used to do with captured anoles in elementary school. There’s a weird, textural contrast between the shell and the feet. It’s reminiscent of a peeled hardboiled egg: solid yet has a slight give. It’s not a disturbingly wrong texture, so you hold it close to your body and rush to catch up with Gillian.

The room housing the mirror has only one entrance. It’s more of a walk-in closet, which leads to everyone milling around the entrance to avoid squeezing together. The mirror reaches up and up, as high as the vaulted ceiling that makes up this space. It’s a beautiful piece. You half expected it to be cloudy, but the glass reflects a crisp image from what you can see. The frame around it is decorated with a mix of organic lines and curlicues as well as bold geometric shapes, all in a shining, untarnished silvery metal. Bunny runs a paw over its surface, and you swear there’s a slight bump. Not quite a ripple, but it seemed pliant. Next to him, Ombric is trying to justify himself.

“It was just a quick jaunt to see if I could see anything odd or useful to help with our current predicament—”

“I don’t want any of you messin’ around with time without me here to watch,” Bunny says. He drains his cup. “There are enough factors right now. No need to muddy the water with more wrinkles. Especially this close to Easter.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please, let’s just get through the weekend before we try anything stupid.”

“Where’d you go?” Gillian pipes up. The Guardians startle and turn, as if suddenly remembering you two exist. Gillian leans forward, eager, but rather than let Ombric answer, Bunny focuses on you.

“You tested them, right?” he asks the wizard.

Ombric had already opened his mouth to reply to Gillian. He stumbles over his words to reroute his answer. “Oh yes! However, as said previously, I have hit a few snags.”

“I’m not not going to take my meds,” you say.

The egg wriggles in your hand suddenly, alerting you to your tightening grip. You release one hand. The egg shakes itself before settling into your one cupped palm. Bunny flicks his eyes to it, then between you and Ombric.

“Hang on, what?”

Ombric lets out a long, theatrical, beleaguered sigh. He steeples his fingers in a way reminiscent of your teachers in high school. The condescension made your blood boil then, and it does so now.

“Anti-anxiety medication can dampen the connection to the metaphysical and strengthen the connection to the physical,” he explains slowly. You don’t even bother to hide your frown. “They will have to let it flush from their system before I can effectively assess them.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Bunny asks, “They can’t have visions at all on the medicine?”

“No, I’m confident the innate ability is there. My assessment today assured that. However—”

“Dampened. Incomplete. Right, right.” Bunny looks at you. “Would you be comfortable taking less? For a little bit. Just so we can see what you’re working with.”

Every word comes out like a plea. Maybe because he’s so tired and so fed up. Maybe he simply has fewer filters, like Gillian. Regardless, his tone is genuine enough that it puts you at ease. On top of that, he shushes Ombric’s next objection.

“I can see about halving or quartering my dose for a month. I’ll need to see a therapist alongside it, though.”

“There’s at least one person in town,” Bunny says, nodding at the wall. “Just make sure they’re actually a practicing psych and not a hobbyist.”

“We also have several exercise studios, if that will help,” Ombric mumbles. You’re not entirely thrilled with this compromise, either, but it’s nice to see the “great wizard” humbled a bit.

“Thank you,” you reply.

“Great. Now, if you two don’t mind, I’d like to discuss a few things privately with them.” Bunny gestures to the Guardians and Skreeklavic. You nod and back out of the room.

“We’ll see you at party tonight!” North calls.

“Mhm,” Bunny agrees, tapping a claw against the glass. It imperceptibly moves again. The last you see of him is one ear twitching, his head swivels, and he asks, “The what?”

Gillian is already ahead of you, swerving around a corner. The egg is still in your hand, so you carefully cup your hands around it again so you can jog to catch up.

“Gill!” you say. He hesitates for a half-step before continuing. “Gill?”

You put on a burst of speed and catch his shoulder as he rounds another corner. He jumps and yanks away from your hand.

“Fucking stop!” he shouts.

“Where are you going, the room—”

“The fucking bathroom!”

“Oh.” You should have figured. “Sorry, I’ll be in the room.”

Gillian opens his mouth to say something, but you’re done. You turn on your heel and book it to the guest room. You release the egg onto your bed and try to decide what to do. There are still hours to go before the party starts, but at this point you’re not sure if you want to go. Your gaze catches on the canvas you’ve been neglecting. Good as any other distraction.

You drag out your oil paints and run to the kitchen for a large cup of water. No spillcloth available; you figure the wizard can magically clean dried paint off old wood. As you lean the canvas up against the wall, something stabs your thumb. Right, the glass shards in the paint. Best to fix that before doing anything else. A few coats of shellac should help blunt the shards’ edges and ensure none fall off. Glass has a tendency to sneak into the tiniest crevices. You set down a tube of paint on your pallet, open a window, and carefully apply the first coat.

Five minutes later, you emerge from the fumes, coat one finished and drying. Now you just need to think about how to summarize the last few days in a painting session. Your right hand sinks into something cold, wet, and slimy. You jump from the gross texture, but when you look it’s just your forgotten pallet… smeared with the same paint that’s now on your hand.

That’s not how I left that.

The culprit continues to slide itself through the pigment, rolling like a dog in mud so that as much color coats its shell as possible.

“Hey!” you say.

The egg freezes, then tries to run. It’s a small matter of dropping your hand over it. The paint is slick, so you nearly fumble it a few times as you lift it up. It’s covered in an unflattering rusty red. The paint piles in soft humps, disastrously undistributed. The egg regains its balance and promptly rolls around in the paint on your hand.

“Oh, please don’t do that.”

The egg pauses. It has no face, but the way it’s angled makes it seem like it’s looking directly at you, which is a little perturbing.

“You’re really into paint, huh?”

It doesn’t answer, but it not-so-surreptitiously slides its foot through the paint.

“Can I at least help you look nice?”

The egg almost falls out of your hand jumping for joy.

You dig out your tempera paints and spend some time wiping the red off the egg. You fully intend to return this weird little thing to it… owner? Caretaker? To Bunny as soon as possible, so you grab the extra quick-drying stuff. Not all the red stain comes off, but that just forces you to get creative in your color scheme. It’s been years since you colored eggs, and you’d always used dip-dye. You briefly consider making a crude wash with your pigments, but that’ll take too long. You grab a thin brush and dip it in some yellow to start laying a grassy texture at the foot end.

There’s no plan, only instinct and vibes, but those are enough to while away a few hours. By the time the loose colors are on, you’re fully in the zone and relaxing—as much as you can relax when your canvas won’t sit still. Between coats, you add more layers of shellac and dig out that square of resin the shopkeeper gave you. You tack it to the front of the house, as if delineating a window in the front door. No window exists there in your actual childhood home, but it feels like the proper place. You also sketch a rough copy of the egg and its design to fill in later. After about an hour or two passes, Gillian wanders back into the room. He takes one look at you, hunched over on the floor like a shrimp, and flops onto his bed with a huff.

“You okay?” you ask. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I think the travel is finally catching up to me is all.”

“You gonna catch a nap before the party?”

“I think I might just skip altogether, actually.”

Social butterfly Gillian skipping a soiree? The same Gillian who is always a temporary hire for the gallery’s winter gala because he’s that good with people? He may be the one-sided enemy of NYC hipsters, but the tourists and VIPs love him. Hell, he’s half the reason the bar has so many regulars.

“No really.” You drop your voice a bit. “What’s wrong?”

He sits up and glares at the egg. “Did the rabbit put you up to that?”

“No, I—”

“He’s a fucking asshat.”

“Uh, okay, well—”

Gillian looks up from rifling through his bag. “You don’t think so anymore? He literally chased you down the block in the dead of night.”

“He’s a little stressed out. You’ve put up with me during gala planning. And I’ve seen you during Super Bowl prep.”

Gillian unwraps a weed gummy and crumples the paper in a single fist. He bites it in half and chews as if he’s trying to punish it. He starts to re-wrap the other half, then glances at the egg again. He tosses the other half in his mouth. “Still an ass. I’m gonna go to sleep.”

He pulls his arms into his oversize shirt to get his binder off and deposits it into his open suitcase. Then he stops.

“Sorry, it’s just been… There’s a lot happening I didn’t expect. Night.”

“Night,” you reply.

Gillian turns over and soon enough his breathing evens out. You turn your attention back to the egg, adding a few more details and layers until it stops fidgeting so much. By then, the sun is sinking, and the streets buzz with the excitement of the impending event. You leave the window open to air out the fumes a bit more and get yourself ready.

Chapter Text

It feels as if a woodpecker has taken up residence in the back of his head. Every word North says, every question Skreeklavic asks about the mirror, every excuse Ombric gives for going off on his tiny, itsy-bitsy excursion hammers at him until he’s at the brink. The coffee allowed him to be civil in front of the humans, but he was grateful when they left without fighting. The Gillian man did, a bit. Or he wanted to, but the other one wrangled him into reasonability.

Now North is saying something about a party tonight?

“The what?” he asks. Skreeklavic chimes in before North can answer.

“He told me he has organized a pre-Easter celebration in your honor!” The werewolf looks amused. “I’m very curious how you all celebrate the holidays you run. I don’t know why I thought you would organize it yourself, though; this is too busy a time for much more than making sure the holiday goes through.” He pauses as he takes Bunny in, who is once again glad he can’t blush when scrutinized. He glances behind Skreeklavic. North goes very still and averts his eyes from Bunny. Skreeklavic says, “It does make sense that the others would take up that task.”

He's so sincere that Bunny swallows his objection, turning it into a momentary full-body tense-up. Then he exhales slowly and says, “Yeah. Hope you enjoy.”

North also relaxes as Bunny launches into every single reason why Ombric cannot, under any circumstances, mess around with time right now.

“I can sense when people hop through it.” His voice is even, almost robotic. The woodpecker in his brain drills harder. “If we’re right and the Stranger is planning on jumping around itself, then I need clear senses to know when we have to spring into action. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes.” The wizard looks sour. Too bad for him.

“Fantastic,” Bunny replies. “Then let’s have a good few more days. After Sunday, we’ll discuss next strategies.”

As if not hearing the “After Sunday” part, Ombric launches into a list of times he was thinking of going back to once given the all-clear. Some of it makes sense. Most of it is completely asinine. Some of it he suspects Ombric is simply intrigued with but has no concrete argument as to why he should go there. Peck, peck, peck. Bunny continues to stare at him, putting so much effort into keeping his expression fixed that he thinks he might break from the strain. Finally, North claps his hands together, filling the room with a blast that rings in Bunny’s ears for a few good seconds.

“If that is all,” North says, “then we should all get ready for tonight. I have last-minute preparations to finish.”

They all file out of the mirror room. Ombric and Skreeklavic head one way together, chatting amiably. Katherine and Sandy head another much the same. North starts for his room, his home away from the North Pole whenever he gets bored with all the ice floes. He turns a corner and is out of sight when Bunny takes a deep breath to quiet the tapping in his mind. It ceases a little. It gives way to enough clarity for Bunny to follow North.

He catches up to him as he turns the next corner. Neither of them speak. Bunny falls into step next to North, matching him movement for movement until they reach his room. North stands there. Doesn’t even reach for the doorknob. Seemingly waiting for Bunny to do something. Bunny’s restraint falls away.

“Do you,” he says in a low tone, “have any idea how embarrassing that was for me?”

North shifts nervously. He doesn’t answer. Anger kicks in.

“Have you ever—in your entire life—ever given half a though to how other people might feel when you steamroll them and make them look incompetent?”

North finally snaps around. “You know I didn’t intend for that!”

“No! Of course, you didn’t! It never even crossed your mind that you were shoving your way somewhere you weren’t needed. It never does.”

“I thought it might help since this year is more difficult than anticipated.” He gives a weak smile and hold up two fingers. “Way I see it, if you are too stressed, we still celebrate. If not, then we get two—”

Bunny backhands his fingers. North takes a half step back. He shakes out his hand before drawing it into himself. His face journeys from surprise to hurt to anger in seconds. Bunny doesn’t care. North isn’t the least bit sorry about this, isn’t listening to him, so why should he?

“If you want to help, keep that buffoon away from the mirror until Monday! Or send some yetis off to do reconnaissance on the werewolves. Or if you can’t spare anyone to go that far, maybe go send a few people to clean up the evacuation route out of town. I brought Skreeklavic in through that way and the sentient vines almost grabbed him. That’s how you can be more helpful!”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you are so concerned with local news now,” North snaps back. “Because you aren’t. You do not care past yourself right now because you’re tired and angry and overwhelmed.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if half my colleagues weren’t so determined to sabotage my day.”

North laughs dangerously. His eyes flash and he smiles with all his teeth. “My mistake, you do care. You care about wrong things and wrong times because they maybe affect you. Mind your own business.”

“I am mindin’!” North has about seven centimeters on him, not counting ears, but Bunny leans up into his personal space regardless. “It’s my time of year, so I have to work hard in order to do my job and—” A manic clarity overtakes him. “And I think you honestly don’t know what it means to work hard for this sort of thing.

“It’s nothing to whip up some toys and give ‘em out. Even if a few kids get lost in the shuffle, they just redirect their energy for next year. They spend one or two months beforehand getting pumped full of happy songs, exciting stories, and the promise of gifts. Anyone would love that. Anyone would welcome that nonsense into their heads year after year.”

North looks increasingly uncomfortable. Good. He mutters, “I think I need to call Sandy…” and fumbles in his pocket.

“Meanwhile!” Bunny continues. “Not everyone likes eggs. Not everyone understands eggs and what they stand for. Spring only comes after the drudgery of winter, which often feels like it’ll never end. To say nothing of the Southern Hemisphere, where I have to welcome hope right as it seems like it’s about to die in the fall!

“I fret and care so much because unlike Christmas, Easter takes effort to pull off. That’s why it’s always my holiday getting’ stepped on. The humans have a hundred times more stories about Christmas getting endangered than has actually happened. Because why should the forces of evil go after that’s easy to believe in, when what’s more important is always on shaky ground?”

North crosses his arms and glares. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have to! The big man has enough control over himself that he won’t let the tears fall, but Bunny can see them glistening at their edges. Triumph floods through him. Bunny makes to say something else, but a loud creak behind him makes him turn. He just glimpses a humanoid form disappearing around a corner. The oracle? Their friend? Neither option matters as much as the fact that Sandy hovers less than a meter away. He’s also glancing back at the sound, and a wad of dreamsand swirls at his fingertips.

Oh, Bunny realizes. Oh, he wasn’t kidding.

“Sandy!”

North grabs Bunny, pinning his arms to his sides. Bunny struggles, trying to aim a kick to North’s legs or belly to make him drop him. Sandy re-focuses and approaches, unamused.

“Thought we didn’t ambush people anymore?” Bunny growls.

North snorts. “I’ve known you for hundreds of years, I’ll manhandle you when I need to. And when you need it.”

Sandy shoves the dreamsand into his face. For a second, he thinks he can fight it. It’s not so bad. The next second, he realizes he’s gone limp in North’s grasp.

“I’ll be fine,” he thinks North says. “He can come to party or go home. I do not care.”

Bunny blinks himself awake. There’s darkness all around him, and that puts him on edge at first. Then, his whiskers twinge and let him know it’s not malicious darkness, there’s just something covering his head. His nose twitches as his clipped whisker tingles in a gross way. He’s curled up in a ball with only the tips of his ears sticking out from the covers. It’s not unpleasantly warm, but now that he’s conscious again, it’s starting to get stuffy. He waits just one more moment, listening to make sure he’s alone, and then he throws the blanket off.

Seems like they placed him in a guest room. A temporary one, if the rough, plain walls and closet-like square footage are anything to go by. Bunny stretches and shakes his head. No, that’s unfair. Emergency situation, that’s what this is. He cringes inwardly, but that isn’t an untrue way to frame it.

I’m still being stupid, aren’t I?

Someone shrieks with laughter. They didn’t bother making a window for this room, but it’s a fair guess that the sound is coming from outside. There’s a round of cheers and the muffled sound of glasses clinking together. The party. That’s what it is. He raises a foot but pauses before he brings it down to open a tunnel. It’s an Easter party, according to North. He should attend, right? Besides, what’s he going to do for the next few hours, rearrange the lineups—again? He rubs his eyes, hating the perspective he’s gained from the nap. He’s not quite willing to say he was wrong or that certain others were right, but he can at least view things with lucidity now.

“Fine, I’ll go,” he says, placing his foot on the floor. It’s then he catches himself in the reflection of a glossy water pitcher.

Oh… oh it can’t be that bad, can it?

He finds the nearest mirror and cringes because it’s worse. He spends a few minutes grooming himself, wrangling his fur back into place and trying to get as much dried paint, soil, and plant matter off him as possible. The dye stains on his fingertips and ears are a lost cause he’ll surrender to. When he looks better—and he shudders to think how much worse it was before he slept—he heads through the halls of Big Root.

He stops once on the way. A sharp chemical smell comes from the humans’ guest room. He cracks the door open to see painting supplies loose on one side, like a trail leading to the canvas. He sniffs again. Seems like shellac, oil paints and… eggs? Slightly rotten. He enters the room proper and picks up the nearest jar of paint.

Ah. Tempera. That explains it. He’ll have to let the human know some of their supplies are on the verge of expiring.

Something shifts behind him. He jumps and readies himself only to realize it’s just the other one. Gillian. He rolls over in his sleep and then stills, dead to the world.

Bunny thinks it slightly odd that he isn’t attending the party, but he’s willing to bet a few Santoff Claussen natives aren’t, either. Just a matter of preference. Still, it doesn’t sit well with him to have a human sleeping in a fume-filled room so—He spots the already-open window. Good. One less thing on his mind.

A bout of loud, hearty laughter comes from the gather, and then that distinct, “Ho, ho, ho.” Bunny groans. He doesn’t want to do this. But he rolls his eyes, puts the paint back where he found it, and quietly closes the door. He makes his way outside where the fervor of the party sweeps him up. As much as he hates to give in, the atmosphere is simply infectious.

Chapter Text

You slide into gala mode as soon as you step foot into the party grounds. A polite, neutral smile sits on your face at all times, you correct your posture to be open and welcoming, and your voice pitches up a bit to sound friendlier. It’s not so bad at first. The townsfolk are very excited to chat with you about your first impressions. “Overwhelming, but enchanting” seems to be what comes out most often, followed by “I haven’t seen much yet, but I’d like to.”

Some of the students who observed your assessment that morning come up and bombard you with questions. From their perspective, they’re just innocently engaging with the strange and exciting outsider. To you, it’s an interrogation into your incompetence. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being a know-nothing thirtysomething when a young adult rambles on about something you feel you should understand, but don’t. And then they ask for your opinion. The resin shopkeeper rescues you from that conversation and introduces you to their circle of tradespeople friends. It’s not so bad at first, but by the time the members of the chat circle have changed a few times, you have to politely claw yourself out of the main throng.

The refreshments table sits on a slightly raised deck on the edge of the party. It’s between major waves of guests, so you linger there to enjoy an intact personal bubble and fresh air. From the vantage point on the deck, you can see the entire party. About half consists of people dancing; one entire segment looks like some teenagers having a dance off between ballroom dancers and moshers. Kids weave in and out of everyone’s knees, as they should. There does seem to be more people than you expected, though. At that moment, three soldier-esque people clomp onto the deck, clad in colors and clothing style similar to what Katherine wears. That’s when it occurs to you that the Guardians seem to have their own people.

Glancing around, you see that most of the guests are residents, but there are clumps of people around who look conspicuously separate from the Santoff Claussians. There are more of Katherine’s guards, looking fairly comfortable mingling with the rest. North gestures wildly to a group of large figures who, on second glance make you balk as you realize they’re yetis. You notice the bird-person next; according to what North or Katherine or Andre mentioned at one point, that’s the Tooth Fairy, leader and wrangler of those hummingbirds with hands. Several said hummingbirds hover around her shoulders, and a bunch more wheel around with the children. There are two other full-sized bird-fairies flanking the one you assume is the Tooth Fairy, but they seem to communicate with themselves almost exclusively. Their charge, meanwhile, hovers about ten feet above the ground, chatting with Sandy and a floating, white-haired young adult. You break out in a sweat, not out of fear, exactly, but from suddenly feeling so much smaller and ignorant of the world.

Overwhelming but enchanting, indeed.

You glance back at the wizard house, bitterly wishing Gillian hadn’t chickened out.

No, that’s unkind, you think. He needed rest, so he’s resting.

Something bumps against your leg. You turn to see who it was, but no one is around you. Katherine’s guards head down the other side of the deck. It bumps your leg again, higher up your thigh. Angry now, you swirl around, but again no one is there. Another bump, and you think to look down. The painted egg peeks out of your pocket and then jumps. For a heart-stopping second, you think it’s going to crack when it reaches the ground, and the thought enrages you. After you spent all that time not working on your project and painting it instead. But it lands, unharmed, and you relax. Briefly. As soon as it stabilizes, it starts running into the crowd.

You throw your plate and cup on the table and give chase. It’s surprisingly fast for something so small, and it’s determined to go in a direct line, regardless of how many stepping boots it risks.

“’Scuse me. Sorry. Behind!”

You lose distance as another major wave of people heads to the food table. A few look at you oddly, but most just avoid you. When the crowd parts, you see why the egg is heading that way.

Bunny skirts the perimeter of the party. He looks a little more put together than the last time you saw him: fur back in place, posture more precise. He still looks a little grim, but that’s not too far off the veneer of stoicism he’s put on all this time. It’s a little funny that he’s staying so far to the sidelines at this party held in his honor, in celebration of his holiday. You run as fast as your fancy shoes allow without getting messed up. You scoop up the egg as you pass, keeping a firm grip on it this time and continue its beeline to Bunny.

You intersect with him about halfway to the bandstand. He looks like he’s about to go wide behind it and out of the crowd entirely. You catch him before he’s able. Not knowing how to start the conversation, you thrust the egg into his face. He flinches, just stopping short of running into it. The egg twirls on your palm and drops to one of its knees. You imagine it’d be doing jazz hands if it had any.

“Please take it,” you say. “It has the survival instincts of an unsupervised toddler.”

Bunny laughs. Not for long, but it’s rich and genuine. He scoops the egg out of your hand and says, “They do, don’t they?” He spins his finger and says to it, “Turn around a few times, lemme see ya.”

The egg rotates, showing off all the details. At once, your face burns and your stomach flips. The downside of wanting people to engage with your art is that they have to actually look at it. You start reminding yourself that it’s okay if it’s not that great, it’s just an egg, you only had a few hours, it’s no big deal if the master egg man is scrutinizing your work—

“You did this?” he asks. You nod mutely. “It’s very nice work. I think my eggs always look nicer in thick pigments, but dye tends to sink in faster, even at its thinnest, for the amount I need to do.”

He starts to place the egg in his satchel, but then deposits it on his shoulder, warning it to hold on. It responds by nuzzling into his cheek fur. Bunny softens a little.

“Adorable,” you say.

He hums in agreement. “I only get around to properly painting a small portion of the eggs each year. Mostly I’m just there to fret over them and clean up the ones that need it.”

“Why not just take more time? Start a little earlier?” you ask. “That’d probably cut into your off time, though.”

Bunny opens his mouth and throws his eyes over to the side. Upon looking, you see all the other Guardians are huddled together and chatting. He closes his mouth and hums again.

“I work with perishables.” He shrugs. “I grow ‘em, harvest ‘em, and paint ‘em in the same place. In fact, we’ve started tilling the egg plant patches already, back in the Warren. First round of planting will be slightly after Easter, but of course, that puts me on a timer for how far out I can start. Can’t deliver rotten eggs, also can’t deliver unripe ones.”

“Why not just deliver permanent eggs? Something egg-shaped, but will last through anything?”

When your parents introduced Easter customs to you as a child, they bought an abundance of reusable eggs that snapped together. Unfortunately, they only lasted maybe three years before disintegrating, and at least one was left unfound in the yard each year. By the time you noticed it, white, fuzzy fungi had already overtaken it and was breaking down the pseudoplastic and whatever treat had been inside. Still, they lasted a long enough while. You didn’t really understand the symbolism until you learned the religious origins years later, but that didn’t mean much to you personally.

Bunny closes his eyes and puts a kind, if exasperated, smile on. “That’s just not how the magic works. Impermanence is the point,” he says patiently. He gets a warm, faraway look in his eyes. “It’s trusting that the sun will rise in the future, even though it has to set again. It’s believing that good times will follow the bad, even if there will be yet more bad times further on. It’s about…”

A memory of the night you met works its way back to you, something about the title he gave himself, something about—

“About having hope?” you say.

He looks at you proudly, but not pridefully, when you say that. It’s almost a little off-putting compared to how you’ve largely known him over the last few days. In many ways it’s closer to the Bunny that rescued you from the basement than the one who accused you of attempted murder. Your face starts to burn at the thought, still bewildered by how attentive that Bunny-from-the-future was to you. On the other hand, maybe it is nice to know that, a little bit from now, you’ll be… friends? Sure.

Bunny then coughs gently and looks a little sheepish. “Ah. Speaking of eggs, though, your tempera paint is about to expire.”

You’re confused for a second, and then the implication of that statement freezes your smile on your face.

“You went into my room?”

He holds his hands up. “Not for any bad reason! I smelled something chemical and was worried. That wizard has called me in more than once to take care of something that got loose because he set an experiment and forgot about it for a month. I was just trying to make my life easier ahead of time.”

You snort. “Hence giving him hell over the mirror?”

“Yes. One hundred percent.”

“In that case, thanks for checking.”

“Course.” Bunny glances back at Big Root. “Y’know I’m surprised your friend is already asleep. Normally human guests can’t see enough of this town if they have a chance to come.”

At that moment, you flip your perspective into the context of Gillian’s insults from earlier. Sure, his complaints are probably overblown in the grand scheme, and the long rest is bound to clear up some agitation, but ever since he enlightened you about Chrissy’s pointed lack of interest in his work, you’ve been trying to be more considerate. If anything, you wish he had been the one with magic. Gillian was personable day and night, incredibly intelligent, and actually enjoyed too much attention. You’re only friends because you got adopted by an extrovert, a tactic that has been your main source of friendship all your life. It’s your fault he’s even here, wrapped up in all this and suffering the cold shoulder from a holiday character.

“Well,” you say, crossing your arms, “he hasn’t exactly been given a warm welcome.”

Bunny waits for a few seconds, then his ears press against his neck.

“Yeah, I guess not. Sorry.”

“I’m not the one who needs your apology.”

“No, you’re not. I’ll talk to him when he wakes up. I actually, uh—” He looks at the cluster of Guardians again. “I’ve got another one of those I need to give someone.”

Foolishness winces through you, though you haven’t the faintest idea why. He has places to be besides here. You literally interrupted his walk over to his friends.

What you say, as you paste your gala smile on again and point between you two, is, “Helluva turnaround from Monday morning, huh?” He chuckles and agrees. “I’ll stop monopolizing your time. You have a good night.”

“Thanks for the egg,” he replies. “See you later.”

He weaves through the crowd once more. Once he reaches the others, you head off by yourself, debating whether to call it a night or not. Halfway back to the food table, the resin shopkeeper catches you again and drags you back into her talking circle. It’s still a little awkward, chatting with strangers about yourself, but you can’t help but warm up to the townsfolk. Every so often, you look over to the Guardians, wondering which one Bunny owes an apology to.

Chapter Text

With the content egg on his shoulder, Bunny feels a little braver approaching North. It doesn’t make this any easier, but the conversation with the human loosened him up a bit. He reaches up to rub the top of the egg. For good luck? Maybe. Luck is as present as the rituals done to attract it. Like most magical concerns, it begins with Belief.

North notices him first. His animated expression withdraws, and he busies himself with his drink. Sandy and Jack watch him, then follow his glare. They, too, go quiet and watch with interest. Can’t keep secrets in this circle. Tooth had apparently been chatting with them, and she continued, unbothered for a moment.

“Not that that was the first time I found stolen dentures under a pillow! So funny what kids will do.” She laughs. When no one else does, her head crest feathers rise and fall a few times. “Guys?”

“Welcome to the party, Bunny,” Jack says. Sandy raises his cup. Tooth lets out a small “Oh!” and tilts her head his direction when a mini-fairy taps the side of her head.

Bunny nods to them, says hello to Tooth, and then says, “Can you and I talk, North?”

“Go ahead,” he replies, gesturing.

Course he isn’t gonna make it easy, Bunny thinks. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he starts. The other three don’t hide their various expressions of disbelief and increased interest. Bunny just focuses exclusively on North, blocking out their silent input. “We have our back and forth—been going at it for years about our holidays—but this was less ribbing and more of a shiv to the gut. Saying that Christmas and wonder are easier to believe in, and implying they’re less important than Easter and hope, was a step too far. I still wish you had told me ahead of time you wanted to plan this party. I didn’t like finding out day of. But you were just lookin’ out. And… you made the right call on the nap. Sorry again.”

North drains his cup, tilting his head back far enough he must be able to see the sky. He slams the cup on the table at his hip, causing everyone in a three-meter radius to jump from the noise. Then, he approaches Bunny, who only realizes what he’s going to do a half-second before it happens. He tries to lean away, but North clasps his arms around him in a crushing hug.

“Apology accepted!” he booms right into Bunny’s ear. Then he slaps Bunny’s back a few times.

“Watch the egg, watch the egg!” Bunny says, but he’s relieved North’s exuberance has returned. North lets him go, Sandy hands him a drink, and Bunny merges into the circle.

“Glad you could make it,” Tooth says to him. She opens her mouth to say something, but instead leans back to listen to her companions as they chirp lowly in that bespoke language of the Sisters of Flight.

Bunny fiddles with his cup. “Thanks. Still got a feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away until after Sunday, but what else can I really do to prep at this point?”

“Not to harp on a point, Cottontail, but we can and will help as much as we can,” Jack says. “What’re the next big steps?”

Bunny nearly accuses this of being an intervention instead of a party, but he clenches his teeth to prevent it from getting out. He swallows it.

“Mostly just herding them to the proper distribution tunnels,” he says instead. “Keeping the older batches together, but not neglecting to mixing in some newer eggs. A whole lot of waiting around for the next twelve hours—”

He stops himself there. Route start is half a day away. He hasn’t even tweaked the route like he meant to days ago. He’s been so caught up in preparing and explaining time travel. They’re individual grains of sand in the process, but he’s finding himself buried up to his neck regardless. After he fails to speak, North claps his hands to Bunny’s shoulders.

“Bunny! Focus! Yes, is too late for small details anymore. You are past point of no return for many things to happen. Tell us what must happen for successful delivery. No polish, just necessity.”

He’s right. North is right. Only overarching solutions. He knows what it’s like. Bunny takes a deep breath, a short list forming in his mind of must-haves possible to complete in half a day. A cry of surprise rushes through the crowd, however. The Guardians all look over to see the crowd parting, letting a giant wolf—Skreeklavic—through. He transforms into his humanoid state, out of breath, the whites of his eyes showing.

“They’re here!” he cries out. “They made it in!”

At once, a low moan starts up on the surrounding streets. Not a moan, a howl. It starts as one voice but rises into an overlapping cacophony of calls, going through round after round until all other chatter and music ceases. The partygoers, from Katherine’s Raconturks to the village civilians press together in the center of the square.

A red light shoots into the air in the northwest. North clenches his shoulder.

“That’s,” he chokes out. “That’s the flare from the evacuation route lookout.”

Wolves stalk from the side streets, growling. A ripple of subtle activity moves through the crowd. The Raconturks and some of the older wizardry students push to the outer edges. Tooth gives a sharp chirp and the Sisters flanking her rise to hover over the ground. Jack and Sandy join them. Bunny lightly taps his foot, trying not to make the movement so obvious. He bids holes to open up along the side streets. North is pale and silent, still staring at the red light. Nevertheless, the yetis scatter around to help. Some shove to the edges to help there, and others push to the center, where the children are being passed for safety. Everyone waits.

The wolves hover at least five meters away. Some pace back and forth. Skreeklavic wades through the party until he’s in front, facing his people.

“My dear pack!” he calls into the silence. The wolves stop pacing and prick their ears up. “Please, I beg of you, think about what you are doing! The Stranger will not make our lands and peoples prosper just because it promises to do so!”

At least one of the wolves pins their ears back and looks to the wolves next to them. For a moment, Bunny allows himself to exhale. A whistle comes from farther up the path. Someone stands in the middle of the road, the only humanoid among the pack. It could be anyone, its features are vague. It wears a black suit and a wide-brimmed hat. A white strip circles its collar. The way it holds itself is too loose, and yet it stands, an offense to gravity. It whistles again. The reluctant wolf returns to their stance.

Skreeklavic steps out from the huddled mass. The Stranger whistles once more. The werewolves pounce.

About half a dozen spring directly at Skreeklavic, burying him with their bodies. All around, the other wolves rush the outward defenses. Raconturks shout their words of power, sending the initial ranks flying. Bunny slaps his hind paw to the ground, opening even more holes and summoning as many stone eggs as he can spare.

“C’mon!” he yells, wrenching himself from North’s grip. That jolts the man out of whatever reverie he’s trapped in, and he immediately signals to the nearby yeti to go to him. The partygoers shriek and cower, but they’re protected well enough. It’ll have to be enough for now.

Bunny flings himself down a tunnel and emerges as close to Big Root as he can to try flanking the pack. He sees the Stranger nearby. It watches the fight, a possible smile on its face. Bunny flings his boomerang at it. The thing doesn’t even turn its head. It doesn’t have to. A wolf dashes out from the melee and leaps in the way. They yip in pain when the weapon hits them and slide over the paving bricks, heaving.

The Stranger turns its head just enough to see Bunny from the corner of its eye. That’s when he sees that it’s cradling something in its arm: round, as large as an emu egg, roughly the same color. This one, however, has a mean crack up its side.

Bunny knew the Stranger was the thief. The shock of seeing the artifact still punches him in the gut and makes him hesitate, and he nearly misses his boomerang when it returns. He catches it and starts advancing on the being. Though it watches him, it still does not move, does not turn to face him. He gets within three meters when the werewolf who took the hit for it stumbles back to intercept Bunny. Two more join them and growl. The Stranger blithely observes the larger fray.

Skreeklavic manages to push the wolves off him, emerging in his own wolfen form. He dashes over to Bunny, feinting a bite at one of the other wolves. He transforms enough to speak.

“Do not hurt them!”

Bunny, about to fling his boomerang, halts and gapes at him. “Are you kidding me?” he shouts. He jumps back to avoid a bite. “Are you kidding me?!”

“They are still my pack,” Skreeklavic pleads. “They are desperate. That’s why they follow it. They are not maliciously evil.”

Across the way, the Stranger turns its head to them, now with an unsettling tilt. Its face stretches wider in what might be a grin, and there is a knowing glint in its eye. It whistles. The pack obeys. One wolf leaps onto Bunny, teeth bared. He shoves the boomerang in its jaws to hold them back. Saliva flies from their mouth as they try to get to him, biting so hard he’s afraid they’ll crack the wood grain of his weapon. The wolf has a crazed look in their eyes and smells of free exuberance. Bunny curls one of his lugs up, ready to kick.

“Gillian!”

He tilts his head at the familiar cry. The oracle human. They’re out from the crowd, dodging the grasp of a yeti. And of course, they’re heading right for the epicenter of danger. Bunny shoves the wolf’s teeth back and gets a solid kick to their stomach. They fly back, yelping and whining. Bunny ignores Skreeklavic’s protest and scrambles to his feet. The last thing these people need is an oracle under their sway. He dodges and dashes through the edge of the fighting, on an intercept course with this reckless human.

Chapter Text

You first get an inkling that something is wrong as you listen to the resin maker. Most of them are artistic to some degree, but they’re working on projects simultaneously from the years 1583 and 2896. That’s a good summary of the town, honestly: too futuristic to be the past, yet too traditional to be the future. A familiar, unwanted dread blossoms in the pit of your stomach. You skipped your evening dose of medication more on accident than as part of the agreement you made, and you regret it. It could be so easy to forget what constant vigilance felt like when it was under control. Now, you’re coasting on your client interaction skills and trying to find a reasonable time to go to bed.

The sensation builds until it suddenly rises like a puff. You start seeing double. Sort of. It’s the thing that happened days ago when the werewolves came after you. Immediately, you start going through your usual methods of keeping the panic down, but you pause.

This is a psychic vision, you tell yourself, trying not to stumble for lack of being able to see properly. This is what future visions feel like. Maybe lean into it? First, you need room and air. You don’t even excuse yourself before you slide back to the now-emptying refreshments area.

The howl begins as you step onto the deck. It chills you down to your heart, which even feels like it misses a few beats. The sounds of the party fall away as everyone catches on and the crowd presses closer together. Many of the guards gently position themselves on the outer rim, some of the yetis going to the center to post up. The good werewolf runs and tries to appeal to his people. Thick tension settles over the crowd as they watch and listen and try to surreptitiously pass their children from the edges to the center.

Their efforts are wasted, you think suddenly mere moments before a whistle cuts the air. You look its direction and break out in a sweat. The loose stance of the figure makes you back into the table and grip for dear life, so preoccupied with the Stranger that you barely register when the wolves attack.

A yeti and some of Katherine’s guards rush to protect the perimeter of the deck. The yeti yanks up one of the tables holding the food and slams it down sideways to create a makeshift barricade. Plates fly off and shatter on the ground.

“Come on!” Another of Katherine’s guards taps your arm and they gesture for you to follow them. You nod and start after them when another wave of sensation passes over you. Disorienting dread and another change in vision. You halt before you topple over, and you rub your eyes. Images flare up before you. This time, you let them overwhelm you.

A vision arrests you. There’s so much information at once. Unlike a dream, where your mind fills in the missing information, no matter how absurd, the vision just plays and you struggle to take note of all the details.

There’s a heightened smell. Caustic—mineral spirits and shellac. The air is cold, but you’re not sure if that’s part of the vision, too, or if you’re still half-aware of your present surroundings. People shuffling, some others running, yet others fighting. An open window. It’s a tight fit, but it works. Then you face Big Root’s front door atop its tall stoop. The door bursts open and two werewolves run out. One carries something that looks like a rolled-up rug over their shoulder. The other pauses and howls. They run to a central point, dropping something to the muddied ground. You force the vision to adjust itself to see what it is.

It's a necklace: a smoky quartz crystal still faintly glowing at its core.

“Come on!” someone shouts at you.

You blink, stumbling as the guard who had ushered you forward before pulls at your arm. In the abstract, you realize they just want to get you to safety. In the moment, you swing with your other hand and slap them across their face. They drop their grip to touch their cheek, stunned and bewildered. You take the opportunity to scramble away. You have to get to Gillian.

The guard calls after you, but you’re already pushing through the panicking crowd and around the former food tables, a flash of a vision tripping you up in a way that you accidentally dodge the snatching yeti’s hand it warns you of. Then, there’s nothing between you and the house.

“Gillian!” you scream, tearing off. If you’re loud enough, maybe he can drag himself out of sleep. You inhale for another shout.

Something slams into your side, pushing the air out of your lungs in a pathetic gasp. Furry arms wrap around you and an animalistic body tackles you to the ground. Werewolf. One of them has you. They’re going to take you and Gillian, but maybe he can get himself to safety if he just wakes up! You wheeze in a breath.

“Gill—”

A paw quickly covers your mouth, and behind you comes Bunny’s twang whispering, “No, no, no!”

You struggle in his grasp, but his grip is too tight. Your mind burns with only the thought of getting to Gillian in time, so you bite. Bunny yelps, and his grip slackens just enough for you to wriggle away. Before you get too far, however, he catches your arm. Your shoulder wrenches from the sudden stop, searing pain cutting across your back and neck and painting arm. You swing around, crying in pain. Bunny examines the hand you bit.

“The heck was that for?” he says.

“Let me go! I have to get to the house!”

He looks at you like you’re stupid. “That’s where the danger is!”

He drags you back toward the crowd. You try to dig your heels in, but the pain in your shoulder is too much. You hiss and relent a few steps before managing to hold your ground. It’s his turn to swing around, bewildered.

Before you can tell him off for anything, a howl erupts behind you. A hush falls over the scene, and you know what you’ll see when you look. Two werewolves rush down the stoop through the splintered remains of the front door. One covers the other, who carries a large bundle over their shoulder—blankets, not a rug.

“Gillian…” you say.

“Oh.” Bunny’s grip loosens again. You sneak a look back at him. He’s stricken. Good. He ought to have known better, shouldn’t he? He flicks his eyes back to you, and then just past you. Growls come from that direction. Bunny tugs at you until he’s between you and the werewolves, and he drops your arm altogether. You roll your shoulder, wince at the pain and growing numbness, and hold your elbow to support it. You take a step away from him. Only one. Two more wolves rush in in front of you, forcing you two back-to-back again and blocking you from running. You try to turn enough to see where the yetis, the guards, or even the Guardians are in all this, but even a slight twist of your neck is too much. Then, you hear your name, spoken lowly.

“On my bandolier,” Bunny says. “Y’see the solid color eggs there?”

You suck in a breath and twist your head for a second. Eggs on his utility belt, check. He asks again, more insistently, so you grit out a, “Mm-hm.”

“Grab a few. Don’t drop ‘em. They explode. Use ‘em when you need to.”

That involves moving your arm again. You take a few deep breaths and reach with your wrenched arm. You bite back a scream and a sob. Your arm shakes, and tears fill your eyes at the effort. It takes some time, but finally your fingers catch on something orb shaped. You start working it free from its holster when one of the wolves in front of you lunges. You scream, pressing into his back. He swivels suddenly, using one arm to keep you behind him as he does.

You draw your injured arm back to yourself, eyes swimming, breathing labored. Still struggling not to scream or collapse despite trembling taking over your body. Bunny holds you up more than your own will at this point. The tears fall, leaving you witness to an amalgamation of terrible sights:

Gillian, still wrapped up and flung over a werewolf’s shoulder. One of his hands dangles from the sheets, completely limp. He’s dead asleep.

A sea of wolves blocks anyone from getting closer, and a few leap up every now and then to nip at the airborne Guardians’ ankles when they get too close. A rumble of growls carries over to you, as do the many flashes of sharp teeth.

The worst part is the Stranger. It hasn’t moved from its spot. The werewolf holding Gillian stands next to it, looking up at it with side eyes and ears perked. A soft whine escapes their throat, and the tail they still have in their humanoid form wags. The Stranger places a hand on their shoulder, a thin line slicing its face from ear to ear. For a second, you flash back to that night in high school where you and your friends ventured out into the wilderness at night. A dark figure, watching, indistinguishable from its surroundings, haunting your art for a decade and a half. Your knees start to buckle.

“Ah!”

Bunny catches you before you get too far. Two wolves run from around back of you, and others from around the party rejoin the mass surrounding the stranger as it holds something aloft in one hand.

“No!” Bunny says. He clenches his hand too tight around your shoulder.

The object sparks and glows. It’s another time egg. Presumably the one Bunny originally accused you of stealing. Once more, you look at Gillian, helpless in the face of an injury, an army, and an immortal holding you back.

Have another vision, you will yourself. You close your eyes and try to conjure a happy ending to this nightmare, but you only slip further into exhaustion.

Bunny hisses again, and you open your eyes in time to catch him throw something out of the corner of your eye. It arcs above the wolves, who scatter before it hits the ground in an explosion of pastel purple. The smoke clears, but the Stranger hasn’t moved. The energy from the time egg grows, as do the sparks coming off of it. They lash out like lightning, striking the nearby boughs of Big Root. No fire, but there is a faint burning smell, one that you swear you’ve smelled before.

“Back up,” Bunny says in your ear. He doesn’t wait for confirmation to guide you backwards, practically carrying you for all you care at this point.

Gillian’s hand twitches. Your heart leaps, thinking he’s awake. He’s experienced in showing rowdy bar patrons the door if he needs to, he can escape, just needs to wake! Up!

Enormous strands of sparks fly off into the sky. For a moment—perhaps a literally split second—the world stops. Then a blinding light fills the area. You slam your eyes shut as it goes off, but it still filters through your eyelids, brighter than the sun. It is brief, and then the world turns dark.

You open your eyes, only to be greeted by more darkness. You blink, then blink several more times panic rising like bile when you still can’t see. After the hundredth blink, you notice the edges of your vision are tinged a different color, and after another minute or so, the dark square shrinks. Just an afterimage, then, if a persistent one thanks to the bright light.

“Girls?” you hear above you. There’s a faint hum like insect wings. “Girls, what happened? Where are you?”

“Tooth,” Bunny says. He’s finally let go of you. The hum approaches and you feel the breeze from the Tooth Fairy’s wings. A few more blinks, and you can distinguish her form if you focus.

“Bunny, what happened? My girls just stopped moving, everyone went silent, there was a-a huge burst of magic!”

“Tooth, Tooth!” he says. He rubs his eyes and blinks rapidly as well. He holds his hands in front of his face and furrows his brows at them before answering. “The Stranger… It took someone. And it used the cracked artifact to get away. I guess the rest of the werewolves did, too, since we’re not being mauled. There was a bright light, so I think most of us are just getting out vision back.”

She makes a noise that’s somewhere between disappointment and acknowledgement. Bunny goes off on another ramble, and you take the opportunity to walk away, staring at the ground. It’s bizarre; it’s like the flash reset your emotions. Moments ago, sickening panic possessed you. Now, you feel nothing. Perhaps because, despite searching now, you know what you won’t find.

Gillian was only here because you asked. If the other night is any indication, he wasn’t the intended kidnapping target. He was having a shit day and will wake up in a strange place, a prisoner.

As you scan the ground, a few tears drop from your eyes. They’re the only evidence you can feel anything anymore—there’s neither a lump in your throat nor wracking sobs accompanying them. The last thing of his is around here somewhere. You saw it in your vision. Looking down exacerbates the pain in your shoulder, and the effort of ignoring it while squinting to see earns you a migraine.

Bunny calls your name. He must’ve finally noticed you weren’t there. You clutch your arm, the one he injured when he stopped you from getting to Gillian in time. Sourness sizzles on your tongue, and you continue to ignore him when he calls again.

The toe of your shoe grazes something. You drop to your knees as fast as your injury allows, patting at the trampled grass and dirt with your good hand. You find a rough rock, wrapped with a cord. Pulling it up to your face, you can see the semi-translucent smoky quartz, a glow dimming at its core.

Chapter Text

The immediate fallout of the invasion is quiet. It’s lines of citizens waiting to be checked over by the healers and comforting each other in the meantime. It’s Jack, taking most of the responsibility of entertaining and distracting the children himself, despite increasing discomfort in the spring air. It’s North, Sandy, and Ombric combing the enchanted forest for stragglers. It’s Katherine and Nightlight flying around the world to alert their closest allies of a possible crisis.

It's the oracle refusing to be attended to by Bunny, including any pain relief chocolate.

Myriads of humans come through his line, and all of them walk away with barely any lasting pain. There’s only so much he can do for actual breaks or twists, but luckily the civilians mostly come through with bruises and scrapes. Even the injuries the Raconturks and yetis sustained are minor. Some civilians come through his line just to talk. With these, he does his best, but there’s so much on his own mind.

A list of eggs currently in the basket: 1) distressed civilians, 2) injured oracle, 3) Easter in less than a day, 4) kidnapped guest.

No, that doesn’t seem like the right order. 1) Easter in less than a day, 2) injured oracle, 3) distressed civilians, 4) kidnapped guest.

That’s not right, either. 1) kidnapped guest, 2) distressed civilians, 3) injured oracle—

He remembers the static in the air and twisting bolts coming from the cracked artifact. Forget those lists. A much bigger thing has dropped into the basket: an artifact on the verge of breaking and rending all of time and/or space into pieces. That’s priority number one.

He excuses himself once another healer returns. He immediately heads to check in on Skreeklavic. North is also there, speaking with him, back from his excursion. The werewolf, having been literally dogpiled, is recovering well. After being attended to by an entire team of healers, he was walking around again, if stiffly. Some patches of fur are missing, but none of the bites or scratches went deep enough to incapacitate him. Which is good, because Bunny needs a favor out of him ASAP.

“Werewolves are no more immune to enchantment than humans are,” Skreeklavic says. North nods his head thoughtfully.

“Good to know. We will see about moving evacuation route to another area, but for now, we will post more guards.”

“Can I borrow your ears, mates?” Bunny says. He braces himself for North to say, “Surely you already have enough?” like he usually does, but he just waits for Bunny to speak. Skreeklavic also nods to prompt him. “We need to go get that artifact. Now.”

North pauses a moment. He asks, “You mean leave here and go to werewolves? Mount a rescue mission? Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Your route starts in only hours.”

Bunny sighs, starts to talk, but has the sour words catch in his throat. He coughs and then says, “Can I… Can I ask you to get it started? I’ll catch up later.”

North looks distant, but at those words he homes in on Bunny. Skreeklavic also leans in.

“You are very serious then,” North breathes. He shifts uncomfortably. “I do not think it best for me to leave town so soon after attack.”

“You’re the only one I know who understands the one-night run,” Bunny replies. “Consider it part to of my apology if you have to. ‘Sides, Katherine and Ombric should be able to keep this place safe, and I don’t plan on being there long.”

“You have no idea where they are,” Skreeklavic says. Bunny nods.

“But I reckon you do,” he replies. North and Skreeklavic glance at each other, and he gets frustrated. “Listen, you saw how bad that thing crackled and sparked. I figured using that artifact would be risky in its state, but it’s worse than I thought. We need to get it out of the Stranger’s hands, today. Before it decides to mess with time anymore.”

“Ah, you noticed, too.” Ombric walks in. The wizard sniffs and continues, “I had been wondering when we were setting off to retrieve it, or if I needed to insist.”

Sometimes, Bunny doesn’t hate that Ombric is the second most knowledgeable person on the subject of time travel. He says to Skreeklavic, “The only thing we need out of you is directions. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Very well,” the werewolf says, “But I will also come.”

“And you?” Bunny asks North.

“If Ombric is going with you, I do not want to leave village helpless.”

“My daughter has as much, if not more, of a stake in the safety of this town as you do,” Ombric says, an edge to the statement. “She will do fine.”

North presses his mouth into a thin line. “All right, then.”

Skreelavic pores over several maps until he’s able to describe in detail where the werewolf settlement is in Transylvania. He’s sure they haven’t moved; when they ran him out, they weren’t planning on moving, and his pack in particular is not itinerant. Bunny opens a tunnel, concentrating as much as he can on the information and hoping the Stranger hasn’t reinforced any wards against intruders. Guardians have a lot of power and can go almost anywhere, given a hint of Belief. But it’s always easier to be invited in, or at least, not explicitly denied.

He leads the other two down the tunnels until the other end opens up. Bunny looks first to make sure they’re in the clear. Then Skreeklavic checks. He sniffs the air and a few trees, and his ears twitch as he listens.

“Good,” he finally says in a low voice. “We’re near, but there’s no sign of a recent patrol.”

They make their way through the forest, almost as dense as the enchanted one around Santoff Claussen. Thankfully, there don’t seem to be any spells in place that can withstand the might of an expert wizard. Bunny has to shush Ombric several times as he cackles in mad glee at dispelling something. Perhaps if he manages to get out and about more often, he’ll think less about that mirror. Finding their way is still tricky, however, as there is a lack of any obvious foot trails. These are woods meant to be traversed as wolves.

Eventually, the first building comes into sight. It’s basic: wood frame, thatched roof. They all crouch behind a low jut of rock to take stock of the area. Beyond the wood shelter are several more, and then an elaborate cathedral-like building carved directly out of the stone cliff it backs into. Several werewolves—in humanoid and wolf forms alike—mill about the stony mall in dull-colored robes. Bunny glances at Skreeklavic. He’s not covered in finery, but it’s a more elaborate outfit than what everyone seems to be wearing. His eyes are thin, and his brow furrows as he watches, too. He doesn’t need to voice his concern. If only they could retake his leadership now, but no doubt even a Guardian, mad wizard, and werewolf leader altogether would be outmatched by these sheer numbers.

“That’s the sleeping den,” Skreeklavic informs them, gesturing to the nearby wooden building. “We prefer to sleep together when possible. It’s safer and keeps away the cold.”

“What’re the other buildings?” Bunny asks.

“The smaller one over there is the birthing den. There’s one of the mills. The gathering hall.”

“Where would an interloper keep a valuable item?”

Skreeklavic thinks for a moment, then points to a smaller, almost invisible building. “There. The closest thing we have to offices or studies. The foyer is akin to a lecture hall.” He huffs. “If I recall correctly, it was very interested in this before the coup.”

They skirt around the outside of the village, trying to keep downwind and hidden. Luckily, there aren’t that many wolves out besides the small crowd by the cathedral.

“There may be a hunt going on,” Skreeklavic says. “That could work in our favor. Most of the practiced fighters will be out looking for food.”

As they close in on the offices, they hear faint evidence of people inside. They find a window and Ombric dons a weak invisibility spell to peek in.

“Oh,” he whispers. Bunny pulls him back down.

“Quiet!” he hisses. Ombric looks indignant.

“I am! The egg is there. Gillian is holding it.”

Bunny doesn’t know what to make of that. So, he looks for himself. The sight he sees is as confusing as it is disconcerting. Gillian sits on a pile of pillows, raised up above the gathered listeners. Most of them are young werewolves, and all listen to the human with rapt attention.

There’s something odd about him. Something about the way he looks, like his silhouette is… off. Bunny can’t place it right away and chalks it up to the pure white tunic he’s wearing. It’s the same style as the other wolves wear.

“I was taught by the scholars of SCAD that restoration is an art unto itself,” he says. “And that the important part is being able to understand and appreciate the different styles and movements that produced each piece. Only then could you properly restore it to its glory and reset the timer on its decay.”

He smiles and the cubs nod along. Bunny pops back down, as bewildered as Ombric now. This is not what they expected to find here, but at least they don’t have to move far for their goals. He takes another look. Suddenly, a loud gong rings out across the commons. All the cubs perk their ears up. A few yip or howl, and all of them rush for the exit.

“The hunting party has returned,” Skreeklavic growls. “We need to hurry.”

“Go on ahead, Timotei,” Gillian says to the last cub, who tugs at his robe. “I just need to put this away.”

The cub huffs but scampers out. Gillian opens and closes some cabinets, humming. Bunny takes one last look around before hauling himself through the window and turning around to drag Ombric up behind him. The old wizard grunts and knocks his head on the top of the window, causing Gillian to jump. He spins around and lets out a loud gasp when he sees them. He sucks in a whole lungful of air. Before he can cry out, Bunny leaps across the room and clamps his paw over Gillian’s mouth. His momentum causes the human to stagger back a few paces. The shriek is muffled against his fur, and the human tries to wriggle away.

“Shh!” he says. Gillian freezes. Bunny turns his ears, trying to see if anyone is coming back. Just footsteps rushing past and the others clambering through the window. “We’ll get ya outta here, but you have to be quiet. Ombric, grab the artifact.”

“I’m trying, give me enough time to stand up!”

He carefully removes his paw from Gillian and goes over to help the wizard. Skreeklavic paces by the entrance, peeking out the door and other windows. It seems the wolves have been housing the artifact in an intricate box. A puzzle box.

“He was sliding the pieces back into place,” Ombic mutters, tugging at a few vertices. “It looks far along, so I should be able to get it open in a minute or so.”

This is one more strange thing in this whole situation. Like the rest of the oddities, though, they can contemplate it when they’re all safe. And the sooner they get out of here, the sooner they’ll be safe.”

“Hey, human,” Bunny whispers. “Gillian, help us get this open.”

A howl erupts from inside the room. Bunny and Ombric jump and turn to see Gillian at a window. He cups his hand over his mouth, inhales, and howls again. Skreeklavic bounds over to him, covering his mouth and holding him still.

“What are you doing?!” he yells. Gillian doesn’t reply.

Then, there’s a return howl. And another. A whole chorus, not unlike at the party. And then growls start approaching from the outside. Bunny thumps his foot, opening a tunnel. He grabs the entire puzzle box and chucks it in.

“In! In, now!” he yells.

He helps Ombric down the hole and dashes over to where Skreeklavic is struggling with a flailing Gillian. Bunny grabs his legs as Skreeklavic gets a hold around his shoulders. It means he has to remove his hand from Gillian’s face, and the human immediately cries out, “Marie! Yosef!”

But in the next instant, he’s in the tunnel. Bunny does one last look around the foyer, and just as he determines they’re not leaving anything important, the Stranger rushes through the doorway. They pause and look at one another. Despite the clamoring pack behind it, the Stranger doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to rush. It knows it’s been had. Bunny can’t help but smirk. He throws up a two-finger “up yours” salute and closes the tunnel. He hopes a carrion flower blooms at the path of impassible earth left in his wake.

They waste no time returning. By the time the tunnel rises back into the heart of Big Root, Bunny and Ombric are singing a rousing song and practically skipping arm in arm. Bunny doesn’t care that he’ll have to go back on the clock right after this. He can stress his way through Easter knowing that time, for now, is safe.

“All, right, here we go.”

They deposit the puzzle box on the nearest table and release Gillian to his feet. He stumbles away a few paces, and Bunny tenses, ready to catch him if he falls. But the human braces himself on the wall and takes in a deep, relieved breath. He hasn’t said a word since the werewolf settlement.

Probably still reeling from whatever they did to him, Bunny thinks. He’ll have to make sure the human gets some good mental care as soon as possible. No way he’s walking away from this completely all right.

Bunny lets him be for the time being and focuses on the puzzle box that Ombric is contemplating. The wizard lightly taps a few spots here and there. Some of them sound hollow underneath; others ring flat and solid. The only thing they know for sure is they need to solve the puzzle to get the artifact out, because it turns out the Stranger isn’t stupid enough to get a regular, un-enchanted box to keep its most important items in. Then, out of nowhere, a zing runs up his spine. A horrifyingly familiar one.

Someone’s messing with time.

Ombric is still in the room with him. To make sure the old man hasn’t snuck an illusion past him, Bunny taps his shoulder. Completely solid.

“Yes?” Ombric asks. He notices Bunny’s expression. “What’s wrong?” he calls as Bunny dashes for the door.

“Someone used the mirror!”

He runs through the hallways, satisfaction from a job well done demolished and evaporating. He can’t imagine who in their right mind would do this. All of Santoff Claussen were fascinated by various forms of magic, obviously, but most weren’t quite as off their rockers as Ombric. Yet. A few were inching close. The return of his stress also heralded the gut-wrenching reminder that he was past due on Easter. He could feel the Belief ticking up little by little as the route was starting, but it’s not the same rush he usually gets. But, he cannot bring himself to leave before checking on this.

He flings open the door to the mirror room. The glass is clouded and roiling. He rushes down the way to get a better idea of what’s happening, when a shape comes closer and closer. The surface of the glass distends, and he reaches for his weapon, just in case. The mirror spits out the shape, and Bunny relaxes somewhat.

The oracle. It’s the oracle, clutching at their now very dislocated shoulder.

Chapter Text

Every time you shift, your shoulder aches. So it has been for the last few hours since the attack. The healers were kind enough to examine it and put it in a sling, but all you can do is wait for it to heal the old-fashioned way.

That’s not entirely true. Bunny offered to help. You refused on the principle of not wanting the help of the one who didn’t let you help your friend. For all the Easter Bunny’s insistence on pushing you into the life of an oracle, he sure didn’t like when you acted on a vision. You called his bluff. If he was willing to overrule that on account of “knowing better” then he’d just have to force you to be healed his way if he thought it that important.

It's petty, and you know it. But you stand by it. He doesn’t force you though. He leaves you to your own devices. You’re mostly relieved, though admittedly, somewhat disappointed. Your shoulder really, really hurts. All you can do is grow more and more livid. At him? At yourself? Who cares at this point?

You hole up in your room as the town cleans itself up, and you struggle not to look at the empty side of the room. In your peripheral vision, you glimpse the remaining bedsheets, flung askew in their rush to kidnap him. The window that Bunny didn’t bother closing—Which you initially opened, your mind reminds you—hangs a bit off its sash. A spiderweb of cracks decorate the glass. On top of everything else, the Ana-Vlog you’ve been working on is creased and bent and ruined. Not that you can work on it with your arm like this.

At some point, you manage to nap. Not for long and not peacefully. Upon waking, you know that you dreamed, but only a hint of its existence remains. In this case, guilt. For not doing what you could to support Gillian when he was getting bullied. For not ignoring the party to keep him company. For not trying harder to save him before it was too late. You should have lied to him, left him in New York, come alone, and kept him ignorant of all this magic nonsense.

Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve. Hindsight is a bitch.

Something dawns in your post-waking fuzz. You have a way to make hindsight your bitch. Not bothering with slippers or shoes, you move out, uncaring of Bunny’s plea to leave it alone. He can stop you himself if it’s that damn important to him.

The winding hallways turn you around a few times. You end up in the room where Ombric was evaluating you. Had that just been today? Or at least within the nearest twenty-four hours? It feels like weeks ago. Bunny’s satchel is right where he left it in his caffeinated haze. That means the door he took to the next turn is… You identify the right way, a sense of purpose and familiarity hurrying your steps. Finally, you throw open the door to the strange, gleaming mirror.

You hesitate to approach. It’s so tall, filling the narrow space so much you almost lose your equilibrium. For a moment, it’s as if the world tips, and you fall toward the glass rather than walk. The enormous pane encompasses your vision. It’s so much wider up close. At the entrance, it seemed so simple, but you can barely see the edges from here.

The surface shimmers. You place your fingertips on it. Ripples roll out from the point of contact—not behind the glass, the glass itself moves, though the surface feels solid. It’s about this time your stomach drops. Should you be doing this? You don’t even have a true grasp on seeing the future. The mirror shimmers in a way that looks like a huge shape passes just behind the surface. You jerk away from it, and a sharp twinge runs up your arm. It takes a few deep breaths, but you remain in control as the pain peaks and then ebbs. You clutch your good arm around yourself, bitterness welling up.

Yes, you’ll do this.

You firmly press your good hand to the malleable glass and push. The surface doesn’t yield. It bends, like pressing the back of a spoon into gelatin. But then, just like that, your hand pops past it. You feel nothing. No change in temperature, nothing solid. You can’t even feel when you rub your fingers together. Despite how disconcerting that is, your hand looks fine. You take one more breath to steel yourself and push the rest of your body through.

When a bus or a rickshaw runs over a hump in the road a little too quickly, you get a brief sensation at the peak when your body continues to rise separate of where the seat actually is. People often compare it to falling, but in truth, it’s directionless. It’s floating in defiance of gravity. You float directionlessly now, on this side of the glass. It’s havoc on your balance, and your body jerks instinctively to correct itself. This has the unintended but perfectly logical consequence of moving you, in much the same way an unchecked twitch causes an astronaut on the ISS IV to drift. It’s gentle at first. It allows you to get your bearings. You kick as if swimming and propel forward. Using your good arm, you imitate a side stroke. That probably isn’t what’s pulling you, but the movement feels good to do. It helps to concentrate on something.

Flashes of color and pinpoints of light pass you by. Every so often, you swear you hear snatches of sound, but it’s gone as soon as you focus. After a while, it feels like nothing is happening. That for as much as you’re traveling, you’re getting nowhere.

Ombric does it. It’s possible, you reassure yourself. But after minutes, if not an hour, of nothing filled with whispers, queasiness percolates in your stomach.

“Hello?” you call. You feel your mouth bounce to its positions: tongue glances off the hard palate, lips stretch wide to funnel the sound. You hear nothing, though your ears swear they did, though it may not be your own voice.

“Hello!” you try again. No echo. No external proof you exist here.

Your breathing and pulse pick up, or you think they do. There’s no sensation of your lungs inflating or deflating. No pulse—you can’t find your pulse when you try to reach your hand to your neck. You’re suffocating. You have to be. This thought compels you to breathe harder in an attempt to regain normalcy. The lights and colors move faster.

You try to side stroke away as the points turn into streaks. They grow longer around you until your vision is ablaze with colors and brightness as far as forever. All you can do is scream. You flail your arms, uncaring at the pain. You just need something to grab on to. Something stable or something hard and heavy to fling at the danger. The corridor of streaks tilts. You drift from its center to its edge, and it’s not until you hit it that you realize solidity does exist in this realm.

That first hit flings you violently at an angle to the other side, where you bounce again. You pinball between them several times, flipping helplessly and losing all sense of direction. You throw your arms out, missing the solidity time after time until your bad arm catches something. Momentum keeps your body moving, jerking to a hard stop when you run out of arm. This time, you feel a pop in your shoulder. The joint dislocates. A fuzz washes over you, almost a high, as the pain overwhelms your being. Your fingers slip a bit.

No, you tell yourself. No, hold on. Humans have survived worse, I’m sure. Fallen out of planes and still been alive after they hit the ground.

You force your elbow to move. Your vision tunnels, and a spasm rushes through your legs. But you hang on. Slowly, you drag yourself up until you can reach your good arm over the edge. You just need to sit for a second, to figure out what next. Let the pain ebb a bit. Try to pop the socket back in, maybe, if you feel brave enough. You reach further, and your hand pushes against something. It’s solid, but flexible. When your eyes focus, you see gelatinous ripples flow out from where your fingertips touch. You press in. They slip through.

The area tips. One moment, you’re at its side, and the next, you’re above it, falling. Gravity reasserts itself. You tumble into a dark corridor.

You make the mistake of trying to push yourself up by your dislocated side. Your vision blacks for a second. You yelp but manage to sit up after a second try. That’s when you notice a dark figure over you. Before you can react, it grasps under your good arm and hauls you up so that you’re standing, if leaning against a wall. You blink to coax your vision back to something cohesive, but the world is still blurry. Maybe that’s from the tears, too.

“Hi, I’m so sorry, please don’t hurt me,” you rasp.

A whispery growl responds. You tense, wondering what kind of creature has you. Then you notice there’s a rhythm to it. A pattern, even. This is a language.

“I don’t—” You swallow. “I don’t understand.”

The words turn into a hum, and the grasp disappears. You start to slide down the wall, knees shaking too much to support you. The shape in front of you rustles around for a second before returning the hold on you. Something brushes your lips. You jerk your head to the side, but the sudden pain makes you gasp. Whatever it is gets shoved in your mouth and a warm, furry hand covers it. You grow still. You recognize this.

At that moment, an alarm blares and lines of sickly green light flash along the walls. The surprise makes you bite down. It’s chocolate, that thing in your mouth. Extremely bitter dark chocolate—perhaps straight-up cacao—but you recognize the taste nonetheless. Between the flashes of light you also see what’s pinning you here and force-feeding you.

It's Bunny. No, wait. It can’t be, could it? The rabbit in front of you watches. You can’t think of anything to do but chew the chocolate. As you work your jaw, the rabbit continues speaking in their whispery language, leaning their face close. So close, you can smell their breath. You cringe at the bitter floral odor. It’s a rough mix, especially as the chocolate mingles with it.

“Arrogant…”

You freeze. Did you really just hear?

“Tough—sheep and—simple, plant. Citrus—and concrete—Alms to bask—rotor, radiation, death and—Perspicacious sondor and these alone. Comprehend differences, shadow, shift, agree. Despite the similarities of star and—and hierarchy. Listen carefully to grand, brick, root, router, arch. Though they rhyme each other but not with mountain, twinge, carpet, active, or moss.”

From gibberish in an alien language to gibberish in English. You can hardly believe what you hear. None of it makes sense, save for a phrase here and there, but you understand the words. They go on for another two minutes before finishing. Then they pause. You think they’re looking at you, but a pair of reflective glasses blocks their eyes. They wear robes. Green, you think, but it’s hard to tell with the surrounding light. Regardless, you get the idea they’re not out to hurt you. You dare to relax a bit.

The rabbit tilts their head and says, “Am I correct in assuming this is your first time meeting me?”

You nod with a single dip of your head.

He sighs. “I don’t know how odd a concept this might be for you at this point, but this is not the first time I have met you. Unfortunately, as you may surmise, this is not an ideal time to meet anyone, so I’m afraid I will have to send you back with questions on your mind.”

They reach across the narrow corridor and grab a long pole. When they draw it close, you see it’s a staff, topped with something oblong and green. You gasp and point. The rabbit glances at what you point to, and hums thoughtfully.

“Interesting. You’ve had the same reaction the last two times as well.”

You try to find words before they send you away, but they swirl the staff three times. It charges into a soft glow. They bring it down, and you flinch thinking they’re going to rap you on the head. Instead, the tip of the time egg touches you between your eyes. There’s a pressure at your chest. You open your eyes in time to see the rabbit smiling softly before you’re pushed away, back into the terrible corridor of light streaks and silence, only this time you’re forced backwards. It’s like the space rewinds. The streaks return to points and any whispers you think you hear sound garbled.

The return trip takes a fraction of the time, and before you can blink, you look up and see the faraway ceiling of the mirror room. Something leans into your sight—Bunny. Of course, he’d notice and come running about this. He moves his hand as if he’s about to reach to you but pulls them back as you try to roll over.

“Can I please fix your damn arm?” he asks.

You start to shake your head “No,” but the sweat dripping down your face, your inability to pick yourself up, and the numbness spreading all along your side cut through your anger and stubbornness. You incline your head, and he kneels beside you. In almost no time, your shoulder pops back into place, causing you to cry out. But once he takes his hands away, you know everything is healed. Still horribly sore, but you have some usage of your arm back. Bunny reaches out a hand. You ignore it and push yourself up on your feet. He lets out a huff behind you, but you’re not paying attention to him anymore.

“Gillian!” You rush over to him, throwing your arms around him. He says nothing, just carefully raises his hands to your back and gives you a small squeeze. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Let’s go sit down.”

You herd him down the hallway. He doesn’t so much as talk, and you can only imagine how exhausting these last six hours or so have been for him. Normally he’s so lively. Maybe it’s because he’s not wearing a binder. Did they take it from him? Are they those kinds of people? You hate to generalize a whole group; it has to be that Stranger. You two reach the kitchen and you sit him down. You should do something for him.

Should I have taken him to the room? Is he tired? I need to make the bed for him. Your mind races, and you gesture for him to stay there. “I’ll just be a minute, okay?”

You rush to the guest room, sure there were some extra sheets hidden in a cupboard. Hell, you can check the million and a half closets along the way. As you pass by a doorway, you see Bunny. He’s looking at a glowing stone in his hand, an open hole at his feet.

“On my way,” he says, one of his ears twitching your way. He tucks the stone into his bandolier and looks up.

You know what the appropriate thing to say is. The fact you didn’t say it as soon as you saw Gillian was safe is a transgression against your Southern upbringing. But despite everything, you still can’t form the words. There’s still a lot more you’re holding on to. He clears his throat.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says. He holds a foot out over the hole.

“Good luck tonight,” you finally say. That’s as close as you can get right now.

He nods and falls down. The hold closes back up, and a flower blooms: a single blue hydrangea.

Chapter Text

Bunny rendezvous with North over central Russia. North dips the sleigh low. Bunny waits until it’s directly overhead to leap up and grab a runner. He pulls himself up next to North on the seat.

“Have fun time in Romania?” North yells over the wind.

“Oh, yeah, the best!” Bunny replies. “Nearly got mauled by werewolves for the second time in twenty-four hours. Highly recommend.” Despite everything, Bunny chuckles. He then taps North and says, “Hey, pull over a second!”

North pulls back on the reins until his team stops and the sleigh hovers in place. Bunny takes a deep breath and looks over the side. Thankfully, they’re not too high up. The ground isn’t so far away. Bunny places two fingers in his mouth and whistles. All of a sudden, holes all along the ground open up. Stone eggs pop out of them and start leading streams of painted eggs each and ever direction. Bunny leans back and grins at North, who’s dragging the sack over from the back. It tips slightly, revealing piles and piles of eggs inside.

“You didn’t whistle?” Bunny smiles. North rolls his eyes. Finally, the proper energy of the night is catching up to him.

North puts on a grumpy act, but he sees right through it, sees the glimmer in his eyes and the pull on his beard into a half-smile. This is right. Everything is right again. Well, not everything, not quite yet, but enough stray threads have been dealt with that he can relax and enjoy the stress of his own holiday again. Speaking of which…

“I know you wanna get back to Santoff Claussen to check up on things,” Bunny says. “But can I trouble you to stay on a little longer? We’re a bit behind.”

“Hmm…” North draw out the hum. “You are asking for help?”

“I already did earlier. That’s why you’re here.”

“Ask again.”

“I just—” It’s Bunny’s turn to roll his eyes. “Will you please help me with the rest of the route?”

“Of course we will, friend!” North cries, tossing open the mouth of the sack.

“We?”

A white blur bursts from the sack. Jack zips past him, a wake of icy rime grazing his cheek. He stops in the air to look on. A snuffling sound announces the emergence of Kidra from the sack, Tooth clinging to them.

“Finally!” she says, letting her wings unfurl.

Kidra shakes their head and then sniffs at an egg that’s fallen to the floor. They wrap their prehensile tongue around it. Bunny snatches it out of their grasp just in time.

“No! Not these eggs,” he tells them. Kidra just huffs and yawns. He looks at Tooth, who’s stretching her limbs out. “You don’t happen to know how many they’ve eaten, do ya?”

“Nope,” she replies with a smile. “All I know is I’m ready to get out of the palace for a few hours.”

“I helped her sneak past the sisters,” Jack crows. “Where to first?”

Bunny looks at his friends, a sense of peace washing over him. It was the same he felt at the party, before it all went wrong. No need to dwell on that right now, though. For now, he can revel in the moment.

He points each one in a different direction. Jack takes the lower parts of the Southern hemisphere. Tooth covers the equator. North is more than happy to take care of Eastern Europe. The rest is up to Bunny.

He lands in the streets of a large village in Germany, ready to take care of one of the denser centers of Belief for him. He hops from street to street, guiding the eggs into yards and squares and nooks of quiet churches. He uses a spare hand in doling them out, but only just so spare. It is Easter, after all. Everyone deserves an egg or two; everyone needs a reminder that tomorrow will come.

He hangs around the window of a house for a minute. The child inside woke up and wandered out of their room, presumably to the bathroom. He tries to wait long enough for them to come back. Every year, he allows himself to be seen by a few kids, just to keep the stories circulating in the schoolyards. This particular kid seems to be taking their time returning, though. Bunny is just about to move on when he glances in the window and nearly has a heart attack.

A tall, humanoid figure stands in the house, silhouetted in the open doorway. At first, Bunny thinks its head is huge for its body. Then it shifts, and the light behind it catches the wide brim of the hat it’s wearing. It steps to the side, revealing that it’s holding onto the child’s wrist, who stares up at it, confused. The light catches the planes of its face, confirming Bunny’s fears.

He slams his foot on the ground and dives into the tunnel. He comes up inside the house next to the child’s bed and launches into the doorway. The Stranger isn’t there, however, so he runs headfirst into the wall. He lays there for a second, mind having to unscatter from the impact.

“Easter Bunny?” comes a small, woozy voice.

His sight refocuses, and he’s back on his feet. The Stranger is down the hallway now, still clutching the child. At the kid’s words, it gives their hair an affectionate pat and ruffle.

“Leave them alone,” Bunny says. “You’re after me, right? Since I messed up your plans?”

The Stranger’s cool smile doesn’t waver. It rests its hand on the child’s shoulder and pulls them so that it’s between them and Bunny. It looks behind to the child, who walks into the room after a second. Bunny takes the opportunity to scoot forward a step or two. Not too much, though it notices immediately. There’s the sound of scurrying footsteps, a brief flux of magic in the air.

“What did you do?” Bunny asks. The Stranger raises its fingers to its lips and inhales silently. “What did you do?”

It whistles. The shrill note fills the insulated hallway and then the house. It fades just as quickly, swallowed by the carpets and drapes and mattresses. For a moment, nothing happens. They just stare at each other from opposite ends of the hall. Bunny draws his boomerang. If it’s not going to protect itself, then he’ll end this now.

Glass shatters in the living room. Bunny has less than a second to see a large furry shape hurtling toward him. The wolf slams into him at full force. Bunny bounces off the wall hard enough to cause a picture to fall at his feet. The frame and glass smash onto the floor, spraying shards across his ankles and into his path. He screams, instinctively recoiling. He steps in more glass and the werewolf uses the confusion to grab him by his throat and toss him into the coffee table.

Where are the parents? Bunny thinks. Then he suddenly knows what magic the Stranger did or got the kid to do.

He recovers enough to see the wolf charging again. He kicks with both feet, making the wolf yelp and himself regret the action as the glass pushes deeper into his paws. But he doesn’t waste any time in getting out of there, dragging himself across the floor with his elbow. When he gets to the hallway, the kid is there. The Stranger isn’t. The kid stares at the wall blankly, face screwed up in confusion, but they’re all right as far as he can tell.

“Kid!” Bunny calls. “Kid, is it gone?”

The child ignores him. A terrible feeling burrows into his stomach, made worse in multiple ways when the werewolf stalks over, growling. At that, the child snaps to attention, face going pale as they see the wolf.

“Mom,” they squeak, backing into the room they went into previously. “Dad!”

The werewolf chuffs, cocking their head at the kid. Bunny uses the opportunity to adjust himself and whack his boomerang into what he hopes is their shin. Regardless of the bone, the wolf throws their head back and howl in pain. The child screams in turn, slamming the door closed. With nothing else to focus on, the werewolf turns their attention to Bunny. He grins weakly.

“Let’s take this outside, yeah?”

He opens a tunnel under the both of them, biting back pain. He twists as he falls to angle himself so he’s ready to run. The wolf is stunned for a moment when they land but recover quickly. Bunny moves at the first growl, taking the werewolf on a scenic tour of the tunnel before dumping them both out into a side alley.

Bunny has only moments to take in his surroundings before the wolf is at his heels. He reaches to his bandolier for the explosive eggs, only to realize he’s missing some. He swears he refilled them, but it has been a wild few hours. He just needs to keep count. The wolf lunges at him, causing him to jump back and hiss in pain. One, two, three… He has six explosives on him.

What happened to the others? He tries to remember but can only account for two back at the party. Did he leave some in the bag? There’s no time to contemplate, however. Bunny pops out one of the explosives and throws it to the wall behind the wolf. They pause to watch the projectile fly past, eyes widening, and they attempt to dash away. The egg explodes on the bricks. Bunny braces himself. The wolf goes flying into the opposite wall. They slide to the ground, trying to get up exactly once before whimpering and passing out.

He wastes no time making another tunnel to the roof. The sprawl of the town lays out before him. There’s no way he can search every street in time. Panting, he reaches for the crystal to call everyone to him. A knot swells in his throat. Why his holiday? What always Easter?

A whistle cuts through his thoughts. Bunny makes his way to the edge of the roof, which overlooks a modest courtyard filled with vibrant green plants. The Stranger stands in the middle, all alone, looking up at him.

Trap, he immediately thinks. The building has several balconies overlooking the courtyard, and the ground floor is open farther than he can see under the overhang of the floor just above.

Could he just leave? Summon more stone eggs and finish up here as fast as possible? Maybe swing back before sunrise to fix anything it breaks? Bunny cringes at the thought of such a time-consuming detour. He’s reaching for the crystal again to call back the others when the Stranger whistles again, a shorter burst. It gets what it wants—his attention—and slowly holds something up in its hand. The gesture is a mirror of what it did at the party. Right down to it holding the artifact.

“What?” Bunny cries.

The Stranger uses its other hand to return his rude gesture from earlier.

Trap or not, Bunny leaps in. He draws his boomerang and, as he lands on the first balcony level, he throws it. The Stranger side-steps its arcing path at the last second. The boomerang hits the ground, tumbling away.

Bunny also tumbles. Not of his own volition or fault, but due to a pair of hands that sneaked up behind him. He sees the werewolf as he’s falling. They look like they’re busy concentrating on him. He twists in the air, minute calculations running through his head. At first, he thinks he sees a way of landing safely, a tuck and roll. Nothing too fancy needed. Werewolves fill the space, however, giving it a much tighter margin of error. He has no other choice. It’s coming up fast.

He forgets about the glass until he touches his foot down. The pain shoots from toe to ear tip in an instant, interrupting his concentration and causing him to crumple. He skids across the stones of the courtyard, fur barely acting as a buffer to the friction against his skin. He slides right into the waiting claws of two wolves. They haul him up high enough to keep his feet off the off the ground. They’re numb, anyway. He doubts he would’ve been able to create a tunnel even if he stuck the landing.

The wolves force him to look at the stranger as it approaches. It’s grinning. Its face is so hard to read, but it is grinning fully now. Bunny skirts his eyes around the area, trying to see if he has any way of getting out. Closer, closer. It’s taking its time because it knows he’s stuck.

Three paces from Bunny, the artifact sparks. The Stranger jolts, nearly dropping it, but it manages to hold on. The artifact sparks again, sending a dangerous bolt up at a balcony. The werewolves not holding him shrink back, ears pressing to their heads and whimpering. The Stranger holds it in both of its hands, turning it this way and that. The core brightens to a molten yellow. Light rays billow out from the crack. There are so many bolts that the air itself is glowing, so brightly that Bunny has to squint to see. The last two werewolves drop him to retreat.

The air is so thick with Déjà Vu that his fur is all puffed up. He drags himself forward on his elbows once, rests, then tries again. He has to get the artifact, has to fix it, has to defeat the Stranger, has to do it in time for Easter so he can move on—

A figure runs for the stranger. Both of them are almost indistinguishable against all the light. The figure it all, focused, making a direct path for it. They look…

Bunny squints harder. This can’t be right.

Is that me?

He opens his mouth to shout a warning, but the oppressive magical atmosphere swallows it, along with the rest of them.

Chapter Text

You eventually find some sheets and start to clean up the room. After a few minutes, it occurs to you that Gillian is still in the kitchen waiting for you to return. For a second, you freeze, trying to decide what you should do next out of all your options, weighing what will be most effective or most polite or most appropriate. You spot one of his extra binders poking out of his luggage. That stops the spiral. You grab it and rush back across the house.

Gillian isn’t there. You stare blankly at the empty table, then spin around as if he’s merely behind you.

“Gill?” you call. There’s a clack, from a room not too far away. “Gill?”

You follow the clacks and clicks until you come to one of the workrooms. It’s the same one Ombric was evaluating you in, what, nearly twenty-four hours ago by now? The days have blurred together too much for you to keep it straight. At least Gillian is there. He focuses on a large, elaborate box in front of him on the table next to Bunny’s bag.

How long has that been there?

Gillian presses one of the seemingly decorative rosettes in the border around the mitered crown. Something clicks on the other side, and he moves to it. As he does, he finally sees you. He pauses.

“Gill, what’re you doing?” you ask. You hold out the binder to him. He takes it automatically, blinks at it, and then tosses it over his shoulder. The blood drains from your face. “Gill,” you say slowly, “whatever they told you while you were there, they’re wrong. You know who and what you are, and no Strang—”

“I do know,” he says. He pulls a piece from the box and then slides something over. “At least, I know now. It’s… it’s strange how you can go so long thinking you understand the world, only for it to all change in a week.”

You swallow and wring your hands. “Well… if you really feel that way, all right. “Do you want me to use different pronouns, or…?”

He looks up from what he’s doing and gives you a strange look. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

There’s a final, loud click, and a large panel opens. Inside is an egg—the cracked artifact. Gillian smiles for the first time since being rescued. He carefully lifts the egg out of its box and cradles it in his arms. There’s something off about the look in his eye, the way he gazes at it and runs his thumb over the edge of the crack. You lean over and gently place a hand on his elbow, trying to muster up the most understanding look you can to cover your worry. He looks at you.

“It was just six or eight hours,” you say. “What the hell did they do to you?”

His smile collapses into a scowl. “‘They’ didn’t do anything to me except welcome me unconditionally!”

He bumps into the table. Bunny’s bag jostles, whatever’s into causing it to roll off the table. You catch it before it hits the ground.

No, you think, opening the bag.

The unblemished egg is in there. Gillian gasps. He’s very close to you, peering into the bag. His eyes gleam. He reaches for it, but you shut the bag and pull it into your chest. He look like you slapped him.

“Give it,” he orders.

You shake your head. “You’ve already got one.”

He glances at the artifact in his arms, runs his thumb over the crack again. You blink rapidly as your vision swims and divides. Gillian lunges at you. Gillian calmly talks to you. Gillian walks off without another word. You close your eyes and rub your head, trying to focus, trying to follow the vision to its conclusion.

The bag’s strap is ripped from your hands.

You open your eyes as Gillian streaks across the room, egg tucked into his elbow like a football, bag swinging by his side.

“Gill!”

You tear after him, mind running in all possible directions at once. What’s wrong with him? What did they do to him? Where is everyone else in this nightmare of a house?

“Ombric?"

You can’t wait for him to answer or deign to show up. You twist and turn through the house until you recognize the route Gillian is on, and you speed up. Hopefully, he can’t figure out how to get into too much trouble with that mirror, but you’d rather spare him the unnerving journey. He flings the door open as you catch up. His arm with the cracked artifact swings back as he twists to move through the slim door, and you manage to grab it.

“Leave that thing alone, Gill, it’s not worth it! Ombric!”

He tears his arm out of your grasp and you both drop the cracked artifact. You watch, horrified, as it falls and hits the ground. Neon pink and yellow crackle across it. Sparks jump from the crack. You freeze, holding your breath, but the colors dissipate. Gillian didn’t stop and is closing in on the mirror. You scoop up the egg and run after him. He reaches the mirror. You’re right behind him. Like you, he places his hand on the glass first. The surface glows in the spot where the bag brushes up against it, and the egg in your hand warms at the same time.

“Gill,” you say.

“Not six hours,” he says. He turns to you and smiles. You must look confused because he nods and says again, “I wasn’t there for just six hours.”

Something clicks in your head. You don’t want to acknowledge it and make it real, however. You swallow and say, “It may be slightly longer, I lost track of time.”

"A week.”

It snaps into place, the thing you wanted to ignore. Regardless, you shake your head. Gillian nods in return. “I woke up, suddenly a week earlier than I had fallen asleep in. And after some initial misunderstandings, I came to understand what my Friend is trying to accomplish. My Friend’s goal is now my goal, too, as it is the werewolves’ goal.”

“Friend… Friend?”

“It was once strange, but now I know it.”

“You mean the Stra—”

“MY FRIEND!” Gillian roars.

You take a step back. He looks like he’s about to follow, but a similar yellow and pink light flares from the bag. He checks inside and reaches in. At first, you think he’s taking out the artifact, but he comes up with three smaller pastel eggs instead.

“Careful!” you say immediately as his hand jostles them together. “They’re explosive.”

He laughs. “Heh… egg-splosive.”

He hikes the strap over his shoulder and looks at the explosives again. Then he looks at the mirror and backs up a few steps. He winds up as if to pitch a baseball.

“No!” you yell.

He flings the eggs all at the same time. You’re frozen, watching them as they sail through the air to the mirror. They detonate on contact. You raise your arms over your head, anticipating the shards. A few make it to you, scraping over your fingers and making dull clicking sounds as they hit the cracked artifact. Thankfully, most of the glass misses you, and when you’re brave enough to look, you see why.

Though the glass has fallen from the frame, most of it hovers in the air like jagged rain. A ball of… not light, not dark, but something that is both yet neither coalesces in the air. It tugs at your hands, or rather, at the artifact in your hands. Gillian makes a strained noise beside you. He grips the bag like his life depends on it as it also tries to fly out of his grasp.

A bolt erupts from the center of the energy. It bounces between several shards until it finally makes its way to the bag and connects to it—to the artifact inside. Gillian wraps his arms around it tighter, and then he reaches toward you. You slide away just in time. He opens his mouth and says something, but the magic in the air has started making noise. Noise that’s too loud to hear over properly. More bolts shoot from the energy, bouncing from shard to shard until the hallway is ablaze with light, and then one jumps to the egg in your hands. Despite all your instincts, your grip tightens.

Gillian screams your name. The sound barely reaches over the din. You squint against the light to see him reaching for you still. You peel one of your hands off the artifact and reach for him in response. He’s scaring you right now, but he’s still one of your best friends. He just needs help. You need to help him. Suddenly, the light dims a little. You blink, disoriented. The spot where Gillian is empties—one moment he’s there, and then he’s gone with no trace, not even the artifact is left behind.

The dimness fills back up as if nothing happened. You can barely comprehend what’s going on right now, except that several more bolts connect to the cracked artifact. It vibrates in your hand, core starting to glow a molten yellow. It vibrates and heats up until something cuts into your palm. You barely avoid dropping it, moving it carefully to your other hand. Blood drips from a shallow cut on your hand. Beams of light shoot out of the artifact’s crack again—and from the new crack that just formed on its other side.

Something hits your shoulder, and exhaustion starts to overcome you. You look behind yourself, squinting against the light. At the entrance of the hallway, barely visible, is Sandy. And he looks terrifyingly angry. Your arm numbs up, and you realize he threw dreamsand at you. Then, you think how this might look out of context.

“No!” you try to yell loud enough for him to hear. “No, it’s no—I need help!”

He darts into the hall, both hands full of dreamsand. You plead and scream and try to explain as bolts from the mirror and more dreamsand fly all around you. The light bounces faster and faster. More fissures open in the egg, causing your hand to feel like it’s on fire. The space becomes nothing but wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling brightness that swallows you whole.

Chapter Text

You feel like you’re falling, and that causes you to jerk upright. Immediately, you slam your hand to the nearest grab rail to stabilize yourself. The subway rattles. The brakes squeal. You grind your teeth at the noise but don’t dare close your eyes again in case this time you fall asleep for real. This is what you get for staying out til one a.m. after a busy day having had only three hours of sleep the night before. The only other person in your particular car doesn’t even glance your way, thankfully. You check the map above the opposite seats and are relieved to see you haven’t missed your stop. The train pulls in a minute later, and you shamble off like the other handful of people.

A strange sensation passes over you, making you sway a little too far to one side. You catch yourself on one of the pillars. Pain covers your hands suddenly, and you gasp as your muscles tense and you shake. No matter how many times you turn them over, though, they’re fine. No marks, no cuts, no splinters. You breathe, trying to clear your head of the adrenaline pulse from the phantom pain, as well as the other, airy sensation that made you list to the side to begin with. After a quick check-in with yourself, you decide it’s just plain old exhaustion playing tricks on you. That doesn’t stop your anxiety-riddled brain from revving up, always ready to concoct worst-case scenarios.

No, you just need to get home, to sleep. You cringe, remembering that you have lunch with Chrissy tomorrow. And Gillian, but you see him a lot more often. Chrissy’s always so busy with the GreenWitch Collective that she’s practically a stranger now, and you don’t really want to try and explain your new long-term project for the eight hundredth time.

You suddenly realize you’re still at the station. The train pulled away a minute or so ago. It’s just you, the dark, and the squeaking rats clambering over the rails below. You look around in case you’re waiting on something. That’s silly. You’d know if you were supposed to wait for something here. Just to be sure, you look at your calendar app. Nothing but the events and appointments from earlier that day, all long over.

You shake your head. Sleep. You need so much sleep. You climb out of the station and head home, briefly considering making a quick stop to wave at Gillian along the way. But a yawn big enough to make your jaw click a few times makes you think better. You shamble home with nothing of note happening.

A few minutes later, the subway station is graced with the arrival of a sopping wet Bunnymund. He drops to the platform and shakes his legs out one at a time before hissing as he rakes his claws through the fur on his ears. On the one hand, he’s glad the slime in the river is more algae than not. He shudders to think about taking a dip in the industrial sludges of yesteryear. On the other hand, slime is slime.

“If that was who I think it was…” Bunny growls, trying to wipe off the biggest patches while not smearing it into his undercoat. “Next time I see the little snowflake, I’ll drag him through hell. Not even gonna stop flyin’ by to help me…”

It’s the second-most important night of the year! He has last-minute harvesting to do, inventory-taking, has to dedicate the next few days to design clean-ups! He doesn’t care that the route should be almost identical to last year—“should” does a lot of heavy lifting in that statement. This is his last chance to note any major changes before locking in the route.

He takes a step, just to move and get rid of a fraction of the energy pent up in him. He lands wrong, and his foot slides out wide. Bunny goes down on one knee, and then doubles over until his forehead touches the cool concrete. He heaves a whole-body sigh that turns into a scream. That makes him feel a little better, but it does nothing for his current issue with the route. He can’t exactly call it quits now. This is too important. It’s always too important, and he’s the only one who can work out the nuances of it all.

North does it, too. The dark thought crosses his mind.

“No way,” he says aloud. “My holiday.”

After another thirty seconds or so, he finally gets himself up. He shifts to sitting down properly, hissing as his feet start hurting out of nowhere. He massages them and checks to see if anything is caught in the fur. Nothing. He shifts uncomfortably. Some of the algae is starting to dry, and a few patches of fur crunch with the movement. No use wasting any more time. He can feel sorry for himself later.

He winds himself up to jump back to street level, but he glances at the platform across the way. No one’s there. A light spills onto the tracks, but that’s just evidence of another train about to pull in. He scans the platform from one end to the other and shivers. Nothing; it’s just a whole lotta nothing. He settles in for the jump, only to nearly get knocked off his feet again at a blaring in his mind. It’s the eggs, calling for him. Their connection is limited, but they can communicate simple ideas when they need to. He concentrates. He concentrates harder.

“Shit,” he mutters. He opens a tunnel and rushes back to the Warren to investigate the break-in.

The subway station sits undisturbed, a nexus of missed connections.

Chapter Text

“A week after a sudden flurry covered Punxtawney, Pennsylvania, the small town is now swarming with excited climate scientists,” the newscaster chirps. You tune in vaguely as you adjust your collar. “Several say the late snow could point to a healing planet.”

You pause the livestream and turn off the computer. The vod will be there later, after you get back from your appointment. You have a little bit of time left, but before you even think about doing anything, there’s solid, loud five knocks at the door. Despite knowing only one person who knocks like that, your insides clench. But when you look through the peephole, it’s just Barnold, holding a pane of plywood for some reason. You open the door without disconnecting the chain, hoping to discourage him from lingering. The harsh smell of marijuana wafts in through the crack.

“Hey,” you say, fighting to keep from cringing at the odor. “How can I help?”

Barnold pats the plywood. “Here to fix the window.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“You put in for window repair,” he says. Then, he doesn’t look so sure. “Didn’t you?”

Glancing behind toward the fire escape window—the only one in your studio save the small one in the bathroom—you confirm nothing’s broken. You’d be the first to know in this tiny place. You turn back and shake your head.

“Not me.”

“Huh…” He scratches his head, looks down at the plywood, and then checks the apartment number. Finally, he shrugs. “Maybe it’s someone else. You know if your neighbors need window repair?”

You can see a fifteen-minute-long, one-sided chat incoming, so you decide to leave a little early. “‘Fraid I don’t, and I’ve actually got to go, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour and gotta run to the train.”

You close the door, grab your backpack, have your keys at the ready, and then slide past him. He talks at your back as you head out. You wave at him. He’ll figure it out.

As the train crosses the bridge, a message comes in from Chrissy.

Chrissy (09:17 AM)
Mornin! You wouldn’t happen to be at your gallery rn would u?

You (09:18 AM)
No, I’m heading to therapy. Work’s tomorrow. Why?

Chrissy (09:18 AM)
The collective is thinking about doing a project to help spotlight smaller galleries. You still got contact info for i farfalle?

You (09:18 AM)
They shut down last year. That’s cool tho! I’ll shoot a text to Nirupama. Send me any info you got so far.

Chrissy (09:19 AM)
Will do!
Oh! Since you’ll be in the city, want to meet for lunch? I’m craving that café from last week with the quiche.

You cringe. That was a very expensive slice of quiche, and frankly, it wasn’t good enough to warrant the price, even for how big and fresh it was. Plus, you still have one day before the month turns over and UBI is disbursed, hopefully for everyone this time.

You (09:20 AM)
I don’t know if I can meet today.

Mentally speaking, this is true. You’ve been stressed lately, and Chrissy can be overwhelming in larger doses, especially if she’s in Collective business mode.

Chrissy (09:22 AM)
Not at all? I really would like to talk to you in person.

You (09:22 AM)
Just send the info over, I’ll look over it with Nirupama tomorrow and if we have questions we’ll ask.

Chrissy (09:22 AM)
I actually want to talk to you about something else.

You and Chrissy keep in touch, but you don’t consider yourselves especially close. The two of you spoke about art, art shows, art outreach programs, and little else. Chrissy barely cracks your top ten friend list. If you want to hang out, your first choice is usually Gillian, or a few other friends you have. Suddenly, another text comes in.

Chrissy (09:23 AM)
Just with you. Not Gillian.

That pings weirdly. On the other hand, Gillian’s been weirdly avoidant this past week, canceling every plan you tried to make. You even stopped into the bar during business hours to try and see him, but his parents said he’d asked for time off. In light of that, and since this is making you curious, you decide to go.

You (09:24 AM)
Ok. Just you and me.
But maybe we can meet somewhere else? I need to make it to tomorrow on no UBI.

Chrissy (09:24 AM)
Oh I didn’t realize you didn’t get it this month! D: Yeah totally, you pick the place and let me know!

You sigh through your nose. You definitely told her some time ago, but whatever. There’s only mere hours left.

When you and your therapist, Brian, are finally sitting opposite each other, nervousness creeps in. You get the pleasantries out of the way—“How have you been?” “Is your medicine still working effectively?” “How has your anxiety level fluctuated since last month?”—and then reach the dreaded, “So, is there anything new you’d like to talk about?”

You squirm. He notes the movement, but neither says anything nor moves to write it down.

“Yes,” you manage. “I think… I think I’ve been hallucinating.”

“Oh?” He sits up a little straighter, a small furrow of worry creasing his forehead.

“Yeah… Every so often this last week, especially when I was tired or super wound up. I saw myself or other people doing something, but they’re not really doing it. Or, well…” How to explain this? “It’s like I start to see double? I see someone do an action and then they go on to do the action a few seconds or a minute later.”

Brian jots a few notes. “You said it only happens when you’re tired or overstimulated?”

“Usually then, but I was having an otherwise normal day at work two days ago. I was docenting and took my group out to the courtyard, and then I saw a kid pop a rock in his mouth. Then I blinked and the kid was back beside his parent. Two minutes later, I look over and he's near the rocks again and shoves one on his mouth exactly like I’d seen before. Got nine hours of sleep the night before then and seven that night.”

Brian usually has a schooled expression. Not unreadable, that would be too unnerving, but he’s very careful not to let all his thoughts roam free. Today, his brow etches deeper and deeper as you speak. You finish your anecdote and wait for him to say something.

“Huh.” He rustles through his notes and reaches for your file. “Huh.”

“Brian, you’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” he says, typing something. He focuses on you again, saying, “I don’t think we’ve ever talked about something like this before. You say you recently had two nights of good sleep—excellent, by the way, congrats—but you’ve had issues with insomnia before.”

“We decided that was just a side effect of the SSRIs.”

He nods. “Could be. Could be…”

He starts typing and scrolling again, leaving you in silence. You stare at him and count in your head, readying to clear your throat if you hit sixty. Thankfully, he notices around forty-three seconds in and finally takes his fingers away from the keyboard.

“You’re right, I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Let’s back up a few steps.” He leans forward to let you know he’s paying attention. “These… visions. Hallucinations. Are they disrupting your life much?”

“Wouldn’t’ve brought them up if they weren’t bothering me.”

“Are you seeing people or beings, or hearing voices, or having strong thoughts about harming others?”

“No.”

His expression becomes serious. “What about harming yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you feel compelled to act on these visions? As in, do you feel as if something disastrous will happen if you don’t intervene?”

“I almost went over to swat the rock out of the kid’s hand, but I decided that’d be rude.”

“But did it feel like the world would end or someone would die if you failed to stop this kid from eating the rock?”

“No.”

"When this happens, are you able to tell the difference between the vision and reality?"

You let out a breath. "Yes? But no? 90% of the time, I can? It almost feels like I'm dreaming—it feels half-real. If it takes me off-guard, like when I'm tired, then I get confused at the repetition."

Brian nods and writes a note. “Well, based on that, I think we can tentatively rule out late-onset OCD and intrusive thoughts. But…” He looks at you with intensity, and you know to take his next words seriously. “If they start to become more frequent, or if they become so distressing that they interrupt your day-to-day life, or if they won’t go away unless you do a specific action, say specific words, or complete an arbitrary ritual… do not hesitate to call. In fact, I know we usually meet once a month, but in light of this, I’d like to set up a follow-up in the next two weeks.”

You and he get through the logistics of the next visit. He apologizes a few times that he doesn’t have an answer for you right away, but he wants to do his due diligence and not rush into a diagnosis.

“We’ve come a long way in studying the brain, but we’re still ages away from understanding it fully, let alone knowing where biology and psychology overlap,” he says. “I will admit, though, I’ve never seen a case of hallucinations that—” He pauses, contorting his face as if he’s trying not to smile. “I don’t want to use the word ‘precognition,’ but—”

“Yeah, there’s a reason why I didn’t come in here slinging that word around,” you reply. “We can just leave it at ‘hallucination.’”

He nods, and you switch to discussions of the upcoming theater seasons, new shows and movies, books catching your eyes, and Brian’s upcoming zoo trip with his large family. By the end of the hour, you feel a lot better. Brian hands you a sleep tracking booklet, just so you have another metric to compare, and you’re heading out to meet Chrissy for lunch.

You catch up with her in Bryant Park. She trots down the stairs of the library, holding onto the crossbody strap of her bulging backpack. She pulls up next to you, breathless and smiling. However, you notice that there’s a layer of falseness to her expression. A wariness. She doesn’t turn her head to look around, but her eyes twitch from side to side, searching.

“It’s just me,” you assure her, though you’re still not sure why.

“Great!” she says. She gestures for you to lead the way to the restaurant.

You decide on a small family-owned Palestinian coffeeshop. One of the younger workers looks up as you enter and, recognizing you, smiles and points to an empty table in the back. You wave back and lead Chrissy to sit down.

“So, what’s up? How’s the project so far?” you ask.

“Pretty good. Still in the research phase, which is why I was at the library. Putting feelers out,” she replies. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

You wait what you hope is a respectful amount of time before diving right in. “So, what do you need to talk to me about? Without Gillian?”

“Well… I need to talk about them, actually?”

“‘Them?’” You’re confused.

“Yeah, they—”

“He.”

Chrissy blinks at you. You can see the gears ticking in her head. “They use ‘he?’”

“Unless something happened in the last week, yeah.”

Light pink tints her cheeks. She mutters something about never being corrected, and then shakes her head. “Sorry, I wasn’t… well, about him…”

She bites her lip and pulls out her phone. She taps and swipes a few times as you pour her and yourself the qahwah sadah the barista placed on your table. This conversation was not off to a great start, and you wonder if having her as an acquaintance is worth the frustration, even if she’s one of your better contacts to the more exclusive parts of the art world. Still flustered, she slides her phone over to you. You regard it skeptically for a moment and then nearly choke on your coffee. In front of you is a text thread from Gillian to Chrissy. Since a week ago, he’s been sending her long screeds about what an awful person she is.

“Take a second to ask yourself if you even know what you’re doing,” one of them said. “I’ve seen your work, I’ve critiqued your work. There isn’t anything you do that millions of others haven’t already done better. People two hundred years ago were already bored of your ideas. You know this too otherwise you wouldn’t spend so much time icing people out or degrading their hard work. People call me a sellout for going to ‘an institution’ even though I never graduated but they debase themselves and beg for your attention because of the institution you sold your soul to??? And you keep them around to flatter yourself. Hypocrite bitch.”

Your mouth hangs open in shock by the time you hit the final two words, and your brain struggles to reconcile what you know about your friend and what you see here. And he sent at least one text like this per day.

“What the fuck,” you whisper.

Chrissy pulls her phone back and blinks back a few tears. She sniffs and then trains her face back to a more business-neutral. “So, that’s been my week. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I know he’s your best friend, so I wanted to know if I said something at some point?” her voice cracks a little. “Does he think I’m trying to brag? Do you know what brought this on?”

You take another long sip of coffee, taking extra time to process what she’s brought to you, as well as figure out how to be honest yet empathetic. “First of all, he shouldn’t be doing this. At all,” you say. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I can to try and get him to stop, but until then block him.”

She nods. You take a breath and continue carefully, “As for the why… Listen, I’ve known you for years, and even I get a little frustrated with you sometimes.

“You don’t seem to remember what I’m up to with my art. You ask if I’m showing anywhere first thing each time I see you, but you don’t just ask if I’m doing anything interesting or doodling. You never seem interested in my gallery unless, like today, it seems like it’ll benefit you and the Collective. I’m very proud of the work I do there. I keep inviting you to the semi-annual galas, but I have never seen you there. When we met, I wanted to be your best friend, but at best you’re a distant colleague acquaintance.”

Her face gets pinker as you talk. The tears that had collected at her waterlines from re-reading the texts redouble. You’re not here to drag her, just gently express your feelings, so you leave it there and change directions a bit.

“Again, Gill should not be saying these things to you, but I can see why he’d be frustrated since I don’t think you ever ask him how his own art is going.”

You don’t realize what you’re saying until it’s said. But you feel like he’s mentioned it before. You can’t remember when precisely, but you’re sure it happened. To your surprise, Chrissy laughs darkly as she rubs her eyes.

“What art?” she asks. “What art has he ever actually done?” She sighs as you sputter. “He’s the same person he was five years ago when we met. Talks a big game, gives decent feedback, but ultimately has nothing of his own to show for it. He’s the dime-a-dozen ‘artist’ out here. Unless you’ve seen his work? Even a scribble of sidewalk chalk?”

On the one hand, she has the right to be pissed at him after what he’s done. On the other hand… well, okay, your excuse was going to be that he’s your friend, but that doesn’t exactly have a lot of weight with regard to his lack of presence in the art world. It feels like the conversation is derailing, but you have no idea how to set it straight. Chrissy seems to sense the same thing because she just looks defeated and concentrates on her cup. A few moments pass like that and then she looks up at you.

“Look, I’m sorry for making you feel like I don’t care about you. The Collective takes up so much of my soul that I forget friends typically talk about more than one thing they have in common. Do you… wanna go to a movie sometime? You get the seats and I’ll get the eats?”

That’s about as good a note to end on as anything. You agree to the outing, though neither of you set a time, date, or movie right then. You leave the café and part ways. Chrissy hops on the nearest rickshaw and inputs the address for her next stop. You watch the autonomous vehicle putter off with the tuktuktuk of its electrical engine, and then you walk yourself to the subway, ride over the bridge, and find your way back home. Along the way, you stop into the Live Oak again to see if you can’t find Gill right then and there. Once again, all the staff and his parents say he’s asked to not be disturbed.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what he’s working on, do you?” his dad asks, an edge of worry in his voice.

You shake your head. “No, he’s been radio silent all week.”

The man nods and thanks you for being a good friend to Gillian. You finally head home, but not without taking a glance up at his window. A curtain blocks your view inside. You end up sending another text to him, hoping beyond hope he’ll reply.

You (10:02 PM)
Hey! Just wanted to catch up. I know you’ve been busy this last week, but I miss you. You doing okay?

Gillian (02:43 AM)
I’m fine. I just had a big project. I’m almost done and actually wanted to see if you could stop by tomorrow. I’ve got something important to show you.

Chapter Text

The human paces a circle around his room. Every so often, he leans out of the window to look down the street. He draws back inside and checks his phone. Then, right back to pacing. Bunny watches him through binoculars on the roof on the other side of the street, trying to discern anything from the human’s facial expressions besides annoyance and impatience. When he isn’t doing that, he focuses on the spherical bundle just visible through the window.

“I can just use a tunnel real quick,” he mutters again. Beside him, Sandy huffs.

“We’re trying to learn something,” he replies for the thousandth time.

“If what that werewolf says is A) true and B) relevant to the theft, then what can it hurt? Either he’s full of it and I get my artifact back, or he’s telling the truth and we take this out of the hands of evil.”

Sandy hums in agreement. Neither of them threaten to act on these words.

In what has arguably been one of the most boring weeks of excitement in a while, the Warren was robbed and very coincidentally, a day later the alleged leader of the Transylvanian werewolf hordes was found skulking around the edges of Santoff Claussen. North had nearly taken his head off in what was, admittedly, a puzzling return to young adult brashness for him. Were it not for Nightlight being there and vouching for the werewolf (who he had apparently met briefly on one of his long journeys centuries ago), there is a good chance he would have met his end, and they never would have been told about this so-called “Stranger” threatening the balance of the world.

The Guardians took a vote and agreed to humor him as far as they managed to trust him. Nightlight is no liar, but sometimes it feels as if he trusts too readily, is too easily led on. Regardless, it’s been an interesting week, and Bunny’s just grateful any world-ending peril held off until after his holiday. With refreshed Belief thrumming through him, he settles in to continue watching this shut-in of a human—for all of thirty seconds before he gets bored.

The only reason he’s on this stakeout is because it’s his problem to deal with. If it wasn’t, he’d help out his friend, of course, but would have negotiated shorter shifts to spare his agitation. Even now, his leg bounces without him really thinking about it, giving the agonizing wait some much-needed texture. It’s not enough to keep him focusing squarely on the human, however, and his gaze drifts to other parts of the street.

A preteen pokes at a puddle of water gathering under the dripping waterspout. They squat, hugging their knees as they guide a pair of leaves around with a forked stick. Bunny laughs through his nose at the sight, wondering how many times this exact scene has played out over lifetimes. Something catches the preteen’s attention, and they abandon the leaf races, wiping their hands and jogging up the street.

An adult man comes from the opposite direction, a dreamy look on his face. Bunny slips his eyes out of the viewfinder long enough to confirm that Sandy has a similar, glassy-eyed stare going on. The man wanders away, nearly bumping into a few others as a wave of people heads down the sidewalk.

Including someone who catches Bunny’s eye as soon as he sees them. His leg stops bouncing and he shifts to look more closely. They power-walk down the sidewalk, eye rising to the building he and Sandy are across from. He watches as they pause next to an alley opening, glance up and then at their phone, and then slide into the alley. He lowers the binoculars, an odd feeling coming over him.

There’s a name on the tip of his tongue. He swears if he can just home in on it, then he’ll have… maybe not all the answers, but an important one. Unfortunately, he pursues it too fast, and it flies away, leaving his mind blank. Quickly, he sidles over to the other end of the roof, leaning over to see if they’re still in the alley. They are, checking their phone again.

“Sandy!” Bunny hisses. The Sandman perks up and floats over when Bunny motions for him. He hands him the binoculars, points and asks, “They look familiar to you?”

Sandy looks and then does a double take. He hands the binoculars back with a puzzling look. Bunny hasn’t seen him this unsure in a long while.

“I don’t think so,” he replies, rubbing his chin. “But they seem suspicious. They might be up to something; we should keep an eye on them while we watch the thief.”

Confusion works its way into Bunny. Nightlight may be—possibly—too easily lead, but Sandy is the eternal optimist. He goes out of his way to give second, third, even tenth chances to people. He was the one who convinced them to let the boogeyman live, and much to Bunny’s annoyance, work toward some sort of redemption. Hearing Sandy be this judgmental about a random human is bewildering. He shrugs it off, though; it’s not like Sandy’s flying down to beat them up or something. They watch the human punch in a code at a door and enter the building.

“Hm,” Bunny grunts. “Must live here.”

They both settle back in. Bunny’s joints stiffen as they still. He shifts so that his other leg can bounce as he returns his watch to the window. He sighs. Not five minutes later, the human startles him by appearing through the window. The man he’s been watching welcomes them in.

“Good intuition?” he says to Sandy. It takes Sandy a second to catch up, but his eyes sharpen when he sees them, too. Bunny motions with his head. “I think we should get a closer look, yeah?”

Sandy easily floats over and hovers near the window. Bunny makes sure everything is tucked away before he backs up to get a running start. He clears the street, landing deftly on the other roof. From there, he ties off a rope and rappels down, envying Sandy’s ability to fly in this one particular instance. Once he has a grip on the brick wall, he’s ready to listen in on whatever these two have to say.

There’s a light shifting noise. Bunny scoots away, flattens himself against the wall, and freezes as the thief yanks the window open. He places a collapsible screen into it and draws a white, sheer, lacy curtain over the pane.

“Thanks,” someone says within. “It’s really warm today.”

“No problem,” the other says.

Through the mesh of eyelets in the curtains, Bunny can see the thief is the one who said that. He leans on the desk, offering the chair to his friend. He rests his hand on the bundle hiding the artifact and rubs it a few times.

“What’d you want to talk about? What’s this project you’re working on?” the newcomer says.

Although this new person isn’t in the clear, Bunny thinks they sound genuine. He’s not ready to assume they’re guilt-free, but he reckons if they were on board with the theft, they wouldn’t be asking direct, naïve questions. The thief chuckles.

“First, let me ask you: how was your week?”

The newcomer presses their lips together, unimpressed and confused. They reply with a highlight review of the previous few days: art, work, anxiety, and a temporary lack of money. As they speak, they fiddle with something in their pocket, slipping it out and toying with it. He can’t see what it is, but he sympathizes with the fidget.

“What’s that?” the thief asks suddenly. He steps toward the other. “Is that an egg? An Easter egg?”

Interest piqued, Bunny leans farther into the window, trying to glimpse between the sheers better. They hold it up to show the suspect, and Bunny recognizes it. A little bit. He paints so many eggs each year, sometimes it’s hard to keep track. This one, however, was nothing short of a nuisance in the process. A right prima donna even, demanding certain colors and refusing to leave his basket until they hit this city.

“It’s been sitting on a ledge outside my building since Sunday,” they reply. The man reaches for it, but they pull it out of his reach. “I like the decoration and figured I should empty it and seal it before it rots completely. Frankly, I’m surprised a rat hasn’t gotten to it yet.”

A confusion of pride runs through Bunny. On the one hand, he’s flattered they like it so much they want to keep it. On the other hand, he feels like preserving it forever kind of misses the point of his work.

“It’s just an egg,” the man says.

“Okay.” His friend’s accent twangs up a little and continues into their next sentence. “Gillian, what’s wrong with you this week? I’m done beating around the bush. I want answers.”

“What’s this about?” Gillian asks, surprised.

“You’ve avoided me all week, not even your parents can tell me why you’ve isolated yourself, and you’re being so cagey!” They take a breath, holding their hand up to shush Gillian before he speaks. “I also met up with Chrissy yesterday, and she showed me the bullshit you’ve been sending her!”

The breeze kicks up a bit, billowing the curtains wider. Bunny dares to lean more. He’s sure more than ever that Gillian’s visitor is just a random civilian, just caught up in a bad friendship. Gillian’s hand tenses on the artifact.

“Oh, come on,” he spits back. “This is prissy Chrissy we’re talking about. Who cares if her feelings got a little hurt?”

“You don’t have to like her, but you need to treat her like a person—with respect!” They blink a few times suddenly and rub their eyes. “No, I don’t want to see your stupid egg, I want to know why my friend is acting so odd!”

Gillian lets out a soft, “Heh.” He crosses his arms. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to see it.”

“Yes, you did. You just—”

“Yet. Was about to ask right before you said something.” The friend goes rigid, stricken. Gillian leans back. “Tell me again—how’s your week been? Been having any weird… premonitions?”

“What the hell are you going on about?” They ask so quietly that Bunny has to strain to hear. He makes a bewildered face at Sandy, who’s equally mystified by this turn of events.

“So, it is happening,” Gillian says. “Good. Lean into it.”

“It’s not a skill, it’s a hallu—”

“You’re an oracle. You’ve got magic.”

No one moves or breathes for a beat. Then, the maybe-oracle stands and pushes to the door. Gillian tries to stop them, but they dodge his grip. They pause at the door.

“Whenever you’re ready to tell me what’s been going on, you know how to find me. Til then, take care and maybe talk to someone.”

Gillian grunts and rolls his eyes. “I’m telling the truth. Look, at the very least, give me that egg before you go.”

“No! Why—why—?”

“You never know if someone could be tracking it.”

“Tracking an egg?! Pray tell, who is putting trackers in uncracked, painted eggs?”

“The Easter Bunny.” Gillian says it with no flourish, all seriousness.

There’s an incredibly long silence. Bunny’s mind struggles to catch up. Sandy looks equally confused. This of course mixes with the sour anticipation of what inevitably comes next when adults talk about him with sincerity and belief.

“The fucking Easter Bunny,” they repeat.

A door slams. Bunny hears their muffled stomps as they travel down the stairs. Inside the bedroom, Gillian huffs and sits down. Bunny peeks in. He sits and stares at the bundle, scowling. Bunny motions for Sandy to meet him on the roof.

“That was enlightening,” he whispers once they’re up. Theys stand toward the center of the roof to prevent their voices from carrying to the open window.

“That oracle thing sounds…” Sandy doesn’t know how to phrase it.

“Yeah.” Bunny and he look at each other for a second.

“We should investigate.”

“Agreed. You stay here and keep an eye on the thief. I’ll see what I can learn about them.”

Sandy looks surprised. “Are you sure I shouldn’t go? I thought you might be reluctant to leave your artifact here.”

Bunny was turning to go, but he swivels back. “What, you think I don’t trust you?”

Sandy deadpans, “Sometimes.”

“Look, just babysit the culprit and I’ll be back in an hour, tops.”

He hops off without another word. He scours the street for the human, finding them heading back the way they came. They aren’t paying attention to their surroundings; groups of walkers heading the opposite direction have to dart out of their way and look back, annoyed. He tracks them to an apartment building called Ocean Avenue Historical Apartments. He pauses to read the sign again, swearing this place seems familiar. Unfortunately, he’s too late to figure out how to follow them to their floor, as they take the building’s rickety elevator and he can’t see which button they press. He sighs. He’s going to have to put his all into focusing, then.

Gillian wasn’t wrong about one thing: technically, Bunny can track all his eggs. It’s not like Tooth’s uncanny ability to pinpoint fallen baby teeth or North’s penchant for sussing out what people need—what gift—at that point in time. It’s a side effect of being a Guardian. His reach is more limited. For the stone eggs, it takes a bit of concentration, but there’s a means of communication. For the painted eggs… well, he can sense them all during the creation phase, but once they’re out in the world, things get more tenuous. They’re perishable, after all. The one the human had was intact as far as he could tell, probably starting to go off, but with any luck, he can follow it to their apartment. Sure, he could tunnel into the units one by one, but there’s something off-putting about entering human homes without purpose. Perhaps another side effect of Guardianship.

Bunny settles onto a fire escape, preparing to slow down, to calm his mind. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. In the darkness, he tracks his breathing, dragging his mind back to it when it wanders off. He’s not sure how long he sits there—at least ten minutes. Eventually, he gets an inkling in the back of his mind. He almost gets so excited that it disappears, but he reels himself in long enough to chase it. Methodically, he makes his way to the other side of the building, resting on the landing of another fire escape, sure he’s closing in on the right unit. He concentrates, feeling for the faint presence of the egg when it abruptly cuts out.

Bunny blinks. He swears and settles back into focus mode. No luck. It’s as if the damn thing has dropped off the face of the earth. Then, he remembers what they’d said about wanting to preserve it. Best way to do that is to crack it and take the innards out first. He grits his teeth, furious at himself for not getting hold of it sooner. He knows it was a long shot, but it still irks him, just like their dismissive reaction to being told about the Easter Bunny irked him.

It's a very normal human response, he reminds himself. He still resents it.

He checks his communication crystal. It hasn’t been quite an hour yet, and Sandy isn’t signaling him. Bunny rubs his neck, contemplating going through every apartment one by one, and then contemplating if it’s even worth finding them. The thief declaring them an oracle is interesting, but tangential, right? Ultimately an extra in the grand scheme of things. He hits a wall. He shouldn’t be here, this was pointless—

Movement in the window to his side catches his eye. The resident inside shoves their curtains open. Against all odds, there they are, the exact human he’s looking for. They jump as the curtains reveal him, eyes widening in surprise at seeing anyone at their back window. They relax a bit after the initial shock, but confusion takes over as they really take him in. They’re not screaming. That’s good. He lifts one paw and waves, and then he gestures between them to the window, mouthing a question:

“Can we talk?”

Chapter Text

You fume for a solid minute after returning to your apartment. You rip off your coat and toss it onto your bed with as much force as possible and kick your shoes off into the wall. As you tighten your fists, you remember the egg and relax just in time. You turn it over. Something about the paint job looks familiar. It has traditional bands of geometric patterns from top to bottom, but they’re not as strict as you usually see them. There’s something looser about them, something that flows, as if the decorator went with their gut instead of a plan. You need an outlet, and this is the nearest means. You dig through your art supplies and grab a brush, mod podge, some tape, a thumbtack, and a paperclip and get to work.

There’s a heart-stopping moment when you poke into the tip, but the shell gives without compromising the rest of it. The rounded end goes without trouble, and you slosh the yolk and whites around for a bit before taking a deep breath and blowing through the top. A pale, yellow sludge drips into your sink. You take another breath and blow again, relieved it was still decent even after three days in the warm spring air. Not taking any chances by eating it, though. Once the majority of the innards are out, you balance it in a strainer to keep dripping, and you clean a bit. You work your way through your studio, putting your jacket away and neatly placing your shoes where they belong. It calms you, though it can’t quell the annoyance. The apartment is stuffy after all that movement, so you head to the window and throw open the curtains to liven up the atmosphere.

A figure stands on the fire escape. You gasp and jump, not used to seeing people outside. Technically, loitering on fire escapes is illegal, and possibly a misdemeanor, but most people don’t care. Every so often, you crack open some liquor or a beer and sit outside. It’s a pitiful excuse of a porch compared to the South, but it’s better than nothing. Your heartrate returns to a more manageable level, only to accelerate again when you realize what you’re looking at.

It's an anthropomorphic rabbit. Surely a fursuit. A different answer burbles up in the pit of your stomach, and a silly thought crosses your mind. A silly, impossible thought.

The rabbit pauses when he notices you notice him. His ears twitch independently and very realistically for what has to be armatures and servos. Then again, where on that thin, tight-fitting mask are they even set? There’s no bulk, and the proportions are unlike most suits. He lifts a paw and waves. You automatically wave back. He then gestures between the two of you and to the window. The muzzle moves, and it’s far too dexterous to be a simple open-shut hinge. That answer within boils furiously.

“Can we talk?” he mouths, clearly enough for you to read his lips.

“Uh…”

You stare at each other, neither moving. After an awkward second, the rabbit points to the window. He wants you to open it. To talk. Another moment passes, and he slowly sits down. He holds his hands up to show you he’s unarmed and presses his back against the railing.

“Please,” he mouths.

Despite decades of wariness, you unlock the window and crack it open just enough for you to hear each other.

“Can I help you?” you ask.

“G’day,” he replies in a strong Australian accent. “This, uh, this might be a little weird, but…” He struggles with his words. “Uh, how ‘bout I introduce myself. My name is E. Aster Bunnymund. Just Bunny works, though.”

Something pings in the back of your mind. There’s something about that name. Maybe an account you came across? A friend of a friend? It grates on you that you can’t remember, so you just nod in acknowledgement.

“How can I help you, Bunny?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know a Gillian, would you? Transmasculine, speaks his mind, lives above a bar?”

Instant veer into red flag territory. Much as Gillian’s pissed you off, that’s no reason to tell some random person anything about him. You forego a direct answer, opting for a terse, “Why?”

“I think he has something of mine.”

“Can’t you just go ask him for it, then?”

“Lemme rephrase that: I know he stole something from me. And I need it back, ASAP.”

Oh, Gill, what the fuck have you done? you think. It must show on your face because he leans forward. Still far out of arm’s reach, but you place a hand on the window to snap it closed if need be.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says gently. “Frankly, I don’t wanna hurt him, either, but what he has is incredibly dangerous if used improperly.”

That egg? Except, you never did get visible confirmation that Gill’s project was an egg. He just said it was, then said you had magic and… This all is getting to be a little much. Oracle, indeed. You start to tremble. The rabbit looks intensely at you, green eyes shifting and catching the daylight in such a way that you realize they’re wet. Not as is crying, but as organic eyes are moist. Your stomach churns harder, and you’re on the cusp of admitting something terrifying to yourself.

“Did Gillian ever mention someone called the ‘Stranger?’” Bunny asks.

You wrack your brain, trying to remember if he has. It sounds like a mafioso alias, if you’re being honest, and that thought starts you down a slow spiral into worrying about him even more. You shake your head.

“What do you know about werewolves?”

Oh, good, an easy answer. You swallow and try to keep your voice even. “Monsters from folklore. You turn into one if it bites you and forcibly transform at the full moon. Can be killed by silver bullets.”

He nods but doesn’t look like he’s hearing what he was hoping for. “Okay,” he mutters. He settles in for another question. He looks you dead in the eye and asks, “Can you really see the future?”

Your hand slams down on the window, snapping it shut and then locking it. As you throw the curtains closed, you hear a muffled, “Wait, no! Shit…” from the other side. He taps on the window, then knocks. You back up further into the room, as far away from him as possible.

They’re just hallucinations, you tell yourself. Vivid hallucinations that sometimes come true because it’s easier to predict human behavior than we like to think.

Behind you, there’s a soft, shifting sound, like something opening and closing. You move another step or so and then tense as your back brushes against a set of hands. You whirl around and gasp when you see him there, effortlessly in the middle of your apartment.

He holds up his hands and quickly says, “Please don’t scream.”

Luckily for him, unluckily for you, your fear response today is “freeze” rather than fight or flight. Your throat sticks, much as you want to drown out the upstairs DJ’s current set. The rabbit looks a little harried, but he doesn’t grab or attack. That realization in your gut escapes containment, spreading to the rest of your being.

“That’s not a costume,” you whisper. Your knees buckle slightly, and you grasp for your bed to support you.

“Oh, please don’t pass out, either,” he says. “But yeah. Not a costume. Real bunny. In fact…” He draws himself up, becoming taller than he is already. “I’m the Easter Bunny.”

Your eyes flick to the kitchen where the painted egg sits. He follows your glance and, seeing it, nods.

“Yeah, I did that one.”

“Can you…” You have to know because you really don’t want Gillian to be right about this. “Did you track me down with that? Like a tracking device?”

He blinks. “No,” he says slowly. He then rubs the back of one paw. “In the interest of full disclosure, though, I was staking out Gillian’s place when you visited him not long ago. Overheard all that conversation, including the oracle bit. Between your reaction there and just now, I’m guessing there’s some bit of truth in there.”

“What do you think he stole from you?” You glide past the subject.

Bunny frowns and tries to hide an eyeroll behind a long blink. “Sure, we can skip that for now. He took a time artifact. That egg you predicted he wanted to show you. His ‘project.’” He lets that sink in before continuing. “Meanwhile, a werewolf showed up at our doorstep last week claiming that a being called the Stranger usurped him as leader of his pack—and it had a human accomplice. It didn’t take much to correlate those two incidents, but we haven’t confirmed them to be linked. Could be your friend is just a thief.”

“Hey!” You bristle at the accusation. Bunny holds up his hands.

“Listen, I could’ve taken it back several times by now, but one, we want more proof that the incidents are related, because two, we like to make sure we’re not swooping a random human who’s no real threat to us.”

“Who’s we?”

As if the day isn’t strange enough already, Bunny then details the Guardians of Childhood. A coalition of holiday characters watching over and occasionally saving the world, as if they were the Avengers or other superheroes. And yet, something about it sounds correct; you feel as if you’ve heard of the notion before. Much as you’re trying to be suspicious of this literal giant talking rabbit who invited himself into your home, the overwhelming feelings in your gut lead you to feel otherwise.

Something on his bandolier starts glowing. Bunny removes a small crystal and encloses it in his palm. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he re-opens them, he looks toward the window.

“Sandy—the Sandman,” he says. “My partner on the stakeout. Told him I’d be gone for an hour to find you.”

“Where is he?”

“Still keeping watch on your friend, but I told him to come over to talk to you.”

You sigh. “Okay,” you reply, resigned to everything. “Would you… like some water while we wait?”

He declines your hospitality. You end up going to the bathroom to splash some water on your face, unsure why you feel so slighted at that. The bathroom is down a hallway—more of a corner—off the main room. Separate enough to find some peace, but not so far that you can’t hear the floorboards in the next room creaking as he steps. This whole experience is so surreal, and part of you hopes to wake up to start the day over. In lieu of that, you linger in the bathroom, watching yourself in the mirror.

The visions—hallucinations—predictions? They seem more and more plausible. You stare at yourself and let your vision go fuzzy, trying to concentrate enough to bring one of them on. After a minute, it just results in your eyes crossing and the start of a strain headache. You shake your head and sigh, then exit in time to see Bunny leaning over last week’s Ana-vlog, finger outstretched.

“Don’t touch that,” you say loudly. You rush to rescue your painting, but a wall suddenly appears before you. Too late, you slam into it face-first.

You peel yourself off the wall, disoriented when you realize you haven’t left the hallways, haven’t rounded the corner to see into the main room. Now that you can, you see Bunny by the paintings, slowly pulling his paw behind his back. Your face grows hot as he gives you a silent, wry look. His ear flicks toward the window, and he turns. A small, golden man hovers outside, and Bunny waves for him to come in. You start over to open the window, but the man dissolves in the air. He turns into a swirl of golden sand that finds its way through unseen cracks in the wall, reconstituting on the other side. You struggle to keep from looking as ill at ease as you feel, but you’re sure you’ve failed as he gives you a skeptical look.

“This is the Sandman,” Bunny says to you. “Sandy, this is…” He pauses. His brow furrows, and he glances at you. He waves his paw in a circle, trying to prompt himself. “This is…”

You’re overcome with the urge to return is wry look, and his eye twitches in such a way that makes you think he appreciates it as much as you did.

“You need my name?” you ask.

“No, you told me before, I—”

“No, I didn’t.”

He squints at you, then shakes his head and mutters, “How do I forget to ask for a bloody name…” He clears his throat. “What is it?”

You oblige him, the introductions are out of the way, and it feels like a balance rights itself between you two. Sandy is not as convinced.

“How do we know you aren’t taking part in this?” he asks, looking at you so coldly your insides seize up. “Your proximity to Gillian puts you in a suspicious light, as well.”

“Sandy!” Bunny looks dumbfounded. “Where’s this comin’ from?”

“Is that not why you tracked them down?”

“Uh…” Bunny glances at you and shuffles in place. “Maybe a little. Also, the oracle thing.”

“I’m learning all of this today, I swear,” you say. “Put me in a magical polygraph test and let me prove it if you need to.”

The Sandman looks at you and cocks his head. After a second, he nods. “I don’t have one of those, but I think you can help us. Talk to Gillian and get the information we need without him becoming wise to the situation.”

“You’ll do fine,” Bunny says the next day. You’re almost shaking too hard to tie your shoes. “It’s just a few simple questions.”

“I know,” you reply. “I just don’t like lying to people. Mostly cause I’m really bad at it.”

You look up at him. He stands with his arms crossed, which has been his second-favorite pose since yesterday. So far, he’s alternated between three seconds of leaning against a wall and minutes of pacing. You suspect it’s his own form of restlessness, but it sets off your anxiety. If the powerful Guardian can’t keep his cool, what hope do you have? He shrugs.

“Good to know, I guess. But if he’s not even talking to his parents about this—and he certainly won’t talk to us—then a best friend is our best shot.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You sigh and start to gather your things. Gillian had been all too eager to meet up and explain, sending a novel of a text message. This only served to make you more nervous, and you were unable to finish reading. Bunny skimmed the rest and gave you the highlights: Gillian is sorry for being rude, for pushing too much, and he’s ready to hear you out fully before passing judgement of any kind. Vague and inoffensive, all told. No mention of magic or oracles whatsoever.

You sling your backpack on and start for the door.

“Hey,” Bunny says. “Here, take this.”

He holds out a five-petaled flower, an ombre of royal blue to pastel purple so light it was nearly white. All the better to highlight the bright orange center. At first, you think he’s trying to distract you from your own nerves, and to be fair, it is doing that. You twirl it between your fingers, taking a moment to clear your mind. One of the petals brushes against your knuckles with a zing, and you realize there’s something off about it.

“Is this magical?” you ask. Bunny looks thoughtful.

“You can sense that?”

“Well, I don’t know enough about plants, but there seems to be—”

“Easy,” he says, placing a hand on your shoulder for a second. “You’re correct. It’s just unusual for someone coming into magical awareness so late in life to know something’s different. You sure this is your first contact with magic since childhood?”

You start to nod, but then the canvases leaning against the wall catch your eye. Specifically, the Ana-vlog from last week. You go and pick it up, the floor creaking behind you as Bunny wanders over, too.

“Very nice,” he says, looking over your shoulder. “You’re an artist?”

“Trying to be, but the contemporary art world isn’t keen on my one-person crusade to bring twentieth century art movements back.”

He gives you a confused look but becomes more intrigued by the part of the canvas you point to next: the ominous shadow looming in the bushes behind your childhood home.

“I grew up in the suburbs—not like, real, natural suburbs, but an old 1950s housing development, planned community sort of place. Totally run down, took too long to walk through it, no mixed-use zoning, and the tacked-on trolley service was unreliable. But it was too cheap for my parents to pass up. Still, us kids found stuff to do, and in high school, a group of seniors always went out at night in the spring before graduation to see if they could find the local monster.”

“Monster?” Bunny’s focus sharpened.

“More like a local cryptid, I guess. I never placed too much stock in the stories. But I in high school I got persuaded (and sort of blackmailed) to go on the annual hunt.”

“And it turned out to be a little less unreal than you thought, huh?”

You nod. “Yeah. I mean, it could have been a thin bear standing on its hind legs, I guess. It didn’t really have glowing eyes, though,” you say, indicating the wide white marks sitting in stark contrast to the dark form. “But it was big and terrifying and…”

You pause, unsure if you finally want to say this part to someone for the first time. If anyone might have an idea about what it was or meant, surely one of these Guardians would.

“It spoke to me.” One of Bunny’s ears twitches. “It growled, ‘Get out of my territory or I’ll find you.’”

The painting slips in your grasp. Bunny catches it before it can drop and leans it back with the other canvases.

“Is it still there, you think?” he asks. You shrug.

“I don’t really want to find out. The suburb I grew up in was placed under a rewilding jurisdiction when I was young, so no one is allowed to move back once they move out. No new residents, either. The woods have been encroaching for decades, and honestly, that’s kind of what made me finally move out. I didn’t want to stay long enough for it to make good on its promise.”

“Hm…” Bunny stares at the canvases. You huff a laugh through your nose.

“More than once, I’ve wondered why it couldn’t be Mothman. At least he looks good from the back, according to that one statue, anyway.”

Bunny hums and tilts his hand back and forth in a “so-so” gesture. It takes a second for the implication to catch up with you, and you stare wide-eyed at him.

“He’s real?” you ask. Then you remember you’re asking the Easter Bunny this. “He’s real… Wait, are you saying the statue isn’t accurate?”

He coughs and says, “Anyway, circling back to the flower, if you pluck one of its petals off and call for help, I’ll be able to find you even if I lose visual contact. Nothing should really go wrong; this is just to confirm the…”

You’ve been glaring him down as he spoke. He sighs.

“The statue’s accurate in that department, yes,” he concedes. “Few other inaccuracies elsewhere, but that part is… It isn’t worth getting excited over, though, I promise.”

“Did you and Mothman—?”

“Are ya ready to go? We have to get this operation underway.” His ears have fallen back so they look like two banners sticking out on each side of his head, and he avoids looking at you. You would much rather hear all the details than potentially betray your friend’s trust, but you can’t avoid it forever. You grab a hair clip and attach the flower into your hair and then nod and open the door.

“You’ll do fine,” he repeats gently. “Me and Sandy’ll be watching from just outside the window.”

You head out. For the entire walk, you subconsciously reach up to graze the petals. Hopefully, you don’t have to use it, but its presence is of some comfort, at least.

Chapter Text

Bunny follows them from the rooftops to make sure they get to Gillian’s in one piece. Not that he expects anything to accost them on the way, especially since he and Sandy spent the previous night setting up scouts along layers of perimeters. He thought it was a little much, given the nature of the operation, but with a human civilian involved, they needed to make sure no harm comes to them.

He joins Sandy on the roof and watches as the human slips into the alley and inputs the code. Bunny gives a small chuckle. They’d kinda thrown him with that last set of questions. Humans are weirdly persistent with gossip. Still, he hasn’t thought of Mothman in a while—for good reason. He prefers to move on from failed experiments. The thought niggles at him, though.

“You seen Mothman lately?” he suddenly asks. Sandy looks over to him, one eyebrow raised in distressed confusion.

“No, and don’t you dare seek him out again. Remember what happened—”

“Well, yeah, no, I won’t!” he says quickly. “I was just… Anyway, let’s get into position.”

They hover around the window. Bunny listens for the faint sounds of feet on the stairwell and signals Sandy as they’re about to enter the room. The two humans look like they’re making small talk as they take their seats. The back and forth grows sparser as they settle in, the point of the meeting looming over them. It’s at that moment that Bunny realizes the window is closed again, and that everything is muffled. As good as his ears are, there’s only so much they can do.

He ignores Sandy’s side-eye and leans farther into the window space. He waves slightly. The human’s eyes catch the movement and flick over, then back to Gillian. He waves again, and they look at him a little longer. He motions for them to open the window, gets a nod, and then he slides out of full view. But a minute passes, and nothing happens. They sit there as if they haven’t seen him at all.

Over the next few minutes, however, they become increasingly agitated, twitchy. They go from swinging their legs as they sit on the bed to running their fingers over the bedspread to wringing their hands. Bunny watches, getting more anxious himself as his mind tries to anticipate what they’re talking about. He swears they’ll point to the window and unravel everything. Sandy hums and garnishes it by clearing his throat. Bunny strains to hear and decipher what’s going on, gritting his teeth.

Finally, the human leaps for the window. Bunny’s heart jumps into his throat, and he and Sandy barely get out of the sightline before they throw open the sash. The human takes a deep inhale. Tilting their head to the side, they give another miniscule nod before retracting back inside. Bunny pauses for a moment longer, sure Gillian will appear next, but all he hears is, “Sorry about that.”

Bunny creeps back to peer in. It’s not the most discreet means of getting the window open, but Gillian is too busy comforting them to notice or question it.

“So, um,” they say. “The egg. Let’s start there.”

“You sure?” Gillian asks, voice so soft it makes Bunny realize he actually does care about his friend. Here’s hoping the man manages to find his way out of this unscathed. Gillian continues, “This is a lot for you, so we can take it as slow as you need.”

“No, it’s what I came here for. And the oracle… thing. Because I have, in fact, been having weird visions this past week. I talked to my therapist, but if you’ve got the answers I need…”

“Yeah?” Gillian smiles. “All right, well. Hm… Best place to start.”

He unwraps the bundle for the first time, and Bunny suppresses a sharp inhale. There it is, softly iridescent in the light. Gillian carefully lifts it up, annoyingly with his bare hands, and turns it around. An odd dissonance overcomes Bunny as he does, but it’s not until the second full rotation that he realizes why. His insides clench in confusion.

Where’s the crack? he thinks. It repeats over and over in his mind, so loudly that it takes an awed exclamation from the human to drag him back to their conversation.

“It’s beautiful!” they say. They raise a hand out, but seem to think better and place it back in their lap.

“It is,” Gillian agrees. He gazes at it lovingly. “It can take someone back in time.”

The human immediately turns to the window, disbelief on their face. The Guardians scuttle out of sight in case Gillian turns, though from this new angle, Bunny sees them try to salvage their tell by dipping their head and gazing into the middle distance. Good instincts preceded by bad ones.

Did they not believe me when I told them it could do that? He scowls and catches Sandy looking at him. A series of sand sigils flash above his head, something about needing to retreat if they do that one more time and breaking ties with them. Bunny shakes his head and holds up one finger.

“Yeah, you just concentrate, and it’ll take you directly to the time you need,” Gillian says.

“Incredible,” they reply. “But where did you get this?”

Leaning back in, Bunny nods to Sandy, who reluctantly approaches again.

“Found it.”

“Gill, I’m willing to follow this rabbit hole a long ways, but you don’t just ‘find’ time eggs at the local henhouse. Who gave this to you?”

He sighs. “A new Friend. A powerful Friend. A Friend who can make everything we would ever want possible.”

“That’s a big claim,” they respond. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”

“Of course I do!” he barks, startling his friend. He flinches and repeats, quieter, “Of course I do. Look… There are a lot of strange things in this world. Like fairytale magic. It’s real. But along with it comes the fairies themselves, among other creatures. And these beings can interact with us, influence us, all without our knowing. They’re invisible to most people.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“If you’re willing to accept having future visions, you have to understand that there’s more to it. A lot more.”

“Like fairies.”

Gillian smiles. “And werewolves, too.”

Bunny could hit the wall in relief. Finally, a confirmation! The strange dog was telling the truth. He settles back down, hoping for more details.

“My Friend recently freed a werewolf pack from a tyrant,” Gillian says. “Now, it’s hoping to liberate other packs, and even the humans from the influence of these invisible creatures. I think we can do it with your help.”

“With my visions.”

“Yes.”

The human quiets down, smoothing their fingers over their hair. They graze the flower. The smidge of magic must reinvigorate them, as they sit up and look determined.

“Right,” they say. “It sounds like your friend has a lot ahead of them, though I guess it’s got all the time in the world.”

“Well…” Gillian wavers. “Unfortunately, it can’t just jump back and forth all the time. It’s gotta be done discreetly, or one of those beings will sense it. I’ve been testing this all week, actually, and we figured out some potential ways around it.”

“Like what?”

Gillian waves his hand. “Very complicated stuff, but it’s entrusted me with figuring it out. So far, it’s been a trip. But, as my Friend thinks… we could still use you on our side.”

Bunny clocks a reluctance in Gillian’s voice, a hollowness in his eye. Not corrupted, not possessed, but perhaps disappointed. He tried to watch closer, but Sandy catches his attention with more symbols:

“Information gathered. Report back to friends.”

There could be a lot more to learn here, but Sandy insists until he relents. They just need to extract the human safely. He waves until he catches their eye, and then he gestures to wrap it up. Once again, he’s unsure if they understand until a minute later when they shove their hand in their pocket and pull out their phone. Gillian pauses his ramble as they swipe and tap.

“Shit,” they hiss, and they gather their things. “Sorry, but Nirupama, the curator, just texted. Something big came up. Sorry, but I gotta—” They stumble over their words and then just hug him. He returns the gesture, confused and still disappointed, but he doesn’t argue. “We’ll discuss the oracle stuff another time. Tomorrow—no, I’m scheduled for work. This Sunday? No, no my parents want to talk, and they always take a while. We’ll figure it out?”

“Sounds good,” Gillian says, though Bunny thinks that doesn’t sound good to him at all. He squeezes his friend’s hand. “Have fun with the art. Text me.”

The human waves and rushes down the stairs. Bunny watches the from the rooftop, surprised when they don’t immediately head back to their apartment. Instead, they head to the subway. He catches up to them, leaving an exasperated Sandy on the roof, and he just manages to slip into the train car behind them.

“You okay?” he asks, trying to ignore the shivers wracking him as people crowd so close they lean through him.

They give the barest nod. The doors close and the train jolts forward. Bunny awkwardly stands behind them, trying not to lean forward too much as he rocks with the motion of the train. A few stops later, the loudspeaker calls, “Prospect Park,” and they rush out, not stopping for another block as they enter said park. It doesn’t take them long to find a bench, and they collapse onto it, taking deep, controlled breaths in and out. He lowers himself beside them and waits. It takes a few minutes, but they calm down.

“Sorry,” they say. “I told him I was heading to work, which is in the city, so I thought it’d be weird if I turned back for home right away.”

He wants to reply, “You’re overthinking this,” but he holds it back in favor of just nodding. They sit back and watch the nearby chess players quietly contemplating each move. A child sitting next to their parent suddenly notices him and waves. He returns it. The distant voices of more children playing echo over the lawn and shrubs, and in another direction, a flock of kites hang in the breeze, their myriad colors flashing as they pass around each other, careful not to tangle strings.

“So, did you get everything you needed?”

Their question jolts Bunny out of a rare reverie. He nods in answer and says, “It’s a good start, definitely confirms what we’ve been told.”

“You’re gonna take the egg away now?”

Bunny knows his preferred answer, but he doubts the others would approve of such action before learning more about the Stranger. Much as it irks him, he recognizes the wisdom in not letting an enemy know they’re onto them right away. The slight time fluctuations he’s felt over the last week were annoying and worrisome, but they weren’t huge shifts. He even suspects Gillian has had several more trips than he’s counted, they’re so mild. Of course, he’s using a whole artifact instead of the broken one Bunny had been thinking of.

Where is that thing, anyway?

To the human, he answers, “Not immediately. Hopefully soon, once we figure out all the connecting tissue.”

There’s a moment of silence and then they ask, “How dangerous is this Stranger? Will Gillian be okay?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. He pauses as an idea crosses his mind, one he tries to cautiously approach in the midst of their current nervousness. “Y’know, if you learn to get a handle on this oracle thing, you could probably make sure he’s okay.”

They chew over that. “There’s no other way?”

“The only other way is leaving it to us to keep watch on him.”

“And y’all definitely, totally have no reason to want an oracle on your side, right?” they reply bitterly. He can’t exactly rebut that, but he doesn’t have to, as they rub their eyes and say, “Fine. Teach me.”

When Bunny and Sandy make it back to the North Pole, everyone else is already seated for the meeting. The atmosphere is a little more relaxed than last week, and Skreeklavic even speaks candidly with Jack. Though, North sits quietly, watching him close. Everyone looks up as they enter and settle in.

“It’s as the werewolf says,” Sandy murmurs. “The Stranger and the egg thief are working together.”

“So, we must take this thief down as well,” Skreeklavic says. His ears raise and tension leaks out of him. Technically, he’s been a restricted “guest” of the North Pole, so this must come as a relief. Bunny clears his throat.

“There’s been a complication.”

“‘Course there has,” Jack remarks. “Can’t save the world too easily, can we?”

“The thief’s best friend is an oracle. They helped us get the final confirmation.”

There’s a pause, and then Ombric says, “Well, that’s a lucky find! What’s so complicated—”

“They don’t want their best friend treated like a villain,” Bunny says. “Also, they’ve only just discovered their power and come to terms with it. They’re willing to be taught so they can keep their friend safe.”

“Given said proximity to the thief, it would also be wise to keep a close watch on them," Sandy adds. “Just in case they betray us.”

“You’re really paranoid lately, you know that?”

“They could let slip we’ve made contact with them and have been watching Gillian. I can only imagine the Stranger escalating its tactics upon learning that.”

“It has been rather quiet,” Skreeklavic says. “Having an oracle under its sway would be detrimental, especially once trained up.”

“But as I said, they asked me to teach them. Admittedly, I can’t do that, so, Ombric, I’ll need to introduce you two.”

Talk quickly turns to other strategies to implement, other resources to draw on. This is the part of being a Guardian he hates most, talking round and round and throwing out hypotheticals and what-if’s to try and plan around the unknown. Recognizing the necessity of not just jumping in doesn’t make it easier to tolerate. Bunny’s leg bounces faster and faster the longer it goes on.

Tooth speaks up. “I could send some fairies to spy on them.”

“Can they pay attention that long?” Jack asks.

Tooth turns her head, sweeping an offended frown in the direction of his voice. He flinches and mutters an apology.

“Actually,” Bunny says, “could they gather some teeth? It might let us see into the machinations of it all. For that matter, you got any on hand?”

She thinks for a moment. “You know, I don’t think we have any werewolf teeth in the vaults at all.”

“When our pups lose their milk teeth, we grind them down into powder and mix it into a ritual drink,” Skreeklavic explains. “The whole pack drinks so that we may all share in the pup’s growth and to remind us that we are all one pa—Oh. Oh, dear, are you all right?”

Tooth’s face has scrunched up in horror. At his question, however, she schools it back to a more neutral place.

“I’m fine. I’m totally fine. It’s fine.” There’s an awkward moment where they sit in silence. She then says, “With your guidance, I would like to see if I can gather a tooth or two and use my particular talents to… see what I can see.”

Skreeklavic takes a deep breath, pained expression on his face. “So long as no injury comes to the teeth and they are returned after examination, yes, I will co-sign this.”

Tooth’s knuckles go white from holding them in fists on the table. She’s always vibrating, always moving, but this time it’s due to strain rather than her normal energy. Bunny tries not to laugh at the idea that she’s never had to return a tooth she found before.

“What if… I trade you for—”

“Tooth!” the rest of them cry out at the same time. She pouts and slumps in her chair.

“All right, all right! I promise no malicious harm will come to the teeth and once we have defeated and driven out the Stranger, any and all werewolf teeth will be returned to your pack!”

They shake hands to seal the agreement, Manny sending a thin moonbeam to their clasped palms as witness. Other tentative plans form and then the meeting adjourns. Bunny meets up with Ombric to discuss the oracle’s training regimen. They put together a rough outline of a learning course over the next thirty-six hours or so, and bunny starts to relax a bit, glad that questions are being answered and plans are in motion. Naturally, as soon as he lets his guard slip, something has to happen.

“Someone help me!”

The oracle’s voice echoes around his head, cry for help carried on the wind from one of the magic petals he gave them. He slams his foot to the ground and makes a tunnel straight to them, letting the call lead him onward.

Chapter Text

The day after your espionage mission goes on as if nothing strange had ever happened. In a way, you prefer the sense of normalcy. Work helps, too. Having something to focus on always helps to keep your anxiety at bay. Nirupama, the curator of the Standstill Symposium gallery you work at, is overjoyed at the prospect of working closely with GreenWitch, and she has you sit down with her to hear Chrissy’s pitch.

“So,” Chrissy starts, “Over the next year, GreenWitch wants to highlight smaller art galleries and museums, with an emphasis on getting children engaged in more contemporary, less commercial art from recent artists. Nothing wrong with commercial art, of course, but we want fine art to be less intimidating or obscure. As you and I know—” She gestures between her and Nirupama, who was also born and raised in NYC. “—kids get field trips to the Met throughout school, but it’s a museum much more than a gallery these days! You’ve got all this old stuff that they can’t relate to, and it makes art feel so foreign to them unless they’re already doodling all over their assignments.

You bite the inside of your cheek at the “old stuff” comment. Personally, you highly relate to Rothko’s and Kandinsky’s and Mondrian’s works. You will admit that not everyone can or does, however, and children definitely need help in bridging the gap between interpretive and easily readable art, let alone anything that’s one hundred and fifty years old.

“Is this outreach only for non-artists?” Nirupama asks.

Chrissy shakes her blonde Victory Curls. “Not at all! We aim for an increase in art appreciation across the board, but we want to hit the different groups in different ways.

“For the kids already showing interest, we want to show them the history of art and how it’s gone through several movements and how to create it in different mediums. We also want to help them develop good habits, such as doing a little art most days, but also taking time to ‘refill the well.’ For the non-artists, we want to help them include artistic creation in their lives, even if they just draw on their plates with ketchup once a month—and perhaps from there, convert hesitant kids into more aspiring artists!”

“I love it,” Nirupama says. You agree. There’s no formal plan right now, but the goals of the early stages are promising. Chrissy nods eagerly.

“Yes! We’re really excited about it, too, and we figured…” She gives a sly smile and winks at you. “We figured it’d be nice to gauge interest at some upcoming shows. Say, with an emphasis on potential gallery partners with local artists being featured?”

She looks at you with increasing urgency, eyes wide, boring into you. She tilts her head and flicks her glance to Nirupama. That’s when it hits you.

“We have thrown around the idea of a small event next month. Temporary exhibit-type thing as a buffer between galas. Maybe we could do that?” you suggest.

Nirupama frowns. “That doesn’t give us much time to throw together a submission window.”

“It’s all right,” Chrissy chirps. “I’ve got some contacts who can help. I’m sure if you ask the docents here, they’ll be able to give recommendations for artists, too.”

Nirupama thinks for a second then turns her head one degree toward you. You hold your breath, but she doesn’t say anything and instead wraps up the meeting. Nirupama heads out to start directing the guided tours. You walk Chrissy to the entrance.

“Thank you,” you whisper. She smiles.

“We still need to catch that movie. Just tell me when and what. Meantime, I have to get a move on to my other appointments. Later!” She skips out of the building.

You settle behind the entry desk for the day, putting out some brochures for the incoming guests. You boot up the email inbox and let your mind dissociate just enough that you can slip into being the sort of person who’s generally good at talking to people. It’s a slow day, even for a medium-small gallery because it is beautiful outside. More people will probably wander in once afternoon hits and the heat settles over the city. In the meantime, you slow down a bit and think about what to add to the newest Ana-vlog, or if you want to submit what you have so far, even though the series is unfinished. Might as well. It’s some of your better work. You snort, thinking how people would interpret the appearance of magical animal imagery. Certainly they wouldn’t guess it was intended to be Mothman and—

“Excuse me.”

The voice jerks you to attention. Someone stands at the desk, a hesitant hand outstretched, as if about to tap your shoulder. The hand retreats, burying into the pocket of their well-cut jeans. They complement the tailored patterned shirt hugging their fit torso. By the time you follow the line of their body up to their face, they’re smiling kindly, highlighting the attractive length of their nose and shape of their face. Your body heats up.

“Hi. Yes, hello,” you say, sitting upright to appear professional. “Welcome to Standstill Symposium, how can I help?”

“I’m new to the city,” they reply, and you think you can detect the bright cadence of a midwestern accent decorating their syllables. “I heard about this place from a guy on the subway, and I thought I’d take a look. What’ve you got?”

It takes you a moment to process what they say, but as soon as you do, you scramble for the brochures. “Well, we’re a—ah, shit!”

You’re too fast and knock them to the ground. You rush around to the front of the desk to pick them up. The guest is already bending down and scooping a stack into their manicured fingers.

“Oh, you don’t—it’s fine—” you try to say.

They just continue to help. Together, you get them back on the desk in less than a minute.

“There we go,” they say, amused smile directed to you again. They pat the stack for good measure and take one, unfurling it. “What were you saying?”

It takes a second for your dialogue to load, and you reply, “Oh, we-we’re a small art gallery specializing in showcasing the newest art coming out of the five boroughs.” You say this to every visitor, are these words really that hollow and repetitive? “I… work here. Along with the curator. And a few other people, it’s not just us.”

A soft touch alights on your hand, which is busy wringing the other. The touch makes you freeze. The visitor looks at you kindly.

“I’ll start with this, and if I have any other questions, I’ll find you. Thank you so much for the information.”

They wave goodbye and disappear into the halls, finally allowing you to return to the desk chair and breathe in relief. It’s been a long time since you made a fool of yourself in front of a hot guest. Enough people—locals and tourists—wander in every day that there’s always at least one who catches your eye, but that was just awful. Even if you pick up that someone’s available, you try to keep interactions to only a few seconds long to prevent what just happened.

You sigh and get back to work on next month’s worker schedule proposal. As soon as Chrissy sends more info over about the GreenWitch project, you excitedly start roughing out your submission. It seems all but guaranteed you’re in, though, and you can’t help feeling so delighted. Finally, another chance to show the art world what you’re made of! By the time you go home, the visitor and your egregious fumble are long forgotten.

You spend the next day before work futzing with your art. You drag the canvases from your one show (thus far) out from their shame corner behind your dresser for a much-needed dusting. For these, you’d tried to emulate Pollack’s drip method and then incorporated what you thought was clever half-cubist, half-surrealist figurative imagery on top of it to make the texture pop.

As you slide them out from behind the dresser, it starts to tip. You drop the canvases to steady it, successfully, but a few things from the top fall off. One of these things is the small bottle that now houses the flower Bunny gave you. You wince as it hits the floor, but luckily it doesn’t break. A single petal splits from the flower, however. You pick it up, astounded that you can still feel magic in it. You expected it to become inert once off the stem. There’s too much to be done, you’re too excited to dwell on it, so you place the bottle back on your dresser and shove the loose petal into your pocket. It stays there long enough to slip into the “out of sight, out of mind” zone, and you spend the next few hours doting on your pieces, trying to decide which ones will impress the most, before it’s once again time for work.

Near the close of the day, you find yourself taking measurements in one of the temporary galleries. This one has been filled with the same artist for the last year or so. You and Nirupama haven’t been able to decide what to change it to. Nothing has struck your fancy until now, and you eagerly work on storing the old art away. Thankfully, the artist had decided to gift it (abandon it) to the gallery when they moved, so all you do is carefully move it to the archive.

You scribble the measurements as well as a rough sketch of the current layout, and then slip it into your pocket to check on the mobile walls you have out. The first one takes a bit of effort to move, and the hidden wheels squeal like they’re dying painfully. Definitely some rust in them, but nothing some lubricant can’t solve.

Can’t say the same about the other wall, however. No matter how hard you push, it won’t budge. You back up from it and yank the scrap of paper out of your pocket. Maybe you can finagle something that incorporates the wall so you don’t have to wrestle with it. As the paper flicks out, so does something else. You watch a purplish scrap flutter to the floor, recognizing it as the stray petal. You pick it up, reasoning this wasn’t the proper disposal method for magical items. With another glance at the mock-up sketch, you decide that, no, the wall has got to go.

You all but fling yourself against it, like a football player practicing in a film from the late twentieth century. This time, the wall moves—it tilts. It keeps tilting. You throw your arms out overhead to catch it. Luckily, it isn’t that heavy, but the bulk is too much for you to sustain long. There’s a noise off one of the entrances, and you hope it’s Nirupama checking in.

“Hey!” you call. No one answers. “Is someone there? I need help!”

Your arms shake. They’re close to buckling.

“Will someone please help me?!”

Your palm suddenly grows warm, and it takes all your willpower not to yank it away from the wall. Thankfully, the heat is temporary, gone just as soon as it arrives. That doesn’t help your predicament, however, and the wall is bearing down more and more.

“I’m here, what wrong?” someone yells to your side.

You jump, almost losing your leverage on the wall. You look to the side to see Bunny there, a boomerang in one paw. He has his back to you, and he looks ready to rumble. He pivots, and as soon as he sees you, he rushes over. With a solid push, both of you right the wall, and you let out a relieved breath, though his presence is an unwelcome reminder of the odd turn of your life.

“You all right?” he asks. His eyes dart around the empty room, and his ears flick to the sides.

“Yeah. Thanks. Were you in the neighborhood or something?”

He stays on edge for another second before relaxing, though he looks confused. “No, I thought you were in trouble.”

“What? Why?”

“You… you called me.”

“I don’t. I don’t have your number?” you reply. Does he even have a phone?

“The petal. You called for help.”

You pat down your pockets and then turn your hands over, suddenly aware that the petal has disappeared. A phantom warmth on your palm flares up.

“Oh.”

You two sit there for a moment in awkward silence. He taps his leg with the boomerang before slipping it away in a holster, stretching, and glancing around at the blank walls.

“Where is this?” he asks.

“My workplace.”

He hums appreciatively. You expect him to excuse himself and leave, but he lingers. He gestures to the moveable wall. “What’re you trying to do?”

“Oh, we’re changing exhibits. I was just trying to change the layout of the room, but the wheels on these things seem to be completely stuck.” He hums again, and still makes no move to leave. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“Uh, yeah actually,” he says. You suppress a sigh. The circus continues. “I needed to talk to you about the training thing at some point. Anyway, we’ve set it up, so if you want to come with me, we can get started on—”

“I’m not going anywhere!” you say.

One ear of his twitches. “It’d be easier to teach you in a controlled setting.”

“Be that as it may, I have too much going on here to just leave.” You gesture around. “I’m going to feature in an opening—only my second ever! This is really big for me.”

“Okay, but the wizard who can teach you doesn’t live here.”

“He can make a house call!” You cross your arms and sigh. “Maybe it’s easy for you to change course suddenly—you’re invisible to most of humanity—”

“Well, hang on now!”

“—but I have a life here! I have obligations and deadlines and friends and… And speaking of which, the entire point was to learn this oracle thing so I can make sure Gillian stays safe! I don’t want him to get hurt while I’m out of town.”

He holds his hands up to slow you down and says, “Okay! Okay. Fair enough. We can teach you here. Heck, it might even be good for that old cunt to see the outside of his house more often.” Bunny scratches his neck. “I’ll let him know, but we need to discuss a schedule or something.”

You nod. “I’ll be home in an hour or two.”

“All right,” he says. He taps his foot, causing a hole to open up in the floor. He did this the other day when he returned to your apartment for the mission, but you’re no more used to seeing the floor just… collapse into a perfect circle. Bunny gives you a salute. “See ya soon.”

You give him a small wave and watch as he throws himself down the hole. It seals itself back up, making you shiver at how odd that looks, too, and you return to your current issue. Almost immediately, you give up for the day. There’s just no way to safely move it. You’ll need to put in a requisition for maintenance.

“Is someone there?”

For the second time in five minutes, you jump in surprise. You look up to see a guest, and after a second you recognize them as the one you made a fool of yourself to just yesterday. They have a concerned look on their face and approach slowly.

“I thought I heard someone yell for help a few rooms over,” they say. “Are you all right?”

“Oh… yeah, I am,” you reply. They smile that handsome smile again. “I’m surprised to see you back here so soon.”

They shrug. “I enjoy looking at art.”

They pointedly meet your eyes, and you flush all over your body. No way, you think. They can’t be—

They get close and hold their hand out. “I’m Jesús.”

You stumble over your name a few times and take their hand. They seem familiar somehow. Now, this is New York City; you’ve met more than your fair share of Jesúses. But you just click with this one, as if you’ve met before. It kind of disturbs you to think that destiny is as real as oracles, but the way they look at you smooths it over. You haven’t had this sort of attention in a while. It’s nice. You trade phone numbers and part with the understanding that you’ll definitely see each other again.

Your mood can’t be shattered even when Bunny and his wizard friend show up at your place for their introductory meeting. Ombric seems like a nice enough guy, even if his attention span casts a wide net and Bunny has to swat his hands away from some of your knickknacks. Overall, it’s a civil meeting, and you work out a schedule for training, one that’s not too overwhelming for you, but will hopefully get you up to speed. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop—for them to tell you when you next have to go in and spy on Gillian, but it doesn’t come. Soon enough, they’re leaving. Ombric jumps down the tunnel, but before Bunny does, he holds something out to you.

“Here, this’ll help you with those wheels.” He drops a small container in your hands, like a miniature pomade jar.

“Thanks?” you say. “Where’d you get this?”

He barks out a single chuckle. “I know a guy. See if you thank me once you smell it, though.”

He hops into the tunnel and leaves you to it. Naturally, the first thing you do is uncap the container. The odor immediately wafts up, an unholy mix of peppermint, cinnamon, and industrial lubricant. You slam the top back on, but enough of the smell has escaped into the apartment, and you have to scramble over to the window. As you gulp down fresh air, you get a decent idea which “guy” Bunny knows who concocted this war crime, and you’re not sure how much that recontextualizes Christmases past for you.

Your phone buzzes on the table, and a text notification comes through. From Jesús, asking if you two can hang out the next time you’re free.

A warm and fuzzy feeling washes over you. You need time to prepare—for the chance that things go further, or for the chance that they just want to be friends. It’s still so early, you two just met—

No. Stop. You stop, take a deep breath, and sternly shake those thoughts from your mind. I will not ruin this before it has the chance to bloom, not when things are looking up among the chaos of my life.

You pop off a reply, suggesting but not confirming sometime in the next week.

Chapter Text

Over the course of the next week, life starts falling into a strange rhythm. The planet turns, the sun and moon rise and set, and the seasons tick a few more degrees through their time. The other Guardians, with nothing else to do in terms of the time crisis at the moment, go back to their usual rounds. Jack hangs out with North at the Pole, not quite ready to meander around the southernmost mountains of the lower hemisphere, nor is he the biggest fan of Antarctica. Katherine and Nightlight hole up in Ganderly, curating her collections and sending out story inspiration from the archives when necessary. Sandy follows the night to distribute his dreams, and above them all, Manny watches.

Bunny starts rotating and tilling the egg plant fields for next year’s crop, a bit annoyed that this should happen during his quietest months. He then feels silly for thinking that, considering how tense he was right before Easter, when so much was happening. Now, though, his mind is so empty all his thoughts rattle against each other.

He takes a break from the field and sits in the experimental garden, where his mentor grew all sorts of messed-up plants. Most of them are crosses with chocolate—not cacao, which would have been too easy, no, no—with chocolate, so he might have a means of indulging himself with few to no side effects. However, there are a few plants here that, well, Bunny never really found out what Calymma was trying to achieve with them. He runs a claw over the center vein of a broad leaf. It shudders and shies away from his touch, sounding like it’s giggling as it contracts. Flirty Arum, Calymma had called it, but when asked “Why, oh, why did you do this?” he merely shrugged and then went off to deposit its pollen into a fetid pitcher plant.

A shimmer at his side catches his eye, and Bunny retrieves the glowing crystal. It blinks in Ombric’s pattern, a signal that he is ready for the next training session. Thanks to a quirk of the human’s work scheduling, they’ve been able to start all this past week. Four sessions so far, and they’re going… Well, they’re going.

“Oi!” he calls to the nearby stone eggs. They twist until their faces see him. “I’m headin’ out. Once you’re done tilling, let the soil breathe, then we’ll plant the first round. A few of ya should also check on the pigment bluebells, prune anything ya need to.”

He stops by his house to wash up. Dirt and stink doesn’t really stick to immortals, but it lingers for a bit. No need to be rude to the oracle and make their tiny place unpleasant. He tunnels to Santoff Claussen to pick up Ombric, and is surprised to see North there, poring over a map.

“Hey,” he says as Ombric gathers his things. “What’s this?”

“Ah, well…” North clears his throat and points to a line leading from the town through the enchanted forest. “It’s occurred to me that infrastructure of this town has not been updated in long time. Magic mostly keeps it well, but… Skreeklavic’s appearance so close to here spooked me, I admit.”

“He’s not a threat, though.”

“Yes. We got lucky with that, but there are many out there that are threats, not least of all that Stranger he talks of.”

“It’s well-hidden. Even Skreeklavic didn’t find it.”

North sighs. “No, but it is too close for comfort.” He taps the page. “This is emergency evacuation route. It has been in same place since before I came here all those years ago. I think it is past time to move so it does not get discovered by nefarious forces.”

On the one hand, Bunny understands. It’s pragmatic, and North is right, this is probably long overdue. He, similarly, has several escape tunnels that he keeps consistent in case something happens and he needs to evacuate the Warren on foot. However, this is North. He looks so grave. It’s not like the man can’t be contemplative and serious, but not like this. He looks as if he’s examining war plans and trying to decide which troops to sacrifice. Bunny reaches over and tugs on his beard.

North yelps, though Bunny knows it’s just from surprise. He pulled hard, but not that hard.

“What is that for!” North cries, rubbing his chin. The determined fire is back in his eyes.

“Just makin’ sure you’re the real deal and some weirdo hasn’t impersonated my friend,” Bunny replies. He claps him on the shoulder. “Do what you need to, but don’t get down about it. Harder to concentrate.”

North smiles and returns the pat, squeezing his shoulder in thanks. Ombric finally finishes overpacking, and the two are off to New York.

“Slow breath in… slower breath out…” Ombric instructs.

Luckily, the human has their eyes closed, or else they’d see Ombric reclining against the wall, cheek resting on his fist. The wizard looks so bored. Given the repetitive, slow nature of the first week of lessons, Bunny understands, but he pokes him nonetheless; his initial instinct is to slap him, but he decides to be nice. Ombric pouts, but Bunny tries to silently alert him to the human’s obvious effort despite his lackadaisicality. Regardless of whether Ombric understands, the man at least sits up like he’s a professional.

“Concentrate on the present. Once you have the current state of affairs in your focus, relax your mind and search outward. There should be a presence or a hook or something that catches your mind in either direction—past or future. Choose the future. Do not be alarmed, just lean into it.”

“Every time I’ve ever ‘leaned in’ to strong thoughts about the future, it resulted in a panic attack,” they say, opening one eye. Just then, their phone buzzes, and they light up as they glance over. Just as quickly, they return to looking at Ombric.

“Whatever for?” he asks.

“Anxiety,” they say simply. They point to their kitchen. “I literally have medication to keep it under control.”

Ombric whips around and glances at where they’re pointing. Bunny looks as well, seeing the familiar, amber-colored glass of a medication bottle.

I guess that explains why they were shaking so bad during the mission, he thinks, feeling a little guilty. He’d thought it was just nerves from the sudden appearance of weirdness in their life. Ombric lets out a huff.

“Well, that changes things,” he mutters. Before either he or the human can ask what exactly it changes, Ombric says, “You wouldn’t be willing to forego that for a bit, would you? Psychiatric medications, miracles that they are, often have the side effect of dampening connections to the magical end of psychic connections in one’s mind.”

“Absolutely not,” they reply instantly—aggressively. “I’ve made the mistake of going off of them before, and it only made life a thousand times harder to get through.”

Ombric inhales, and Bunny thinks for a moment that he’s about to argue, but the old man surprises him by bowing his head and holding his hands up. “All right, all right. I understand, and I… think it would be easier to get you trained up if you stopped altogether—”

“No!”

“But!” Ombric glares at them. Despite his capitulation, this isn’t getting off to a good start, and Bunny prepares to step in if necessary. Ombric continues, a little more gently, “But, we must come to a compromise, as it is a fact that it will be easier for you to connect with your powers if there is less of the medication in your system.”

They look unsure. They open their mouth to rebut, but their phone buzzes again. A small smile crosses their face as they glance over, and Bunny takes the opportunity to intercede as they’re distracted.

“We’ll do our best to help you through it,” he says. “And it’s not forever. Just until you can get a handle on your powers yourself.”

They give a resigned sigh, and the session returns to the breathing exercises.

The next day, Bunny is out in his fields again when his crystal glows in Tooth’s calling pattern. He jumps down a tunnel, appearing at the Tooth Palace in minutes.

“I’m here!” he calls into the hollow spire.

The sound barely makes itself known over the cacophony of wings and birdsong. A few mini-fairies bump into him as he stands up, causing one to drop the tooth it’s carrying with a startled squeak. It and Bunny watch in horror as the tooth bounces once, twice, a third time on the platform—one of many hanging high above the distant floor. He stops breathing as it slides to the edge, and then lets out a sigh of relief when it halts just in time. There’s a stab at his shoulder.

“Ow!” he yelps.

He rubs the spot, glancing over to see a puffed-up fairy, hands on its hips and a scowl across its face, clearly the perpetrator of the pain.

“Sorry, mate,” he says to it. He leans down to pick up the tooth, but the fairy zips to his hand and tries to jab it with its hummingbird nose. “Okay, okay! Yeesh, have it.”

The fairy snatches up the tooth and flutters off, sticking its tongue out at Bunny so furiously he can’t help but laugh. He waits until there’s a gap in the traffic and then manages to hop from platform to platform until he finally sees Toothiana across the way. She’s surrounded by mini-fairies, as usual, hunched over in the air and chittering to them. Despite the fact that she can most likely sense his presence, he pauses. A Sister of Flight hovers just beyond Tooth, and she immediately locks her gaze onto him.

Bunny hold his hands up to show he’s not here to fight or cause trouble, and he calls out, as loud as he can muster, “Tooth, I’m here!”

“Huh?” She swerves away from her conversation, head turning to triangulate his location. “Oh, hey, Bunny!”

“Sit tight, I’ll be right there.”

The fairies move so that he has a small landing strip, and with a powerful leap, he makes it across the gap. The platform sways slightly, large enough that his momentum doesn’t completely disrupt its stability. Instantly, a bunch of mini fairies swarm him in greeting, cheeping hellos and trying to land on his shoulders and ears. The Sister of Flight keeps watching him, but she seems less on edge than when he first appeared. A few of Tooth’s fairies guide her over to him, and she scoops him up in a hug.

“Hey there!” she says. “Thanks for coming so fast. I thought you’d be in the middle of another lesson.”

“Not today,” he replies. Thank goodness, he doesn’t say. “What’s up?”

She throws her arms out. “Teeth!”

Bunny looks at her and blinks. “Y-yeah? Just teeth?”

She looks confused for a second before she goes, “Oh,” and giggles at herself. “No, the girls we sent to the werewolves are back! And they found something!”

“Already?” he says. Tooth lands on the floor, settling on her knees. She chirps something, and the mini-fairies grumble, but fly off. Bunny crouches next to her, and she produces a half-dozen smooth, ivory-colored items. “Wow that’s a quite a bit.”

“Well…” She leans her head in and lowers her voice. “Only one of them is a tooth, but they were so proud of themselves for surviving in enemy territory that I didn’t have the heart to tell them that.”

Bunny glances over to the crowd of mini-fairies. They hover importantly, crests proud, and they chatter to the surrounding fairies who look on in awe. He smiles.

“So, you able to get anything from the real tooth?” he asks.

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes, that’s why I called you,” she says, her demeanor shifting to something more subdued and concerned. She takes a deep breath. “First of all, it’s an adult’s tooth. They’re less resilient to magic than deciduous teeth, so there’s only so far I can look into it without risking shattering the tooth completely. Keep that in mind.”

“’Kay.”

“The one memory I was able to get… is from the future?”

She says it like a question, as if she’s not sure what she’s saying is true. For such an odd statement, though, Bunny is less surprised than he thought he’d be. He rubs the back of his neck and says, “Well, that’s not so weird, right? Time travel’s involved, makes sense that memory chronology is cactus.”

“That was my first thought, too, but then… You know how when you dream, you just know information? If someone dreams they own a pony stable on Mars, there’s no pre-dream narration explaining it, they just know that’s what they do in the setting?”

“Yeah.”

“Memories aren’t so different. And this one was very clearly a memory from over half a year from now. Yet, the season it took place in was summer.”

“In summer-summer?” he asks. “Not just a very hot climate?”

“Summer-summer.”

It’s only just now April. Regardless of which hemisphere the memory takes place in, neither option half a year from now will be summer.

“The owner of the tooth was currently in summer of this year, though they’d been working on something for over six months.” She closes her eyes to concentrate, an old habit she’d never quite shaken. “They were terrified, crying. They were seeking help from someone they trusted, but it didn’t seem to be going well. I got a sense of pain and dizziness. I think they were punched, which might explain why the tooth is where it is. Most of it is just frantic loneliness, though.”

For a second, there’s only the susurration of the mini-fairies’ wings fluttering throughout the palace. Bunny’s not sure exactly what to think of this except that he wishes they could go back to pummeling the boogeyman back to the depths of darkness every so often rather than dealing with this bag of complications.

“Any chance you can ID the owner of the tooth?” he says.

She scrunches up her face. “No. Memories are in first person, and they didn’t look in a mirror. Although…” She rubs the tooth between her fingers, a grin starting across her face. “I don’t think this came from a werewolf.”

“Okay…?”

“That means I can keep it.”

Bunny lets out a single laugh. He hates it when she gets too serious; it’s so unlike her, and it always worries him. With that flippant remark, however, he knows he can leave without a weight on his mind.

“So you can. Keep playin’ with it, if you want ton, see if you can’t dig up more on the former owner of it and try to set us on a good direction.”

Toothiana twirls in the air and salutes. “No problem!”

Bunny goes to leave, but at the last seconds he hesitates. “Tooth,” he says. “If it didn’t come from a werewolf, did it come from a human?”

“Yes.”

That eliminates a lot of possibilities, but Bunny keeps that to himself for now. If anything, he’s going to have to think on how to talk to the oracle about finding out if his suspicion is correct. He thinks he remembers them saying something yesterday about hanging out with Gillian soon. He’ll have to ask carefully.

Bunny once again thanks Tooth and heads back to the Warren. Most of the tilling is done, as is the pruning of the production lines. He searches all over for something to do, even going so far as to check on the Source of Spring. Everything is peaceful. Everything is quiet. He goes back to his home and sits for as long as he can muster before he pulls out some paper and gets to work on pattern designs and colorways for the next year.

Chapter Text

A split starts to form in your mind. Compartments in which to neatly, orderly, and completely separate the many increasingly disparate facets of your current life.

In one compartment goes you, the oracle. Undermedicated and undertrained. A whole week of back-to-back lessons and all you have to show for it are some refreshers on circular breathing and a few moments of lifting out of your body. You always break your concentration at that and scramble to drag yourself back to Earth. The mounting failures start to wear on Ombric and Bunny, you can tell, to say nothing of your own sanity. When you reach into this compartment, you always do so while reminding yourself that this will help you protect Gillian from the forces swirling around him.

Speaking of which, in another compartment goes you, friend of Gillian. You finally make good on your promise to hang out with him again. An unspoken agreement exists between you two the day y’all go out and hit the town: no talk of eggs, oracles, time travel, or magic. The subject haunts the entire day trip, lurking around each corner, crawling over the rails behind the trains. You and he get drunker and drunker on the intoxicating illusion of normalcy. You make it through an entire museum and bookstore crawl that takes you through four boroughs, ending back at The Live Oak for a nightcap. When Gillian isn’t looking, his parents sweep you up into an embrace, thanking you for whatever you did that’s returned their son to normal after three distressing weeks. You want to believe, in that moment, that all the rest has been a long, odd dream, especially as life in general seems to brighten.

Because yet another compartment contains you, the artist, and by extension your expanding acquaintanceship with Chrissy. You finally go see that movie with her, an animated film with a less-than-compelling plot but gorgeous visuals. Despite trying to become actual friends and talk about more than your callings, you spend the time after discussing the visual techniques it used over frozen yogurt, and after that, talk turns to the Collective’s outreach program. She congratulates you on your all-but-guaranteed spot in the showcase, possibly even solo show. It feels so surreal to you, too, but in the sense that it’s everything you’ve been working toward. You try to temper your expectations a bit—this probably won’t result in breakout fame—but it’s hard to keep the stars out of your eyes. They haven’t been there since your first few years in the city; you’d forgotten how wonderful it is to feel as if you can never fail, despite everything else going on.

You say as much to Brian at your next therapy appointment. He smiles as he listens to you gush about the last few weeks.

“I’m very happy to hear you’re doing better,” he says as your time winds down. “I still want to be on the safe side, though, and have another session in two weeks, just to make sure we’re on the same page and the hallucinations were truly just a blip.”

So, he does suspect I’m lying that they stopped, you say to yourself. He’s known you for half a decade at this point, seen you at your most and least honest. Or maybe you simply oversold the lie. He’s not pressing the issue, though, so you take the grace given, knowing he’ll expect you to tell him the truth eventually.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Definitely keep me updated on this Jesús.”

“You using your patients’ lives as your own personal telenovelas?”

“As fascinating and bewildering as some of them are, no. I deeply care about the turbulent ones, and I always try to help them make a turnaround, especially if they’re constantly falling into bad habits. For you, though… I find it very hopeful to see you like this.”

You pause. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

“If we had the time, I’d ask you to unpack your definition of ‘bad’ in this instance. Since we don’t, I’ll just say, no. You’re great. But your anxiety sometimes gets the best of you, so it’s wonderful to hear that you’re pursuing this, that you’re excited about this. You’ve let guaranteed opportunities go before.”

The compliment melds into your core, and you leave in a very good mood. Then, your phone buzzes in your pocket, and as soon as you look at it, the mood gets even better.

One more compartment is forming: you, the partner. You hope, at least. Neither you nor Jesús have made definitive moves in that direction, but there is an overture playing. Between oracle lessons, you text constantly, and they’ve appeared at your work a few more times, just to talk to you. Nirupama noticed, and she pulled you into her office to ask if you needed help with them, but you assured her that everything was on the up-and-up. Jesús has not appeared where they’re not wanted; they change the subject if it’s clear you don’t want to talk about something; they’re always sending their gorgeous edits of the parks overlaid with suburban and urban development, so you know they’re not just sitting there and making you their entire reason for the day. They’re quickly forming your favorite niche in your mind, small yet growing fast.

Jesús (12:18)
Good morning. Would you like to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with me?

You pause in the middle of the street, not caring as you disrupt the foot traffic around you to shoot off a reply.

You (12:18)
Yes! They have some of my favorite pieces of all time in there.
When were you thinking? I have work on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday

There’s a heart stopping five-minute gap in between texts, but they eventually reply right before you descend into the subway.

Jesús (12:23)
We can work around that. I love many of the art pieces in there as well. Have you seen the Rothkos?

You (12:23)
I love them!
His color fields are so beautiful.
I used them as inspiration in a couple of my own pieces

Jesús (12:24)
Then I’d love to see those someday. Your enthusiasm for twentieth century art is infectious.

You start to tell them that you’re free today, but then you remember you scheduled time for a heavy painting session. As you wait underground for the train, you debate with yourself about skipping in favor of hanging out with them instead. To be honest, though, both options are more fun than enduring the pretentious bluster of the wizard as Bunny lurks in the corner. And just because you think about it, suddenly your breathing becomes a conscious effort. You roll with it, taking careful breaths in and out, and letting your mind relax and your eyesight fuzz.

And then it seems like your mind slots into an invisible niche.

You blink, and when you open your eyes again, the train wait times sign jumps from a fifteen-minute wait to a five-minute one. Something rolls past you on the narrow platform. It’s a bright pink stroller, seemingly escaped from its parent. You don’t truly register it until it rumbles right up to the yellow, bumpy strips that allow visually impaired people to know they’re close to the edge. Once you start to comprehend how bad this is, it gets worse: the bumps aren’t stopping it from rolling onto the tracks. A toddler, unable to see over the height of the stroller, nonchalantly pushes it forward, no one seeming to notice.

You’re frozen, trying to decide on what to do, how to call this out, but something is stuck in your throat. The stroller judders and its front wheels fall off the edge. The next train is due any minute, and that kid probably isn’t old enough to understand what an electric rail is. You struggle once, twice, three times before you wrench your teeth apart.

“Stop!” you yell.

The air starts moving again. You blink, slightly dizzy, and stumble backward. After rubbing your eyes, you notice one or two people looking over at you, confused and wary. Once they decide you’re not a physical threat, they turn away and shuffle off to the side. The dizziness remains until you glance up at the train times sign and notice that, despite another train not coming in at all, the time has changed back to a fifteen-minute wait. Yet, no delay announcement scrolls across the board.

You turn in place, glancing across the crowd of commuters. There’s nothing unusual, and then your eyes catch on a large lump of pink. The same stroller. Now, however, it seems to be in the care of the parent it belongs to. You do notice that it’s moving, though—back and forth, ever so slightly. Upon looking closer, you see a pudgy leg sticking out just far enough from behind the thing, rocking from heel to toe and occasionally taking a step.

Oh, you realize. You glance at the wait times again. Still over ten minutes to the train, over seven until the vision—possibly—comes true.

You turn until you’re facing sideways into the platform rather than staring at the tracks. You try not to linger on how odd that makes you seem, since most riders just stare at the tracks while they wait, but this is also New York. So long as you don’t call attention to yourself, no one will spare a glance.

The minutes tick by. You play with your phone despite the signal being too weak to make it through the ground. Otherwise, you’d be talking to Jesús and possibly miss the cue altogether. But at some point, that spot of pink inches away from the parents gabbing at each other and across the platform, right in your path.

“Woah!” you say as the kid starts to pass by. You place a foot in front of the wheel. It halts, and the kid is jolted just enough that they lean from behind the stroller and glance at you with large, round eyes. “I don’t think you want to go that way, buddy.”

You make a show of looking for their parents even though you know exactly which ones they are. It takes a second of staring, but you catch their eye. They do a double take and then run over to scoop up their kid.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Thank you—”

“It’s fine,” you reply quickly.

A few people look over again, and you don’t exactly want this kind of attention. The parent makes some small talk, and then, with another thank you, returns to their group, this time with a secure hand on both the grumpy, confused toddler and the stroller. A complicated series of emotions roils through you, but you tamp it down for the train ride. They return as you cross the bridge and keep growing as you pull into your station. You start to regulate your breathing on the walk home, but by the time you reach your building, stress tears are welling up and you at least want to keep them there until you’re in the privacy and safety of your home. Somehow, you manage to hold it together through the elevator ride and unlocking the door, but as soon as you slam the door shut, you let out a shuddering sob and lean your head against the cool, composite material.

“You okay?”

You jump at the voice, even though you know exactly who it is. Whipping around, you accidentally knock your hand into the cabinets right next to the door.

“Ow!” you hiss, rubbing your wrist. On the other side of the apartment, Bunny watches, his ears upright and forward. You throw him a thumbs-up.

“I just let myself in,” he says. “Just a minute ago, and I didn’t touch anything, promise.” He looks you over and the skeptical look on his face becomes more pronounced. “What happened?”

You pull yourself together as best as you can, take a deep breath, and then the story spills out. It takes far too long to tell, but you keep finding justifications and explanations to wander through on your way from beginning to end. You anchor your gaze on the bright upholstery of your kitchen chairs, waiting for the tears to fall, but they don’t. After all the buildup of the walk home, they can’t compel themselves to go the final distance.

One of the chairs pulls away from the table, and you look up to see Bunny seating himself. He’s attentive—still wary, but calm. You get to the conclusion and instead of finding yourself on the cusp of a breakdown, you feel… almost proud.

“What’s fantastic,” Bunny finally says. “Ya saved a kid and had a vision!”

“Y-yeah?” you reply. You go over to the cabinet and grab a glass. After a second, you reach for a second one and turn to him. “Water?”

He looks like he starts to say “No,” but then nods. You fill both glasses up and sit across from him. He takes a small sip and leans back in the chair. As you drink, it finally strikes you how absurd this sight is: a giant, sentient rabbit casually sitting at your table, waiting for you to keep talking.

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” you finally say.

“You’ve got psychic powers, isn’t that cool?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Bunnymund—” He pulls a face at that. “—you said the Guardians act as caretakers of children around the world, taking out supervillains. You’re essentially superheroes.”

“Mm-hm!” he says, smiling. His ears bob as he nods.

“Well… You know what always follows superheroes?”

He pauses, thinking. Then his face slowly falls into realization.

“Trouble,” you both say at the same time.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not good with trouble,” you say. Then you contemplate your day. “At least, I’ve never been good with trouble before.”

“I kinda figured after you said you moved across the country to avoid a monster that you only met once at a distance.”

“Today, though, what I just did?” You don’t know how to phrase it. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered how much control I could have over my life.” He rests his elbows on the table and then his chin on his hands. You whisper, “The future terrifies me. Not even because of the unknown aspect of it all. If you pay attention, you can guess a lot of things that are going to happen before they do, even if it’s mostly broad strokes. I just hate getting further and further away from what I know for sure. I crave stability. I wish I could be like you; it seems like you have nothing better to do than get to the future.”

Bunny glances to the middle distance just over your shoulder and then takes a deep breath.

“Well,” says, running his finger over the wet rim of the glass. “Being immortal, the future is kind of all I’ve got.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No.” He says it so quickly and assuredly. Yet, there’s the slightest pause after, and he sets the glass down. “Lingering on things is just usually pointless in the long run. Humans are the same they’ve ever been, and yet constantly changing. It’s kind of annoying sometimes. But,” he says with a smile as you start to object, “it’s also neat to watch.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he continues, “Does it really freak you out that much? Your powers?”

It’s your turn to fiddle with your cup before answering. Every lived experience you’ve been forced to remember shouts an unambiguous “Yes!” to the question. It’s easier not knowing, not trying to know, that way you don’t get discouraged and stop trying before actual disappointment and failure happens.

But what if you hadn’t stopped the child earlier? What if you hadn’t had the vision and acted on it? It’s self-centered thinking, but you’re glad you didn’t have to witness the horror that would have otherwise occurred. Up until this moment, you’ve thought hypervigilance only manifested in response to uncertainty surrounding the unknowability of the future; now, though, you consider another manifestation of it through a reluctance to allow the future to happen at all, through picking only the paths that somehow curve backward. You’re not crying, you’re not panicking, you’re breathing normally. The event was overwhelming, but perhaps only because it was new and a scary situation.

“I don’t know,” you finally reply. “It has for the last few weeks, but after today… I guess maybe I’ll find it easier to get through your lessons.”

Bunny nods. He points to your empty glass, and you hand it to him. He takes them to the sink and washes them. It’s at this point you remember that there is no oracle lesson scheduled for today. If there had been, then a certain wizard would be missing.

“By the way,” you say, turning slightly in your chair, “I’m guessing you didn’t invite yourself inside just to hang out.”

He freezes as he puts the glasses in the drainer, ears falling halfway down the back of his head.

“Ah. Yeah.” He wipes his paws on the dishrag and turns to you. “I had a question. You seen Gillian lately?”

It sounds like a genuine question, not a disguised accusation. You nod. “Yeah. He and I had a really great time a few days ago. It was very nice to have my friend back, if just for a little bit.”

“Was he missing a tooth?” He leans against the counter, once again crossing his arms. He points to his mouth. “One of the front ones?”

You think back, but you don’t pay enough attention to other people’s teeth to know his by heart. However, you feel you’d remember if he was missing one; you would’ve asked what the fuck happened to him. And he hadn’t been bruised as if from a fight, nor was he talking funny. You shake your head.

“Hmm, I thought it was a long shot,” Bunny replies. “We’ll have to wait for it, then. Or find who it really belongs to.”

“You found his tooth? Just randomly?”

“In the werewolves’ settlement. We—the Guardians—are trying some other information-gathering strategies, just so we know what’s happening. But it might not be his!”

You think he means to sound reassuring, as he brightens his tone with the last remark. It’s not that effective at settling you down, but you try to push it from your mind.

You reassert, “He had all his teeth a few days ago. That’s all I know.”

“Ta. Then, I’ll get out of your hair.”

He heads over to the center of the studio where there’s the clearest floor space. He turns once, just to be sure, but stops as he lifts his foot. He glances over at the wall, and you realize he’s looking at your paintings. Bunny crosses over and leans down to look at the frontmost one, and when you come up behind him, you realize it’s last week’s Ana-vlog.

“Is that… Mothman?” he asks, pointing at the dark blob with red eyes.

“Yes,” you reply, hoping he isn’t offended.

His head tilts, and he points to the opposite corner.

“And there’s a rabbit.”

“This series is supposed to be like a collage-diary thing, so…”

“Hm. Okay. Well, I’ll see ya at the next lesson. Have a good one.”

In a swift motion, he taps his foot and slides down the open tunnel. When the floor seals back up, a blush-pink flower blooms and then withers. You stare at the spot, wondering if you overstepped or if he was just looking for an excuse to leave quickly. Before you can think too deeply, your pocket vibrates.

“Oh shit!” you cry, retrieving your phone.

You apologize to Jesús for leaving them on read for a bit, leaving out the part about oracles and visions and giant rabbits, and the two of you finally shore up your outing to the Met. By the time the conversation winds back down and you’re cooking dinner, all uncertainty vanishes, shoved back into their proper compartments where you only have to feel things one at a time. And you choose to feel excited about this turn in your life—a promising art re-debut, a possible partner.

You slip the Ana-vlog to the back of the canvas stack at some point. You’re not about to let that ruin your mood.

Chapter Text

“Have any of you found anything of substance yet?” Skreeklavic shouts, leaping from his chair.

The Guardians jump, a wave of surprise sweeping around the meeting table. The wolfman leans on his hands, glaring at each of them in turn. Katherine and Jack frown, obviously not keen on being accused of neglect on a project they have little investment in or power over. Sandy, North, and Tooth are taken aback to various degrees of offense. Nightlight isn’t here, per usual, the privilege of being Manny’s former protector and flighty by nature making it near impossible to keep him in one place for long unless Katherine gets involved. Ombric has a similar attitude to Guardianship; he prefers taking on a “mentor figure” effect when convenient. Finally, Skreeklavic reaches Bunny and latches his gaze there.

“How is the tooth search? Is the oracle ready to help? How do you intend to contain the Stranger’s influence when it can dance on the timeline?”

“Calm down,” Bunny says, not breaking eye contact. That’s the wrong thing to say, apparently. He clenches his hands, scraping his claws over the ornate wooden table. North grunts to the side.

“How can I calm down when it seems like none of you are taking this seriously? I came to you—the Guardians—for a reason! And all I’ve gotten for my efforts is suspicion and laziness!”

At that, they all start shouting over each other. It takes a sharp whistle from Bunny to re-gather some level of civility, but from everyone’s body language, this partnership is getting closer to the brink of collapse.

“Listen,” he says to Skreeklavic. “Trust me when I say that this is not how I’ve wanted this to go. I want nothing more than to be able to smack this Stranger around and be done with it.” The wolfman starts to speak again, but Bunny hold up his hand and says, “But we don’t like to make trouble where we can avoid it. We’ve made mistakes in the past that have only accelerated things.”

“So, your solution is to wait until it gets worse?”

Bunny looks at North and Sandy, silently begging for help. Sandy clears his throat and floats over the middle of the table, hovering high enough that Skreeklavic has to crane his neck to look at him.

“With all due respect, Leader of the Werewolfian hordes of Transylvania,” he starts. His bright, yet threatening tone sends a shiver up Bunny’s spine. It seems to have a similar effect on Skreeklavic, as he sets his jaw and lays his ears back. “We are acutely aware of our position in the supernatural world. For centuries, we had the boogeyman and the shadows to focus on protecting the world from. It was a project all our own, with the support or apathy from other groups. However, with the shadows in remission and the boogeyman reformed, we are taking a more cautious approach to world affairs.

“If you were to go to another werewolf pack and start messing in their politics, saying you were trying to help despite them not asking, I imagine the other pack would be less than pleased with the effort.”

“My pack is currently under sway of a dangerous influence!” Skreeklavic growls. “My people are in danger, as is the rest of the world each second the Stranger remains unchallenged and free!”

“How so?” Tooth snaps. “From where we sit, it sounds like a power struggle for your pack and little else!”

Skreeklavic sags on his bones, speechless. He looks from Guardian to Guardian again, landing on Bunny, who folds his hands and looks away. The wolfman chews on his lip and then seats himself. He clears his throat.

“Perhaps I have not been fully clear on what the Stranger is capable of. Though we only have folktales passed down from ancient times, they do tell of many things the Stranger does.

“The first thing it does is sow discord. It uses this to grab power from the rational, shall we say, boring leaders. It then undermines experts, causing people to turn away from reason and research. Finally, it tells its followers that there is something wrong with them, but not to fear, for it—and it alone—has the solution.

“It is a cuckoo. A parasite. A virus, capable of spreading itself exponentially if left unchecked.” He lets the statement hang in the air, though when no one reacts after a moment, his ears lay back again. “Do you not hear me—”

“We do hear you,” North says. “But we are not hearing anything new that requires immediate intervention. We will take time with this issue, make sure we have all of our ducks in perfect row before we strike. But it will take time to find way to infiltrate werewolves.”

“Infiltrate?”

“To turn tide against Stranger using its own tactics. Sow discontent and oust it so you can grab reins and return.”

Skreeklavic looks at them like they’re crazy, and then he sits back in his chair, rubbing his chin.

“I think,” he says slowly, evenly. “I think I may have neglected to clarify something about the Stranger and its nature. It is a malevolent entity, not unlike the boogeyman was, but it is different in a key manner. It is more like werewolves than you all; it is like the entity the humans call the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot. Unlike you and many other spirits, werewolves and these aforementioned entities are not quite as hidden behind the veil of Belief. Humans find us difficult to find, but with some effort, they can. Effort that does not necessarily require true Belief to manifest.”

He takes a moment to breathe and choose his next words. Bunny is confused. He looks around at his colleagues, seeing the same puzzlement on their faces. Except for Katherine. Her brows knit together, and she stares intensely down at the table, wringing her hands. Bunny is about to ask what she’s thinking about when he makes the same, terrible realization. Then it dawns on North, on Sandy, on Tooth and Jack. If the Stranger doesn’t have to rely on human Belief to be seen or heard… if it’s in the same class of entity as cryptids…

Skreeklavic inhales deeply and continues, “When I say it is using my pack as a petri dish, I mean that it is refining and modernizing its tactics before it goes viral across the human realms. And so long as it can be welcomed, it can proceed in their spheres unhindered.”

North and Katherine use Bunny’s tunnels to get to Santoff Claussen after the meeting, and they immediately inform Ombric of what Skreeklavic revealed at the meeting. The wizard is concerned as he listens, and Bunny thinks he’ll offer some direction for them to follow. Maybe he’ll lean into his sagely persona for once and offer up some viable advice. There’s an oracle lesson today, maybe they can try and expedite some of the learning and finally gain an ability to keep track of it.

Instead, the man nods when they finish telling him, strokes his beard, and says, “I see… I see… That does bring a new concern to the table. By the way, Nicholas, I finished the enchantments you asked for. We are ready to start the new evacuation route whenever you find the time.”

“Perfect,” North mutters. He swipes a bulging leather toolkit from the table and slings it over his body. “I need to build something. We start now.”

“Wha—hey, fellas?” Bunny calls. They glance at him, looking tired. “Ombric, we’ve got a lesson with the human in less than an hour, what’re ya—”

“Go on ahead, Nicholas, I’ll catch up,” he says.

Bunny suddenly has visceral sympathy with Skreeklavic about the state of this investigation or project or whatever the Stranger issue has devolved into. He thinks about returning to the pole and grabbing the werewolf to figure out what needs to be done, now, but then Ombric leans into him.

“I know this is not ideal,” he says, voice low despite no one else being in the room. “But my daughter and my apprentice are currently out of sorts and need to calm down before anything else happens. They’re both very brilliant, but you know how they get when thrown off-kilter. She researches; he builds.”

“We have so much less time than we thought, though. We have to act.”

Ombric’s eyes flick over to one of the many doors leading from the room and snorts. “I daresay we have as much time as we need, should worse come to worst.”

“No. Absolutely not. We do not need to use that.”

“Now who’s reluctant to act?” Ombric pats Bunny’s cheek and gathers up his things. “As for the oracle… I doubt they’ll hate a day off. If you feel it absolutely necessary to go through with it, however, just lead them through the breathing exercises and it should be a quick, easy day for everyone. Goodbye for now!”

And he leaves Bunny alone in the room, mouth dropped completely open in amazement.

Bunny tries to go back to the North Pole, but Skreeklavic refuses to speak with him, and when the yetis find him, they give him mere minutes before kicking him out. He enters the Warren, only to immediately exit again when he remembers how quiet it is, and the itch of restlessness returns. So, he ends up sprawled on the oracle’s fire escape, waiting for them to return so he can half-ass a lesson and feel like he’s accomplishing something.

Their train must be running late, however, as they don’t appear at the scheduled time. His leg shakes.

There’s a crack in the curtain, just big enough for Bunny to look through if he closes one eye. He blocks out the surrounding light and peers into the glass. He feels a little stupid sitting out here when he’s more than capable of entering, but after his last appearance, he’s trying to be polite. The last thing the whole, disjointed operation needs is to spook them away, possibly into the realm of the Stranger. Their apartment comes into focus, and he confirms the main room is empty. After a few minutes, no one comes around the corner, ruling out the bathroom. They’re simply late. He sighs.

Eventually, his gaze settles on the canvases leaning against the wall. He can’t see the one featuring him, however. Him and—He repositions himself, trying to see the entire apartment at once, but he has no luck in finding the painting.

I shouldn’t’ve said anything, he thinks to himself. And I shouldn’t be so worked up about it. Or maybe I’m just worked up overall. I hear that the Stranger is closer in nature to a cryptid and then I head over to the one place that has heard about my issues. And they’re late! He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the cool glass. I should go home.

As his resolve settles, there comes a noise. He opens his eyes to see the curtains open slowly, revealing a concerned-looking oracle. He barely lifts a paw to wave. They unlock and open the window, and he shuffles to the side to allow them space to lean out.

“Hello?” they say. “Do you want to come in?”

“Ah, I was just about to leave, actually. You took a while to get here,” he replies, straightening up.

They frown. “I left work late and one of my usual train lines was shut down, so I had to make a few extra connections. Sorry I didn’t return home groveling for forgiveness.”

They start to pull back inside, but he waves his arms. “No, wait, I’m sorry.” They pause. “I’m having a… I’m having a day.”

“Clearly,” they mutter, but they lean on the windowsill.

They open their mouth for a second, and then their face goes slack. Their eyes glaze over and flicker a bit as they look into the distance. He crouches so that he’s at their level, wondering if he needs to call someone when they inhale sharply and blink life back into their eyes.

“Hm,” is all they say, and they retreat inside.

Bunny watches them, unsure if they had a vision just now and whether they’re inviting him in. They open their fridge and rummage around, straightening up with a cardboard caddy of clinking glass bottles in their hand. Beer, it seems like. They step out onto the fire escape landing with him, slide their legs through the metal bars of the railing, and gesture for him to sit. It’s a small space; they barely have the width of the beer pack between them. There’s a hiss as a bottle opener pries the cap off one dark brown bottle, and they hand it to him. He takes it automatically. They get one for themself, making sure to deposit the caps in a slot on one side of the caddy. Bunny hasn’t seen this development in human ingenuity before now, and he wonders if this is just a brand gimmick.

“Salud,” they say, tapping their bottle against his.

“Cheers.”

He throws a large swig down his throat. The alcohol is so thick and strong, however, that he chokes and coughs. The oracle glances over at him.

“What the hell—” The label reads a startling twelve percent ABV. “Crikey that’s a lot!”

“You’re not supposed to chug it,” they remark with some amusement.

Bunny coughs a few more times, the unexpected strength of the drink overwhelming him. He was expecting at most an IPA in the six percent range. “An imperial stout,” the label reads, and below that “chocolate raspberry undertones.” He runs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tasting exactly that, though it’s strong enough he’s classifying it as an overtone. The oracle pauses next to him, their bottle hovering mere centimeters from their lips. Waiting to see what he does, he reckons. To be honest, it doesn’t taste bad. He was just unprepared; if anything, he’s giving them the wrong expectation of an immortal’s alcohol tolerance.

He finishes coughing, takes a breath, and then gingerly sips. This time, the small mouthful coats his mouth with a bloom of fruity, bitter flavor. Perhaps a bit harsh on the aftertaste, but not bad in the slightest.

He licks his lips and then says, “This would pair nicely with angel food cake or something.”

“There you go,” they say, smiling and finally taking another sip.

They sit for a while, savoring the drinks and gazing out onto the city. Their fire escape isn’t high enough to see over most of the buildings, and it faces a north-easterly direction, so they can’t watch the sunset itself. But there is something fascinating in the strong oranges and purples that highlight the buildings. A secondhand sunset, painting the town with its wake. He feels like there’s something profound to be discovered in such a thing, but by the time he thinks to explore the idea, a buzz fizzes through him. And then a thought does.

“Wait, did you actually have a vision of this, or did you just want to shut me up?” he asks them.

They snort. “Kinda both,” they reply. “I did have a vision of us just sitting here.” They sit back, swirling their bottle for a second. “I don’t know if I saw this moment, though, now that I think about it. There was… I don’t know how to describe it, but there was something else in my vision. Another feeling surrounding everything.”

“What kind of feeling?”

They lean into the bars of the railing, as if trying to press their face through. “Not sure. Contentment? Something along those lines.”

He hums and shrugs, enjoying the slow, drowsy feeling while he can. He eyes the caddy, which has two remaining beers. The oracle holds the bottle opener out to him.

As he pops open another, they ask, “So what’s eating you?”

“Hm?” he asks.

“We had a lesson scheduled, and so far you’ve been pretty uptight in all of them. But there’s no wizard today and you were playing Peeping Tom. What gives?”

“I wasn’t—I was just checking if you—” he sputters. Then he leans back, sighing. “We found out something new about the Stranger.”

The oracle stiffens, clutching at the bottle with both hands. Then, they fling it back, gulping a few times before draining the bottle. It’s a little terrifying and impressive, but he feels vindicated when they turn away to cough. They take up the next bottle, their fingers accidentally grabbing his for a second as they reach for the opener.

Did they eat anything before this? he wonders. They’re clearly showing more signs of intoxication than him at this point.

They hug the bottle close to them and ask, “What’d you find out?”

Even through his buzz, he can hear their unspoken follow-up question, “And what does that mean for my friend?”

Part of him wonders if he should say any more, both to not set their anxiety off and so that they don’t know enough to betray them if they’re honestly playing sides. He shakes his head a bit. They’re not playing sides; they can barely conceptualize lying for the greater good.

“We found out that the Stranger isn’t like the Guardians. All of us rely exclusively on Belief to be seen and known. The Stranger—and the werewolves and cryptids, for that matter—are semi-corporeal.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Means they can be seen by people who don’t have any whimsy in their hearts, aka, most adults.”

“Is that? Bad?”

“It is if the Stranger decides to expand out from just taking over a single werewolf pack. It can enter a town and woo the population without worrying about being seen, unlike… unlike me.”

They take a moment to digest that.

“Is that maybe how Gill got involved with them? I guess he was prone to some level of belief in the supernatural before—he’s into astrology, crystals, tarot, all that. But I’ve never known him to ‘see’ things before a few weeks ago.”

“Could be.”

More quiet contemplation. By now, the sunset is getting too low to reach the buildings, and instead, long shadows stretch from elsewhere to the west. The night starts graying the sky, centimeter by centimeter. He watches the oracle, surprised that, for once, they seem to be taking the news in stride.

“How have you been doing?” he asks.

“Not bad,” they admit. They wrinkle their nose. “I think I nearly got fired for using that lubricant on the gallery wall wheels. We had to close off that entire section and try to vacuum the smell out with an array of fans leading out through the back door. Horrible time, and you can have it back.” They sigh. “It did work though. The wheels are like new. Thank you.”

Bunny chuckles. “Yeah, that stuff is strong and it’s easy to use too much of it at once. I don’t know how the yetis handle being around it all the time.”

A hand grabs his arm. The oracle looks at him, eyes wide and stunned.

“You can’t just say that.”

“What?”

“You have to stop casually dropping shit like Mothman and yetis into conversation like that’s normal.”

“It is to me!” he laughs. They’re getting very animated in their intoxication, probably more than they realize. It’s bizarre to see after all the previous instances of their closed-off, cautious demeanor. Maybe it’s his own buzz, but he’s fascinated to see how far they get from their baseline.

Suddenly, there’s a noise in the near distance—the sound of a voice, amplified by loudspeakers echoing off the architecture. Then, the muffled sound of some weird electronic music. Actually… Bunny concentrates on it for a second and realizes he’s heard this same song coming from the apartment above this one.

“Oh fuck, the market!” the oracle cries.

They lean into the window and scramble around for something. For a second, he thinks they’re going to tumble headfirst onto the floor, but instead, they lightly bang their head against the window when they come up too quick. They tuck a wallet into their pocket and start down the fire escape.

“Woah, wait!” Bunny catches their arm. “The hell are you going?”

“There’s a pop-up market going on. Happens maybe once a month, and I’ve missed the last few. Forgot it was tonight.”

“You’re drunk,” he says.

“I’m not that drunk. Besides, what else are we going to do? The lesson?”

They’ve got a point, he thinks. His grip on their arm slackens, and they pull away. Then, a slightly more sober part of him says, No they don’t!

“Are you sure about this?” he calls again. They look up from the next level down and sigh, come clarity pushing through their dreamy expression.

“Look, despite everything that’s happened recently, I’m actually in the mood to make a slightly stupid, impulsive decision for the first time in a while. I’m an adult, I’ve been looking forward to this, and I am going. You should come, too, I get the feeling you’re not the most social guy.”

That last line feels like a sock to his stomach. Only three weeks of knowing them and they’re repeating lines his friends have all said to him at one point or another. At his lack of input, they just scamper down the steps as he regains himself. His head is still swimming a little from the alcohol, but it’ll clear up soon enough. What clarity he has now tells him to go along, at the very least to make sure they get back all right.

He starts to follow them when a loud knocking comes from their front door. Then a voice calling the oracle’s name.

“Are you there? Please tell me you’re there!”

That’s Gillian’s voice. Bunny checks to make sure the oracle hasn’t fallen onto the back alley concrete real quick, and then hastily creeps across the studio apartment. He leans over to the peephole, trying to keep his feet back far enough that they don’t cast shadows through the bottom crack in the door, and he looks through. Sure enough, there’s Gillian himself, clutching at a cross-body bag and constantly fiddling with the strap where it crosses his chest. He looks up and down the hall for a second, sweating in worry. He bangs on the door again.

“I need to talk to you!”

No one answers, of course, and when that becomes clear to him, he swears and runs off down the hall, reaching for something in his bag. Just when he moves out of sight, there comes a small but distinct wave of magic: of Déjà Vu, specifically.

It’s Bunny’s turn to swear, and he rushes back to the fire escape, taking only enough time to pull the window down until it’s almost closed to discourage anything from getting in. He leaps down to the ground, and glances around. The oracle isn’t there anymore.

How fast can one drunk human walk?

He puts that out of his mind and just heads toward the music. Either he’ll catch up to them along the way or find them there. Much as his stomach churns at the idea of something bad happening, there’s also a sense of peace that comes over him. His mind sharpens, focusing on his new goal. He hadn’t realized he’d been looking for a problem to solve, but he won’t discount this one that’s just dropped onto him. He takes off.

Chapter Text

A determined enough drunk human can walk two New York blocks much faster than Bunny thought. Still not quite fast enough to escape him, though, and if he hadn’t made that wrong turn down a dead end, he may have caught up sooner. The oracle steps into the main throng when he next lays eyes on them, and as they pause to look at the first booth’s wares, he himself enters. He holds his breath as the spaces between bodies shrink, not for fear of crowds or blundering over anyone, but because there’s an unavoidable barrage of oblivious humans about to walk through him.

It’s hard to describe the sensation. All the languages of the world have at least one perfect word or phrase that helps approximate it. However, when used together, they create an unintelligible string of words; when used discretely, they fail to fully convey the inherent contradictory feelings:

Everything so much at once there’s numbness.

Absence or an abscess or an abyss.

Time and space trading places.

Bunny isn’t a poet, so he simply calls it, “Fucking awful.”

He bites back constant shivers and rising nausea in order to wend his way over to the oracle. Once at their side, he searches the crowd for Gillian, starting from the outskirts.

The oracle glances up at him when they see him then gets pulled into polite chatter with the booth owner. Bunny slips out of the main thoroughfare and to the side of the booth to take a breather. His ears twitch, taking in all the noise around him. Then, he remembers that even in a dense crowd, his ears are tall enough they may as well be signal flags. He forces them to relax back against his neck and hunches a little bit, trying to bring himself down to average human height. With his ears down, the sound doesn’t so much muffle as it does come from annoyingly fixed angles. That doesn’t matter when a howl rises above the noise of the crowd, though.

The oracle is a few more booths ahead, admiring some hand-sculpted and (in his opinion) tacky earrings. At the peak of the howling note, they visibly stiffen and glance over the heads of the crowd.

“What was that?” they ask.

The booth owner follows their gaze and shrugs. “Sounds like someone’s husky trying to join the excitement,” they reply, thinking they’re the one being asked.

The oracle blinks and nods before forcing a smile. They compliment the jewelry one more time before moving on. This time, they slip over to a slightly less crowded part of the market, a patch half-hidden behind a kettle corn stand. They sway a bit, looking as if the alcohol is catching up to them. He sidles up beside them.

“That was just a dog, right?” they ask, voice low.

They swoop their eyes over the crowd again and then up to the rooftops. When they finally look at him again, Bunny almost sighs in frustration at how wide their eyes are. The whites contrast so heavily against their irises that it makes the color stick out all the more, even in the darkening light. It’s sad, really, to see their usual crushing anxiety replace the exuberance from earlier. But they look at him, swaying woozily, waiting for him to say something, perhaps to affirm their fears.

“I didn’t even realize there was a sound,” he lies. “But they’re probably right. There’s tons of dogs in this city.”

“Right,” they whisper, almost to themself. They force another smile. “I’m just being stupid.”

“Happens to the best of us,” he says. “Well, listen, you’re here now. Might as well enjoy it, right?”

This time, the smile isn’t forced. Their shoulders relax, and a spark of excitement returns to their face. He catches them as they turn quickly and overbalance. The intoxication is ramping up, but thankfully the addictive atmosphere helps buoy them both.

They dart from booth to booth, and he follows on their heels. At first, they try to talk to him as they look at the art and services and trinkets, but by the third confused look from the booth owner, they remember that he’s invisible to most humans. So, they talk around it.

“The colorway on this is unusual but compelling, isn’t it?” they ask about a hand-thrown fungi-shaped mug.

The booth owner lights up, enjoying the attention and commentary about the craft. They thank the oracle, who darts their eyes over to Bunny. He nods and leans over their shoulder a bit.

“The thin lines of bright green really highlight the autumnal warm tones,” he says. “Good use of contrast.”

The oracle repeats his words to the ceramicist. She beams and hands them a small, slightly squished charm from someplace behind their sign. Apparently, she keep some of her “mistakes” around to hand out to kids or her friends. The oracle digs into their pocket to take a picture of their card code, only to realize they left their phone back in their apartment.

“Oh,” they say. Then they apologize to the ceramicist, who tells them it’s no big deal.

The phone seems like a big enough deal to the oracle, though, as they continue to pat down their pockets. It distracts them enough that they nearly walk right into the tent cover of another booth. Bunny steadies them in time, but the jostle is enough that the booth owner flinches and does a quick check of his plants

“Sorry!” the oracle says. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Maybe we should getcha back home,” Bunny tells them. Truth be told, much as the energy of the crowd is infectious, he’s kind of getting tired of playing drunk babysitter.

“No!” the reply, sounding like a stubborn, tired child who’s just had a nap suggested to them. “I just… need something to eat.”

“Are you sure? You can always grab something on the way—”

At that moment a bunch of humans, hands linked together, pass through him in a dance chain. They all laugh as they wind through the crowd, picking up more and more people in response to the quickening pace of the music. Bunny’s fur stands on end as they pass, one right after another. He grinds his teeth, trying not to scream, although as the tenth one slips through him, he considers just letting loose. The look on the oracle’s face stops him. A hand rests over their mouth, as if they’re stopping themself from shrieking. Above, their eyes are wide in horror, and their other hand is frozen halfway to reaching out to him. They can’t; if they try, they’ll just accidentally touch the corporeal humans.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the chain ends, and Bunny lets out a careful, controlled breathy groan.

“Holy shit,” they whisper, finally placing their hand on his arm as he takes a turn swaying. “Was that as horrible as it looked?”

“Worse,” he replies hoarsely. “Somehow, it’s always worse. Listen, you don’t mind if we take a break somewhere there’s less people? That’s been happening all night.”

“Yeah. Yeah!” They glance around. “There.”

They nod over to a picnic table on the sidewalk that looks like it belongs to a restaurant. They take his wrist and guide him over. To any kids or true believers that happen to see, it must look so silly: a clearly drunk human toddling to the sidewalk, trying to drag a giant bunny with its fur poofed out. Regardless, it’s a relief once they reach the table. Bunny slumps onto the bench immediately and takes a deep gulp of air. The oracle watches where they stand, and then turns on their heel.

“I’m going to get some food,” they announce.

Before Bunny can try to persuade them otherwise, they disappear into the crowd. He considers rushing after them, but the shaking from the sensation hasn’t subsided yet, and despite his immortality quickly burning off the alcohol, the aftermath mixes with his buzz horribly. He’s barely catching his breath. Instead, he scans the crowd, trying to keep eyes on them. He cranes his neck as far as he can from sitting, concentrating so hard that he doesn’t register someone sitting down at the table until they clear their throat obnoxiously. He glances at them, not expecting to see anything of note, but then he freezes.

Gillian sits across from him. He lays his folded hands on the tabletop as if he’s some sort of important executive. He looks exactly the same as he did when Bunny saw him through the peephole, sans the crossbody satchel. Bunny appreciates that the human has enough sense not to bring the artifact with him.

Gillian straightens up once he has Bunny’s attention, lifting his chin and giving the coldest glare down his nose he can muster. The man is the same age as the oracle, somewhere in his thirties, but the affect makes him look comically immature. Bunny starts to shift so that they sit face to face, but he stops, opting for a more casual recline, one elbow on the table. Bunny waits for the man to say his piece. After fifteen seconds or so, it becomes clear Gillian expects him to speak first.

Oh, he’s trying to play games, Bunny realizes. He settles into his relaxed posture even further and waits. Hard for humans to outlast the patience of an immortal, even a relatively impatient one.

After a few more moments, Gillian’s façade starts to crumble. His face twitches into annoyance, then confusion, much as it tries to keep to a neutral mask. Eventually he darts his gaze over to the crowd, as if suddenly aware they don’t have much time before the oracle returns. Bunny starts to feel bad for him. He’s trying so hard, but he just does not have the experience to square up properly.

“Easter Bunny,” Gillian finally growls.

Bunny points to himself. “You mean me?”

“You’re the only animal around here.”

That piques his interest. When being insulted for being some flavor of outsider, he expects to be called “alien” due to being a Pooka. Being called “animal” might imply the human—and the Stranger—don’t have as much information on the Guardians as they think they do. It’s too broad of an assumption to be completely sure, but he tucks it away in case he can use it later. He shifts and stretches nonchalantly, feeling victorious as Gillian’s expression sours.

“What do you want?” Bunny asks.

“Stay away from them.”

“From who?”

“You know who I’m talking about!”

He pins his eyes on a point over in the crowd. Bunny follows the line of sight and sees the oracle, cardboard basket of food in hand, chatting with… another Gillian. This one still has his satchel around him. He fidgets with it similarly to the one in the peephole: letting it rest between his breasts for half a second before yanking it off to the side. He slides his arms under the strap to cross them over his chest, but it seems less like an intimidating gesture and more like he’s trying to literally hold himself together. Bunny looks back at the Gillian across from him, who mirrors the gesture and hunches over

“My eyes are up here, freak.”

“Don’t you all have something to keep it down? A binder?”

“That’s not required,” he hisses in reply, face reddening.

Bunny holds up his hands and dips his head down a bit. “You’re right, you’re right. Not my business. I’m sorry.”

Gillian doesn’t seem to know what to do with the small capitulation. He opens and closes his mouth, glancing at the oracle again.

“I don’t know how you found them, but I won’t let you infect them with your lies.”

Bunny’s ear twitches at that. He’s behind on us, he thinks. Doesn’t even realize we’ve been here for weeks. He decides to keep playing dumb.

“’Fraid I’m still not clear on this.” He nods to the oracle. “They your friend or something? What’s so special about them?”

Gillian balks, and Bunny mentally begs him to shut up before he fully embarrasses himself. However, the man waves a hand toward a group of young kids who thread between the legs of the crowd. They’re up past bedtime, which may explain the enthusiasm. “Once kids finally know what you’re all about, you’ll disappear.”

So, he knows that much about how it works.

“Your days of controlling and feeding off us mortals are numbered.”

And there it is, the narrative the poor boy’s been sold. Bunny strains to keep from letting his expression get too far away from him. Gillian starts going off on a deeper speech, mostly about his friend and mortals versus immortals. Bunny tries to keep an ear out, but his mind races as he tries to connect all the new dots. Of course, disrupting Belief is the most effective way to undermine the Guardians. And as they experienced before, long ago one awful Easter, it can get apocalyptic faster than they realize.

So, what’s the Stranger’s angle, then? he wonders. Go back in time and disrupt how we became Guardians at all? Feels like it should’ve done so already. Unless it’s already tried and that’s just one wrinkle that won’t iron out. Clearly it needs the artifact and the oracle, otherwise it wouldn’t have asked Gillian to talk to them.

“Are you listening to me?”

There’s a manic quality in Gillian’s face now, and Bunny is made painfully aware of the human’s mortality in that instant. He sits up quickly, making Gillian flinch, and he leans in, trying to seem as non-threatening as possible.

“Listen, mate, you don’t have to do this. Doesn’t matter what got you into this ordeal, I promise me and my friends can protect you from anything. I know what it’s like to fall in with someone who flatters you, promises you the world. Even if it was just a nice ass that drew you in, you don’t have to stay there. We can hel—”

Gillian spits in his face.

It stuns Bunny for a second, jolting him out of his careful façade, unable to hide his anger anymore. He locks eyes with Gillian, who looks triumphant. Bunny scrapes the glob of saliva from his fur and nods.

“I see,” he says.

He takes another, longer look over to where the oracle was wandering in the crowd. The other Gillian is gone, perhaps to furiously knock on his friend’s door a few minutes ago. In his sudden absence, the oracle looks confused. Bunny lets his gaze linger, just long enough for Gillian to start huffing.

“You know, I’d ask why, if they’re so special, you haven’t just carted them off to a safehouse, but I think I know the answer. It’s the same reason you still have my artifact—the boss told you to lay low for now, wait to act.” He grins at Gillian. “However, since you were so kind to make contact first, I think I have the right to take it back now.”

Before the man can say, “What?” Bunny opens a tunnel below his seat and slips down into it. He navigates to a spot a dozen meters away or so, in a garden bed tucked into the foot of a building. From here, he watches Gillian swear loudly, startling the people near him. He jumps up from the table and pushes through the crowd in the direction of his home. Bunny waits until he turns the corner, and then makes his way to the oracle.

They shuffle around the edge of the market, hardly looking at the booths they pass. Bunny runs through the crowd on all fours to keep a low profile, swearing under his breath each time someone steps through him. But he powers through it until he slides up next to the oracle.

“Hey!” he says, lightly tugging them over to the sidewalk. They barely react and move easily—a lot easily. They lean on him in a way that might look off-putting to other humans if they look over.

“I think I fucked up,” they whisper, cheek on his upper arm. “I shouldn’t’ve… that was a lot of alcohol—”

“’Sokay, it’s okay,” he replies. He gives them a pat on their shoulder and straightens them up a bit. Their sway is extreme now. “We’ll getcha home. We just gotta start walking.”

They nod, take a deep breath, and start putting their feet one in front of the other. It takes an agonizingly long time to get to the edge of the market between their unsteady steps and him slowing to look around to make sure any Gillians haven’t come back. Luckily, they’re all clear, and as soon as they escape the sludgy movements of the crowd, they move at a brisker pace. The oracle’s coordination deteriorates the closer they get to their apartment until they’re leaning on him again as they both head into the back pathway.

“Okay,” he says. “We’re here.”

They push off of him and take a hesitant step toward the ladder. They pause halfway to it, shake their head, and then start patting their pockets.

“Shit,” they hiss. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” They rub their face look up at the apartment. They sniffle. “I left my keys… And I can’t use the ladder, I’m so stupid.”

“Woah, no. No, you’re not!” Bunny says, steadying them again. His buzz has more or less burned off, but they need at least three glasses of water and eight hours of sleep before this gets better. “It’s okay, we can get up there easily. You just… You just need to hang on to me.”

They look at him like he’s just asked them to cross an ocean in a dinghy, and it takes everything he has not to laugh at them. They’re teetering on the edge, and he just wants to get them home without having to clean up any other messes. He coaxes them over and wraps his arms around them. They seem to understand what’s going on, or at the very least their instincts kick in, as they cling to him.

“Ok, this might feel weird for a second,” he says. He opens a tunnel and shuffles them into it.

Gravity changes a few times as they descend. He finds his footing in the tunnel and hops them up through another hole, right into the middle of their apartment.

“There we go,” he says. “Back safe and sound.”

They look up, squinting one eye open. Once they see where they are, they let out a sigh of relief, which turns into a groan they muffle against his chest. He lets them have their moment, thinking the odd changes in direction were a little much for their current state. Then he feels something crawl over his back. No, it’s something rubbing—hands—fingers carding through the layers of his fur, brushing with the direction of his coat.

The oracle is petting him.

“Holy shit you’re soft,” they whisper.

Bunny freezes in place. He feels he should have expected this at some point—basically every one of his friends has had the impulse at one point or another, and he himself is not immune; there was an awkward moment not long after he and Toothiana met, and the texture of her feathers became too much to resist. It’s practically expected whenever he meets the newest generation of Santoff Claussen kids, though, they usually reach for his arm, with braver or younger ones grabbing an ear.

This, on the other hand… In all honesty, it’s soothing. Reassuring after so many non-believers passing through him in the last hour. He feels more solid again—feels real. It also makes him feel like he’s overstepping some sort of boundary, like this isn’t something he’s allowed.

He tries to say something but makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat instead. The oracle stops their movements. They inhale sharply and push themself away from him, clinging only to his forearms.

“I think I really need to sleep,” they mumble.

“I think you need to drink some water first,” he says. He gently sits them on their bed and carefully gets a glass of water. They’re laying down by the time he gets back to them, so he prods them, saying, “No. Wake up. Drink this and one more so you don’t feel like shit tomorrow.”

They pop up, almost overbalancing as they grab for the glass like they’re dehydrated. They manage not to spill but sip too quickly, causing them to choke and cough so loudly Bunny worries one of their neighbors will come over to check on them. He taps their back, mindful of his strength. Eventually, they gasp and go back to a regular breathing pattern.

“Thanks,” they say. “I’m so sorry, this is embarrassing, Normally I know way better than this.”

“You’re fine,” he says for the millionth time that night. He sits down beside them. “I mean, you might feel terrible tomorrow, but hopefully you don’t have anything important going on—”

“But I do!” They look up at him, eyes wide and glimmering in the low light. A goofy smile works its way across their face, and he hopes that their standoffishness will give way to this authenticity going forward. But then, they say, “I’m going on a date!”

Something within him closes off instantly. He mentally shoves them to arm’s length, suddenly remembering who each of them is. It’s confusing; this is good news. This is rather average human news, actually.

“That’s great!” he says, genuinely. “Congrats. I didn’t realize you’d met someone.”

“They were a visitor to my art gallery, but they looked really snazzy and they’re so attentive…” The oracle shakes their head with a smile on their face. “We’ve been dancing around each other for maybe a week, week and a half? Trying to find time to get to the Met to hang out, but just… Just before I got home, they texted me and said they were hoping we could consider it a date.” They sigh dreamily, hugging their glass before taking another drink. “That’s why I was in such a good mood when I got home. I’m glad we didn’t have that stupid lesson, I don’t think I would’ve been able to concentrate.

“Congrats,” he says again. It seems like the only thing he should say. Bunny stands from next to them and heads to the center of the floor. “I hope it goes well.”

“Me, too,” they reply. They blink rapidly. The alcohol is starting to take hold of them again. He taps the rim of the glass.

“Drink one more of those before you go to sleep,” he repeats. “Should help you flush out all the alcohol so you’re ready for tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” they say. “For everything tonight.”

“’Course.”

Bunny gives them a small salute and then tunnels his way out of the apartment. He reappears on the roof across the way and then makes a loop around their building. It shakes some of the restlessness out of him, but once he has nothing more to take care of, it swarms back in like a tidal wave. He looks in the direction of Gillian’s home, wondering who he should tell first about being compromised. Skreeklavic? North? Ombric? None of them want to talk to him for the next few hours, he imagines, so he makes his way back to the Warren. He goes to one of the fallow fields and runs a hoe over it. He won’t plant anything on it, but he needs something tactile to ease his mind.

Good for them, he thinks. Genuinely, good for them. Hopefully, my luck can make that sort of turnaround soon, too.

Chapter Text

You wake up to a dry mouth and hairy tongue. As you turn over, wondering why your alarm isn’t ringing, one arm feels like it weighs two tons, and your other got tucked up underneath you. It flops to the bedspread, too numb for you to exert fine motor control. With another minute of effort, you haul yourself up and crack open your eyes.

And then the force of the sun immolates your retinas at the same time your awful alarm starts blaring. You slap your hands to your face, hiss, and groan. It takes you a second to collect yourself, but once you do, you finally officially wake up. The amount of light confuses you until you realize the curtains are partly open. They must not have been shut properly last night.

Oh, last night…

You cringe, causing a twinge of pain in your head, so you lie back. That helps a little, with the pain if not your embarrassment. Fortunately, you didn’t drink enough to black out. Unfortunately, you didn’t drink enough to black out. The memory of petting the Easter Bunny in a drunken haze—among so much other tomfoolery you committed—is going to haunt you for a long while. You check your calendar to see how long you have until the next lesson. Two days. Long enough that hopefully you’ll be able to compartmentalize it away. You glance over to the stack of canvases leaning on the wall and cringe hard enough to make the pain in your head spike.

Your phone buzzes.

You sit up too fast, collapse back onto the bed, and then winch yourself up to a seat to grab the device. To your disappointment, it’s not a message from Jesús, but to your delight, it is a message from Gillian.

Gillian (9:16 am)
Mornin! You doing anything today? I made some extra pancakes, figured you could use some carbs after last night.

That’s right, Gillian was at the market, too. That, you remember slightly less about; the constantly mutating crowd confused you at peak inebriation, and Gillian… you can’t decide if he was worried in general about you, or something was bothering him.

I hope I wasn’t bothering him.

You (9:16 am)
You’re supposed to carbo-load before drinking iirc. But yeah, I’ll take the Gillian special anytime!

He replies with a thumbs up and a smiley face. That gives you about twenty minutes before he gets to your building, so you push yourself out of bed for a quick clean up. The cool wood floor wakes you up enough for you to walk, not stumble, to the bathroom, and splash some water on your face. As you do, fighting the pain in your head, you chide yourself about not remembering that alcohol doesn’t affect you like it did in your twenties. It’s harsher now.

God, he must think I’m stupid, you think. You pause, wondering if you mean Bunny or Gillian. It doesn’t matter, and you shuffle into the kitchen for some water. You’re working on your second glass when the knock at your door comes. You check through the peephole, just to confirm it’s Gill, and then let him in.

The pancakes are soft, fresh, and exactly the right fluffiness. Your mouth waters as soon as the sweet steam wafts up, a savory tinge twining through it. He brought cheesy grit cakes and maple sausveg, too. You break out your tea stash and y’all sit down for a nice breakfast.

“You doing okay this morning?” he asks between mouthfuls.

You let out a chuckle that turns into a light groan. “Well enough.”

“Yeah, you seemed a bit out of it at the market.”

“I’m so sorry about that. I forgot to eat before I drank.”

“I figured it was something like that.” He nods. “I’m just glad you got back okay. I… lost track of you in the crowd and by the time I could see through it, you weren’t there anymore. I tried calling and texting, but—”

“I was out cold after that.”

“You don’t seem too worse for wear, so I’m guessing you remembered to hydrate a little bit.” He pauses. “Unless someone else took care of you…?”

You’re about to shove a bite of syrup-laden pancake and sausveg into your mouth, but his hesitant question stops you. Gill watches you intently, moving his food around his own plate. You eat the bite and chew slowly to give yourself time to contemplate your answer—and Gill’s motive.

Oh, actually you hate thinking about it like that. This is your friend. Just because he’s been taken in by a weird entity doesn’t mean he’s your enemy. You wipe your mouth and try to put on your best confused face.

“Who else could it have been? You’re the closest person I know who I regularly hang out with. My neighbors are fine, but we mostly just say hi to each other in the halls. Nirupama lives in Queens and Chrissy—” Gillian hides a hmph of derision with a mouthful of food. “—Chrissy lives in the Village. Who else is there?”

He regards you for a second, swallows, and replies. “You’re still a shit liar, you know.”

You grit your teeth to prevent the panic welling up in you. Does he actually know? Or suspect? You search for a quick answer, anything to throw him off this trail. That makes you feel worse; you realize you’re a little scared of him at the moment. This just starts a spiral, starts the conflicting thoughts, starts the incoming wave of dread at the idea of getting on the wrong side of him and of the Guardians. You clench your hands into fists, and then flinch at your phone vibrates again, nudging slightly on your wrist. You look down in time to see a text notification pop up before the screen cuts back to black. You relax.

Gillian taps his fork against the plate. “So, what’s his name?” he asks.

You look him dead in the eye and, with a slight smile, say, “Their name is Jesús.”

He looks genuinely taken aback. He blinks a few times, processing what you said, and then a light pink fills his cheeks.

“Oh—oh!” he stammers. “Oh. I… I didn’t realize… They a friend?”

“Yes. And maybe a little bit extra.”

Gill looks at you, then at his plate, and then he shovels a few giant bites into his mouth until his cheeks bulge. He takes his time chewing and swallowing, not looking at you for the entire time. From a certain, very twisty angle, it’s not a lie. And you’re thankful for that, even if you still feel like you’re overselling the misdirection.

“Sorry,” he finally says, “I just didn’t see you with anyone last night, so—”

“So why assume I was with a ‘he,’ then?”

Gill has no answer for that. He just looks disappointed and meekly nods with another apology. You place your hand on his and he reaches over with his other to give it a pat. It’s uncharacteristically pathetic of him, and it reminds you that this is still just Gillian, still just your friend. The both of you are caught up in some weird, magical machinations, and the sooner you can help get the Stranger cleared up, the sooner life can go back to normal.

You hope it can go back, anyway.

“I’m actually going to the Met with them today,” you say to get the conversation started again. And to brag a little.

Gill snorts. “Gonna give them the modernist-slash-postmodernist lecture series?”

“Mm-hm!” You sip your tea. “The only thing worth evangelizing.”

“Oh, I know!”

You have a chuckle and settle into a more comfortable silence for the rest of the meal. Once you’ve had your fill of breakfast, you pack away the leftovers and start cleaning up. It’s peaceful again, your hangover is well on its way to clearing up, and according to the clock, you have less than three hours before your date. You can’t be happier; in fact, you start humming as you put the dishes away, and Gill joins in. However, once everything is put away, the bottom drops out of everything.

“I know we’ve been dancing around it for a few weeks,” he says carefully. “But we really need to talk about your magic. About the oracle thing.”

You freeze, back to him as you mess around with the nothing in the sink. He sighs.

“I know you don’t like uncertainty, instability. But I promise, my Friend can help you get everything you’ve ever wanted—and deserved. It just needs our help to make sure our wishes and dreams aren’t being hoarded by a bunch of other, malicious beings. Your gift can help all of humanity be freed.”

“I—” What do you tell him? “I do want to help,” you finally say. “I just don’t know where to start. And the weird… visions? They’re kind of freaking me out.”

“If you get control over them, they’ll be—” He laughs. “They’ll be more predictable.”

He gives you a hug. You return it as enthusiastically as you can. When he lets go, he has a disconcerting energy about him.

“Let me know when you want to start. It gave me advice on how to get you situated in your powers. And… and it can do so much for us—has already done so much for me—that I don’t want to disappoint it.”

You give him a pat on the shoulder and shift into customer service mode. “We can get together later this week, I promise.”

He relaxes, moving into a friendly tease. “Right. Yeah, you need to get to your date, don’t you?”

You say your goodbyes and only once you shut the door and hear him walk away do you heave a sigh. But that’s as much as you allow yourself before heading to the shower. Then, you fret over what to wear, not allowing your day to be ruined by magic yet again.

You will have at least one normal day with Jesús.

“It’s not that I don’t understand why you can’t just put a Richard Serra sculpture in a recreated area in a museum, but it seems like such a waste of perfectly good steel,” you say as the two of you slide out of a retrospective exhibit of the artist’s career.

It’s filled with photograph upon photograph of his giant metals walls. Half of them are in black and white, crisp reprints of original film photos; the other half are from the last two decades or so, showing how the remaining site-specific pieces withering away into rust after a century and a half of existence. Some had even been dismantled by the towns they were in because there was no upkeep. Jesús slips their arm around your shoulder. You lean into them, giddy at the privilege of doing so.

“You feel so strongly about this,” they say. “I thought you were a painter.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good sculpture. And his were revolutionary. It always pisses me off when people call them ‘just metal sheets.’ That’s where the site-specific nature comes in! But… ugh, it kills me to know that barely anyone bothers to keep the sites tended.”

You sigh, letting them lead you down a hallway into another gallery room. This one is filled with light, Rococo colors, though you’re pretty sure there are a few Baroque and Renaissance pieces here, too. You walk up to one of the paintings, which is filled with all sorts of frills and ornaments and wrinkle your nose. 1683, the informational plaque to the side reads. That’s when it was completed. You shake your head.

“We’re losing so much modernist and postmodernist work. Stuff that really changed everything once photography swooped in to ruin the comfortable normality that painting had enjoyed for hundreds of years. Meanwhile, this shit gets restored and restored and restored until it starts to become a ship of Thesus experiment.”

“So, you do not think that art should be preserved? Or only some art?”

You flinch, first at the hole in your argument, and then at the reminder that art preservation for all is important, actually, as Gillian prefers to remind you when he comes here with you. He loves ogling the hundreds-year-old paintings and describing the techniques the restorers use to bring ugly, browning pieces back up to glorious color. He was adamant that one day, y’all should take a train down to Georgia to see the one piece he was able to help with before dropping out. You just wish there was more enthusiasm for the twentieth-century pieces you love. But, the public enjoys figurative representation, to the point where hyperrealism is not only currently popular with museum guests overall, but also a lucrative style for advertisements.

“All art,” you mutter under your breath.

Jesús lets out a laugh and you amble your way through a few more hallways until finally—finally—reaching the Modern/Postmodern section. You let out a satisfied breath and pull Jesús over to a Faith Ringgold painting and start raving about her techniques and legacy. You repeat the process for everything in the room, and then the next, though as the century edges toward new millennium art, your commentary becomes more and more scathing.

“There was no reason for Banksy to keep their identity a secret for so long other than being embarrassed that they got so much attention and earned so much money that their messaging became hollow,” you say, looking at a chunk of wall behind a glass case. A black and white stenciled cartoony bomb on a midcentury television set blasts out at two children in midcentury fashion who watch it. “Not exactly revolutionary by the time they did it.”

“If only the new could remain new forever,” Jesús replies.

“No, I’m okay with things getting old. New things make me uneasy.”

Gently, and so quietly you flinch in surprise, they cup your chin and turn you to face them. Their hold is firm, but not so much that you can’t pull away if you need to. Your face heats up. When you meet their eyes, there’s a seriousness in them, and you try to ascertain their irises’ exact shade and color to distract yourself.

More of a honey or more of a warm umber? Maybe it’s more of a cool earth tone. The lighting might be screwing my perception up.

“Do I make you uneasy?” they ask, drawing their face close to yours. “Does this—us, now—make you uneasy?”

“Yes,” you whisper, and you instantly regret it as their face falls a little. You’re losing them. “No, no! That’s not—I don’t mean that!”

“I’m disappointed to hear that,” they say.

Their thumb strokes over your cheek, and in that moment, you realize how long it’s been since you had this sort of intimate contact. Not true touch starvation—you could be quite touchy-feely with your friends (and apparently people tolerating you being drunk)—but your last real relationship had been two years ago. As their sharp, brown eyes bore into you, the word “Disappointed” swirls around your mind again and again, echoing from far away, the sound seemingly fading as their interest in you does as well. Disappointing them is the last thing you want.

“Not you,” you rush to say. “You couldn’t make me uneasy if you tried. It’s me.” You try to smile to lighten the words, but your heart isn’t really in it. “It’s always me.”

They stroke your cheek a few more times and cock their head as they look at you. At the very edge of your perception, you can hear people walking into the room and instantly lowering their voices.

They see me. This is too public. Surely, I’m making them uncomfortable. But… but if I pull back, then I’ve definitely ruined my chances here. I gotta… I have to stick it out.

The hushed murmurs of other guests sweep around you and Jesús, picking up as soon as they’re in the next room. Much as you want to retreat, you suppress the urge. After another minute, they tip your face up a bit more and smile sadly at you.

“It also disappoints me to hear you say such things about yourself,” they say. “You are much more than you give yourself credit for, and I want to see that you blossom. I want you to always be the person who will lament bygone eras of art while sharing your enthusiasm. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yeah,” you manage.

Jesús beams. They seem to lean forward, and your brain short-circuits, thinking they’re going in for a kiss. Here, in the middle of the museum! Your heartbeat increases tenfold, you can feel your blood pulse throughout your body. And then they wrap their arms around you, tucking their chin over their shoulder. A hug.

They rub their hand up and down your back, as if to comfort you, and say, “Thank you. You have no idea how long I’ve hoped to meet someone like you.”

You melt into their grasp, wrapping your own arms around them, trying not to squeeze too hard so they don’t realize how tight you’re willing to hold on. You close your eyes. The excitement and anxiety of the last few minutes churn together until they peak and coalesce into something else. A now-familiar feeling. This time, however, the vision is so strong and comes on so fast you don’t think you could shove it away if you try your best.

Cold. Bitter, raging cold. In the distance, cliffs, only identifiable by the long shadows pouring off of them from the sunset. No—a sunrise, and a very early and slow one.

Movement off to the side. A ripple of dark against the white, sparkling snow. Muscle and fur. A whimper and a bored whine reverberate behind. A muzzle comes and licks yours, and the wall of fur presses into your side. You hadn’t realized you were shivering until then.

A sharp whistle cuts across the ice. Joy, movement, stealth until it is impossible to hide and you howl victory in unison as you all bolt toward the only sign of life—an impossible wooden structure, too far from any bastion of natural resources to be happenstance, reeking of certain magics.

The snow erupts to the side, a moving mountain—two, five, a hundred of them—swinging their fists into your packmates. Enraged, you leap on one of the furry things and sink your fangs into its arm. It swings you around, driving them deeper into its tough hide, its thick, coarse fur threatening to make you choke and sneeze. You persevere, for a bit, and then you become subject to momentum. You fly from the creature, but not without a small trophy of flesh on your gums, letting you taste the blood of your enemy for the first time. And, oh does the proof of your efforts taste sweet.

As the white beast roars over its wound, you take the time to slip away, joining the wave of your pack as it heads for the structure itself, ears swiveling, listening for the sound of bells approaching.

Your eyes snap open. Jesús pulls back from the hug and grasps your hand in theirs. Despite being dazed, you try to pretend you’re at full capacity, but as you continue to move throughout the wing, the images repeat until you understand what you’re witnessing. Jesús suggests heading out and getting something to eat. You don’t catch where they suggest, nor do you speak yes or no. They lead you to a small café near the museum, sit you down, order for you. You nearly cramp from keeping yourself as still and normal as possible. It’s a hot drink, maybe a mushroom alt-coffee, but just going through the motions clears your mind just a bit.

You’re not sure how many minutes have passed until you unstick your throat and say, “Please don’t be mad—this has been a wonderful day, but I’m afraid I need to go.”

Jesús nods. “Do what you must. However, please, will you allow me another date in the near future?”

“Of course!”

You leave off on another deep hug, their lips brushing against your temple. Then you spend the better part of the next hour trying not to freak out on the train. You breeze up the stairs from the station and down the street, the motion giving you something to focus on. Finally, back at the apartment building. Up the stairs, going faster, gripping your keys until the jagged edge bites into your hand. You have to try a few times to unlock the door because you try to get through the door before it’s open, but as soon as it is, you sprint across the studio and yank a petal off the flower.

“Help,” you choke out.

There’s a slight delay, long enough that you start pacing in the small floor space. After about five minutes, however, your toe catches on something. You trip and sprawl onto the floor, flipping over to see Bunny rubbing his head as it sticks out from your floor.

“Hello?” he says. “Didn’t expect this, but what’s wro—”

“The werewolves are going to attack Santa’s workshop!”

Chapter Text

As soon as the words are out, they burst into tears. Bunny panics and of the tunnel to calm them down.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says.

He’s not sure how to approach this. It’s been bad enough on a normal day when they’re at their above-average anxious. He hasn’t had much practice with big, sudden emotions in other people, let alone with negative ones, so he usually opts to let Ombric handle everything while he leans against the wall with his arms around himself like a fool. He’s used to stone eggs and the occasional elf that wanders through when North visits, but they don’t necessarily have the same complications as a mortal human. He hesitates to touch their shoulder for a second.

“B-breathe. Let’s just breathe.”

He takes in a deep breath, holds it, and then lets it out. They start to follow his lead on the second one, and by the fourth, they’ve stopped crying and watch him as they match his rhythm. What could they have possibly seen that was so distressing? It must be bad; nearly predicting a child falling onto the tracks hadn’t put them this out of sorts.

Despite them calming enough to speak after two minutes, Bunny leads a few more rounds for his own sake.

“You okay now?” he finally asks. They nod, rubbing your eyes free of the itchy, drying salt. “You said the werewolves—”

“I saw them attacking the North Pole. The workshop,” they say. Then, “I’m not sure how I knew it was the workshop it just… it looks exactly like how Santa’s workshop should be? Cedar, stone, chimneys, whimsical architecture. I swear it’s—”

“He—North—Santa—he plays up his stereotypical image,” he says with a weak chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood more. “And maybe it’s just magic informing… you all… about it.” There’s a pause. “When? When does it happen?”

“In the morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?!”

“No…?”

They close their eyes, eyeballs zipping back and forth under the lids. Panic rises in him again as they dry heave and lean too far to one side, just managing to catch themself before crashing face-first to the floor. Bunny quietly calls their name.

“Maybe tomorrow morning, maybe the day after,” they finally reply. “I know it takes place at morning time, but that’s all I’m sure of regarding ‘when.’ I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Obviously there’s more to the vision, but they’re in no state to relay it, nor should he stay much longer in case they only have hours to prepare. His ears start twitching.

They apparently agree, as they say, “You should go tell the Guardians. Prepare for it.”

“Will you be okay?” he asks.

They snap their face up to his. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that! Same answer! I’m a human, not spun glass, despite what last night might seem like to you.”

They haul themself up off the floor and grab the glass from their side table, refilling it with water and throwing it back so quickly they choke. Despite that outburst making him want to fuck off right then and there, he forces himself to make sure they’re not waterboarding themself to death. The Guardians still need their expertise. Also, it’s the objectively right thing to do. They turn at the sound of the floor creaking under his feet and pull away right as his lifts his hand to pat their back. He flexes his fingers and pulls his hands behind his back, trying to keep his ear from twitching in irritation. They think he’s condescending to them since they’re human. He wants to yell at them, get it through their skull that he just got there—at their request!—and doesn’t care what they are so long as they help like they promised.

That won’t help, he says to himself.

“Go,” they say. They can’t quite control their voice enough to keep a waver out of it.

“You sure you want to be alone right now?” he asks. They blink.

“Yeah… of course,” they reply unconvincingly.

He tries again, “I can take you someplace where you can distract yourself for a bit.”

They hesitate, think it over. But shake their head. “I just wanna curl up with some hot tea and watch cartoons.”

As if to demonstrate, they grab their laptop and lightly toss it onto the bed before filling their kettle. They spill some water on the counter due to how badly they shake, however.

They didn’t come right from their date, did they? he realizes. What a shit way to end a good day.

He decides to try one more time. “Are you sure? You seem… off—”

Ah. Is that offense in their scowl? Disgust? Definitely displeasure at him specifically. He backs up a few steps, holding his hands up.

“You won’t disappoint me if you say no, but if you’d rather not be alone, I can take you somewhere safe for a day or so.”

They consider this. He waits a second, two, just to make sure their answer stands.

“Where is it?” they ask.

“Called Santoff Claussen, in Siberia. Ombric’s home. Cute little village of magical weirdos.”

“I can’t stay long.”

“I know. Twelve hours. Sixteen, tops.”

He taps on the floor, closing and re-opening the tunnel, making it wide enough for two to comfortably travel. They watch it bloom wide, swallow, and then nod affirmatively.

“Great. Sorry about this next part.”

He sweeps them up to carry them. They make a surprised strangled noise at the sudden movement, clasping around his neck much like they had the night before. He grits his teeth and doesn’t think about that, or this, in any way except as a means to an end. It won’t be as fast as if he had all four limbs free, but they’ll make decent time. He drops into the tunnel, biting back a laugh as they give a small shriek, and then he bounds off for Santoff Claussen.

He bursts into Big Root, heedless of pedestrians. A gaggle of students jump in surprise, one falling behind his table.

“Bunny?”

At the head of the class, Ombric stands, wand halfway through tracing a rune of some sort in the air. The unfinished lines fizzle away. Bunny gently drops the oracle. First goal accomplished. Ombric can take care of them from here.

“Where’s North?” Bunny pants.

“He’s working on the new evacuation route. Why—”

Bunny doesn’t wait. He dashes out of the house and in the direction of the construction. It takes him a minute of running along the dark treeline of the protective, enchanted forest surrounding Santoff Claussen before he sees a thin stake tipped with fluorescent orange sticking up. And then right beyond that is another, and a third not far from there. He follows the trail for about a mile, trying his best not to breathe in the cold pollen the trees constantly emanate. Just one of its tricks to confuse and misdirect unwanted visitors. Finally, he reaches the end of the trail, coming upon not just North, but also Sandy and the resident keeper of the forest, a spirit whose name Bunny cannot remember until he needs to say it. She prefers it that way.

“North!” he calls out.

The man pauses as he’s about to stab a stake into the ground.

“Ah? Hello, Bunny, what—”

“The oracle just had a vision,” he wheezes. “Werewolves. Attacking the Pole at dawn.”

The confused yet friendly glint in North’s eye burns away into hard rage. Before Bunny can catch his breath and explain more, north tosses the stake aside and whips out one of his teleportation snowglobes. Sandy and the forest spirit start talking over each other, trying to get his attention, but North throws it. It shatters against a tree. The magic swirls to life, opening a hazy portal to his workshop. He rushes through without so much as a last glance or word. And before any of them can react, the portal closes.

Sandy immediately dashes over to Bunny and starts furiously tapping his leg.

“Woah, wait, hang on!”

Bunny hops away from him. Sand symbols start forming and changing above Sandy’s head, a flurry of ideas that Bunny can’t quite keep up with as they strobe past. Something about the North Pole and hurry and Skreeklavic.

“Bunnymund,” the spirit says in her chiming language. “North has been complaining all day about how the werewolf he keeps is badgering him about the Guardians’ progress in fixing his difficulties. It seems the two have not been on good terms since a day, day and a half ago.”

“You don’t think he’ll hurt Skreeklavic, do you?” Bunny asks, not looking directly at her so he doesn’t get ensnared in her magic. The ancient language is barely tolerable; it keeps sticking in his mind.

“I think anything is possible. He has been in… an unusual melancholy lately.”

That’s all that Bunny needs to hear. He slams his foot down to connect here to the Pole. Sandy dives in first, and Bunny runs after him.

The tunnel is long enough to make Bunny worry they’ll be too late to head off the worst of it. He and Sandy go along in silence, holding their breaths as if that will keep the dam of tension from collapsing. Finally, the ground slopes up and they emerge into the relative silence of the workshop. A few yetis are milling about, muttering amongst themselves. As soon as Sandy zips out over their heads, they start shouting to him and trying to wave him down. Sandy ignores them and dashes into the corridors of the workshop. So, the yetis turn and run to Bunny.

“What’s going on—”

“The werewolf is a traitor?!”

“I have never seen the boss that angry—”

“Which way did he go? Where’s Skreeklavic’s room?” Bunny yells over them. They point. Without answering any of their questions, he dashes off, skidding around a corner as his claws scrabble for purchase on the slick floors.

He follows a thin wake of golden sand above him. After a few more turns, he finally sees Sandy’s glow hovering at a corner. Sandy peeks around, drawing back once or twice. As Bunny catches up, he hears the voices echoing from the adjacent hallway.

“So, what is it? Do you ask our help, or do you give up?”

“I think giving up on you all might be best, if this is how you act with bad news! Wanting to keep my people’s teeth, accusing me of withholding important information—”

“You did! We formed initial strategy around idea that the Stranger is like us!”

“Which you naturally slotted into your eternal timeline or prioritization. You do realize the cryptids and semi-mortals have limited time, don’t you? You must work more efficiently!”

“I work very efficiently, look around!”

“Hey,” Bunny whispers to Sandy. “They been doing this a while?”

“The last minute or so,” he replies. “North has been more and more agitated overall lately, however. Kozmotis even asked me if everything was all right in our Guardian work. I hadn’t realized just how bad it was until he stormed off.”

“Same here.”

Bunny sidles over and glances around the corner himself. Down the hall, Skreeklavic is half-transformed, hackles raised and teeth bared. North has one of his swords at his side. Every so often, it twitches.

“We have to stop this right now,” Bunny says. “Knock them out before they hurt each other.”

Sandy moves a split-second before Bunny finishes his sentence, apparently having already had the same idea. Bunny starts to dash after him, but stops himself, waiting to see how it goes. The two men instinctively glance up at the movement, but before either can say or do anything, a ball of dreamsand sails through the air, straight at North’s and Skreeklavic’s faces.

Skreeklavic has no idea what’s coming, so he’s caught off-guard easily enough. He staggers, growls something, but cannot fight against the magic. He slumps against the wall and slides down, asleep before he hits the floor.

North tries to sidestep, but bumps into the wall. He raises his sword up, and the sand connects with it, exploding in a cloud that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. However, most of it does settle over his shoulders and head and arms, and North’s body sags. A look of confusion and betrayal crosses his face for a second before it can no longer hold the tension. He takes one, weak step toward Sandy and points his sword. And then it falls from his grasp. He sinks to one knee, still fighting the effects, but after another few seconds, he collapses.

Bunny doesn’t move until he hears the slow, steady breathing of deep sleep. Then, he finally emerges from the corner and joins Sandy in the hallway, looking at both men on the floor.

“Now what?” he mutters.

Yetis rush them, yelling questions and vying to be the first to get an answer. Bunny glances at Sandy, and they both start directing the crowd as best they can to start preparations.

It takes several minutes and lots of repeating himself before the workshop coordinates itself into defensive maneuvers. But even as they listen, the yetis throw odd looks at the two of them. Bunny gets it. He comes in, knocks out their leader and guest, then immediately turns around and says they’ll be under attack soon so they need to follow his orders, and what—expects them to take it at face value? If they weren’t Guardians, he figures they would have (rightly) thrown them in custody and demanded more answers before action.

It's especially unfortunate that the oracle couldn’t tell him when exactly the werewolves were coming. He hopes it’s no longer than a week or two. Then, there’s no telling how much goodwill he’d lose with the workshop, let alone North. Speaking of whom, Bunny paces up and down the bedroom hallway, waiting for one of them to wake up. He hopes it’s North, just so he can ream him out for doing something so foolish.

Back and forth. Up and down. Step, step, turn, repeat.

At the next turn, however, a shiver of magic makes him pause. It’s faint, far away, and it takes him a moment to recognize it as Déjà vu.

“What?” he says.

He turns around in a circle, as if he’ll see the source of it behind him. Unlike the previous night, when Gillian used the artifact to time travel, this was different. It was sharper, sturdier.

“The mirror!” he realizes.

It’s been so long since Ombric used it that he’d nearly forgotten the distinction. He sighs, wondering what the old man is doing when another, shaper sensation grows in his consciousness.

And then it explodes.

Vertigo drives him to the floor. It’s not pain, but it overwhelms him and squeezes the wind out of him. Bunnt can barely hold himself up on his hands as he takes in fast, shallow breaths.

The hell was that? Did something happen to the mirror?

Bunny hand slips a few times as he grasps for his communication stone to check in with Sandy. Just then, North’s door swings open, revealing the man, his hair and beard standing at odd angles.

“What was that?” he whispers hoarsely.

At that, Bunny tenses. “You felt that, too?”

Chapter Text

Bunny rushes out of the schoolroom as soon as Ombric tells him where North is, abandoning you in the middle of the bewildered class. A beat passes, and then every single strange face turns to you.

“Students,” Ombric says, “this is the oracle I’ve mentioned a few times.”

It’s like a pack of spotlights on you. You heat under their curious stares, dropping your eyes and trying to block out the murmurs that start up in various languages. It doesn’t help that the vision is still churning in your mind. The taste of phantom flesh between your borrowed wolf teeth lingers, coarse yeti hair tickling your throat. It joins the metallic smell of blood, and more disturbingly, the rush of excitement at the first whiff. You swallow thickly and breathe in and out on a count of five each way. After three breaths, Ombric calls your name loudly, snapping you to attention.

“Please sit and join us. I was just showing my students the enchantment runes we’re applying to the new evacuation route through the forest.”

There’s a spot in the back. It’s not cozy, but it keeps you out of the students’ lines of sight for the rest of the class period. All the while, you try to pay attention between resurgences of the vision and trying not to catch any of the students’ eye contact. You glue your eyes to Ombric, who is going over runes mostly of concentric circular patterns.

“As we’ve discussed previous, circles are the strongest shape. Vertices present weak points that magic can get caught in, and they can also be overwhelmed by other runes or spells at said points. However, that is just the geometrical and numerantical reason why circles are the preferred shape for spells of protection spells. Magic, however, is more than geometry or numerancy, so why else might circles be preferred?”

Everyone raises their hand immediately. You’ve done children’s tours of the gallery and included call and response sections, but you have never seen this level of participation. To say nothing of the fact that these are teenagers or young adults.

They actually want to be here. They actually want to learn, you think.

They throw out ideas like circles and curves being the shape most often seen in nature, therefore it is the most basic. That Pi’s irrationality transfers into a protective sense under the right conditions. That perhaps it reflects the comfort of a hug. Arms forming a ring around someone. Ombric merely takes in the answers, rather than affirming or denying them being correct. More and more ideas with wispy threads of connections to the idea of circles, and by the time everyone says their piece, you’re confused as to what exactly sort of lesson this is.

A loud clock chimes somewhere outside, announcing the top of the hour. Ombric dismisses the students. They rush out of the room, talking excitedly with each other, some eager to go off somewhere else while others hide yawns behind their hands. As they exit, you realize it’s dark outside. Dark and quiet, and few people seem to be up.

Very different time zone.

Ombric hums and swirls his hands around, causing pens and papers to put themselves away. He looks around, makes a satisfied noise, and then exits. You’re not sure what to do, but a few seconds later, he peeks back in and says, “Are you coming? Or will you be going?”

“I kind of thought Bunny would be back by now,” you answer. “I guess he did say I might be here for at least ten hours.”

“Speaking of which, why are you here?” He gestures for you to follow him, and having nothing better to do, you obey. “I was given to understand that you preferred your lessons at home so you were not far from your life and friends.” He halts in the middle of the hallways. “There wasn’t a lesson scheduled for today at all.”

“I, uh, had a vision,” you reply. “A big one and it…” You shiver.

“Its contents are why Bunny immediately went to find Nicholas?”

You relay the gist of the vision. He contemplates it in silence, face growing slightly paler. Then, he whips out a small stone, similar to what Bunny uses, and he squeezes it in his fist for a few seconds. You two watch it, waiting. But it does not flash.

“Hmm…”

Ombric tries again, but he gets nothing. After another minute, he pockets the stone and gives you an unconvincing smile.

“I’m sure everything is fine. Don’t worry what might be, you’ve clearly already done enough of that for one day. Come, let me get you some tea.”

He leads you through a labyrinth of doors and oddly angled hallways. It’s unlike anything you’ve seen outside of overly bright and cheerful children’s shows, and yet there’s something familiar about the route you take. You pass an open doorway and are suddenly sure there’s another workroom through it/ Lo and behold, there is.

That’s not a hard thing to guess, given what I’ve seen so far, you think. Still, a small part of you isn’t so sure, in the same way a part of you had never been quite able to commit to full denial when your visions were beginning.

Regardless, Ombric finally leads you to the kitchen, a warm, charming patchwork of old and new appliances and decoration. He flicks his hand. A kettle fills itself and sets down on a burner, and then fragrant dried leaves whisk out of jars and mix together, rustling like autumn leaves. You set yourself down at the table and stare out the window into the late night.

“What time is it over here?” It had been four-thirty pm in New York.

“About three am or so,” he replies.

“You hold class this early?”

“Well, not everyone’s circadian rhythm runs diurnally, and I, as an immortal, have no need for sleep, so it works out. Though, a few of them go against said natural rhythm because they attend an early morning astronomy viewing. They use my class time to wake up properly.”

You try to imagine what New York would look like if it implemented a schedule like that. Not much different, probably; some part of it runs at any given hour. Unlike the suburb you grew up in, which went to sleep two hours after sundown.

He hands you the tea, and you spend some time in silence. After a few minutes, however, Ombric asks, “You said in your vision—it was not from your own point of view?”

“No, I was looking out from a werewolf’s eyes.” He hums in that odd way again, prompting you to ask, “Is that unusual?”

“No, but it is a leap in abilities. A leap you’ve apparently achieved much earlier than expected and wholly by accident.”

“Is that bad?” Despite how uncomfortable your abilities make you, you’re offended.

“Not at all, not at all!” he hastens to say. “It’s just… interesting that you’ve come to it after only a month or so. I’ve had students take nearly a year. Do you… do you think you could do it agai—”

A loud thump comes from outside. The hair on the back of your neck raises as a large shadow moves across the window. Something small detaches from it and rushes to the window. You nearly leap out of your skin when it finally enters the hazy light bleeding out from the interior, but it turns out to be just a young woman. The larger shape closes in as well but is less relieving to see it resolve into a goose the size of an elephant. Ombric jumps to open the window.

“Katherine, my dear, what’s going on?”

“The forest spirit says there’s an outpouring—as if a fountain—of shadows on the edge of the forest. She’s holding it off, but we need to help her.”

Ombric’s mood shifts so much it startles you. He reaches into a pocket and draws out pouches of what you speculate to be magical substances. He then mutters a few words and the window expands down, like the side of the building is unzipping, until it’s large enough for him to step through.

“I’ll go at once. Make sure to go get—”

“Of course. He’s my next stop,” Katherine says. She swings herself back onto the goose, and you brace yourself against the wind it kicks up as it lifts off.

“I apologize for this,” Ombric says, “but please stay here. You will be safe and we should have this fixed in no time.”

The window snaps to its former size and shape, and he leaves you alone in his strange house with its strange silence.

Except for the strange noise you hear.

It’s faint, but you recognize the sound of a door opening and closing. Curiosity overwhelms you, and you decide just to have a peek. It’s probably just one of the students coming back after forgetting something. Probably just someone else who lives here. Probably.

You end up in that workroom you passed earlier. It’s weirdly familiar—the placement of the tables, the supplies around it. A funny thought crosses your mind, that the tabletop is missing something. A box. A puzzle box. The sound of another door opening grabs your attention, and you spin, preparing to give an excuse for why you’re there. A figure rushes in, gets two steps before looking up and freezing. Your hello dies in your throat.

It’s you.

This other you is wearing one of your comfiest art shirts, years of paint splatter dried and stained into it. The original design was for a workshop you attended ten years ago, and you’d be surprised if more than a hundred people still had that particular shirt. So it has to be you. This you, however, is also carrying a bag you don’t recognize at their side. It pulls with a heavy weight. Whatever’s inside must be huge or dense.

The other you looks you up and down, then turns to look behind themself.

“I don’t remember this happening,” the other you says.

The surreality of looking at yourself from the outside is compounded by that sentence.

“Do I remember this?”

As you try to ask what the fuck they mean by that, the other you glances at their wrist, which you then notice has a watch on it.

I don’t own a watch…

“Sorry, I can’t talk—” They sprint across the room.

“W-wait!” You follow, compelled to interrogate them, although you’re not sure what the first question is. “Wait up!”

They do not, and instead turn corner after corner. You, regardless of which you, have never been an athlete, however. In almost no time, both of you are panting heavily and severely slow down. Sweat beads at your hairlines. Some trickles into your eye. You squeeze it shut to keep the stinging salt out, but cutting off your depth perception causes you to crash a shoulder into the next corner you round. You bounce off, nearly falling to your knees.

The other you pauses when they hear you cry out. They wince in sympathy and step toward you. Just a single step, though.

“I…” They glance from you to the thin door at the end of the hallway. “I’m sorry—”

An echoing bang cuts off the apology. Both of you inhale sharply, bodies going rigid, waiting as a trail of growls and yips and high-pitched squeals grows louder. A cast shadow appears on the wall. It looks like the approximate shape of a dog’s snout, but the silhouette writhes in a sickening way at the edges. Before the thing can turn the corner and reveal itself, a small pastel ball flies overhead. Then you see, it’s really an egg.

It explodes when it hits the ground, a spray of blue smoke filling the hallway. The thing yelps and the shadow retreats. The other you yanks on your arm, forcing you to stumble after them. They grasp at the thin door, shoving your in as soon as they get it open. They release you and slam the door shut, leaning against it.

“What the hell?” you manage to say.

“Yeah,” they reply breathlessly. “Field work is exhilarating, actually.”

“Where did you come from?”

They swallow and regard you a moment. “Well… I thought I came from the future. But I do not remember this part of my life happening at all. I doubt I’d forget meeting myself. Though…”

“What does that thing want?”

A soft snuffling ekes through the door. The other you pushes off, grimacing and holding it shut with one arm. The movement jostles the heavy bag. Whatever’s in it swings like a pendulum, bouncing from their thigh to the door, where it connects with a loud knock. The creature on the other side howls and throws itself against the door. The other you flicks the lock and slowly backs away. The door buckles and cracks.

“Ah, um.” They look around. You follow their gaze, finally noticing the only other thing in here besides you two.

The mirror is tall and thin. Taller and thinner than you expected this room to be, let alone anything in it. It’s a grand design, but your stomach turns as you watch its pristine, reflective surface. It has to be magical; what kind of wizard’s house would it be if it contained an architecturally striking yet fully mundane mirror. You approach it, hand outstretched.

“Don’t—”

The other you waves their hands to stop you. Then their hands droop a bit. Their face slackens into a distant stare, and you marvel in morbid fascination at the face you make when you have a vision.

The door cracks further, letting in thin shafts of light.

The other you lets out a shaky breath as they come to. They cock their head and bite their lip.

“Oh, Aster’s gonna kill me.”

They slip the bag from them and toss it over your head. They dig through it, allowing you to see what’s so heavy in there. You gasp as the time egg glistens up at you. It’ color is duller, less beguiling as it had been in Gillian’s hands. The other you stuffs more pastel eggs into their jeans pockets and then pushes you until your back bumps into the mirror. The glass gives a little, uncomfortably more gelatin than solid, and yet solid all the same.

“What are you doing?” you cry. They push harder. Your shoulders slip to the other side.

“We gotta follow our instincts,” they reply. “It’s terrifying and sometimes wrong, but it’s the only way we get anywhere, apparently.”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?!” you scream, but it’s too late.

The area on the other side of the mirror is dark nothingness with occasional dots of light. No gravity, no sound, no sense of place. Yet, you know you’re drifting away. The light of the mirror is still visible, though it stretches infinitely up and down while remaining consistently skinny. On the other side, the other you reaches for the eggs in their pockets, ignoring the breaking door. They wind up and pitch them directly at the mirror. You panic, thinking they’ll join you in the void and hurt you. But all that happens is the mirror’s surface gives a halfhearted ripple when it connects.

And then it explodes.

Chapter Text

Thankfully, Skreeklavic doesn’t wake up as well. Privately, Bunny wonders if it’s due to him not being a true immortal, but he tucks the thought away for another time. North agrees not to do anything stupid on pain of more dreamsand to his face from Sandy, who agrees to stay behind. Bunny bolts back to Santoff Claussen. He leaps out of the tunnel, ready to scream at Ombric about the mirror, but he chokes it back.

A column of swirling shadows rises up from the ground. The sight sickens him; they’re a perennial threat, but knowing he can and has defeated them many times before does not bring comfort to the current situation.

Or maybe that’s just the ambient fear they give off, he thinks.

He imagines his mind clears a little. Whether that’s true doesn’t matter—there’s a job to do and a planet to protect. He sets everything else aside, draws his boomerang, and joins Ombric and the forest spirit to hold the line against the incursion. The vortex of shadows judders as it swirls, like it’s glitching. Bunny glances at the others. They’re all as tense as sprinters waiting for the starting pistol. Tension permeates the air, smelling like forgotten stagnant water and dry hollow trees.

There’s another scent on the wind, too—old, hot metal. The odor of outer space. But there’s an extra tang to it. Bunny struggles to place it, chasing the familiarity at the tip of his tongue, but failing to catch it. The shadows shriek and judder again, but this time, tendrils of fearlings and lesser shadows shoot out and rush toward them all.

“Watch your heads!” the forest spirit shouts.

A wind streaks across the gap between them and the incoming shadows. Behind them, the trees groan, and there’s a ripping sound. Twisted fingers of elongating branches plunge over their heads from the darkness, creating a cage. Most of the shadows cannot stop in time, and they splatter against the wood. They screech louder as they disturb the confusing pollen. It lands on them, sizzling where it finds rest. Those that manage to evade hiss and skitter back. The forest spirit sings a few hypnotic notes and the branches curl like fists, disappearing the caught shadows into the dense, dark trees. The spirit’s eyes glow and widen in glee, and she follows her catch to its resting place.

Ombric reaches into one of his innumerable pockets and tosses a handful of particles that glitter in the air over the stunned shadows. It drifts down, serene as confetti. The fearlings, which had flinched at his movements, cock their heads at the display. A few convulse in their perverse version of laughter. Bunny, however, readies himself, shifting his weight to his back toes and digging them into the ground.

The anticlimax collapses as the particles spark and pop. The shadows realize the trick too late to escape the paralyzing energy that sweeps over them. One by one, they slow to a barely perceptible crawl, and as the wave reaches the last of the loose fearlings, a few more sparks set off and creep up the bottom half of the vortex.

Bunny launches his boomerang. The loose shadows burst in slow motion, Ombric’s dust being one of his time manipulation spells he enjoys working on, much to Bunny’s chagrin. Regardless, while his hands are free, Bunny grabs some of his explosives and dashes closer to the column. The time disparity causes the upper half to desync and tilt side to side, almost touching the ground as it struggles to move its lower half. He tosses both handfuls—one to the bottom, the other to the top—and watches the explosions go off. Without the synced momentum of the bottom to keep it in place, the top starts scattering. All they need is one more nudge. The same unplaceable tang wafts off of the temporally confused vortex, and as he rushes around to another angle, he recognizes it: the smell of time.

Did this thing travel here from another time? The thought clings to his mind. How did I not feel it?

The boomerang bursts through the mass on its return, just above the temporal split. He easily catches it and breathes in relief as the split rises to the top of the column. The sides stop spinning together and fall away. As they do, movement on the edge of the forest catches his eye. He focuses, blinking against the dark, waiting to see if it’s the spirit back from her catch or more shadows. It’s neither.

The oracle runs into the open, looking over their shoulder. They’re wearing different clothes and have some sort of glinting dagger in their hand. They trip over the uneven ground and go sprawling. Bunny rushes to them, wondering how and why the hell they ran all the way out here.

“Go back!” he yells at them. The shadows are clumsily braiding themselves back together. They don’t have much time.

When the oracle looks up at his voice, they beam. He almost skips a step, taken aback at their calm. A far cry from how he left them. He helps them up, dagger glinting despite the nighttime.

“Aster!” they call in reply.

He pauses. No one has called him by his given name in a long time. He doesn’t usually advertise it, either, and most fall in with everyone else’s usage of “Bunny.” The oracle falters, face falling. He shakes himself free of the confusion, gently but firmly grabbing their shoulder to pull them away from danger.

Or, he tries to pull them away. Suddenly, they both stop.

“What the?”

Bunny tries to glance over their shoulder, sputtering as he gets a face full of hair. His fingertips graze their neck as he moves it out of his way, and they stiffen. He mutters an apology, pulls away, and finally sees what’s holding them up.

Their dagger is caught in the air. Just stopped, the very tip piercing through like it was sunk into food. He also sees now that it’s not really a dagger, but a large piece of broken mirror. The jagged edges glow and sparkle with familiar energy, making his whiskers tingle. The smell of time hits his nose again, stronger and slightly rancid.

“What’s this?” he asks. “Why do you have that? What happened to the mirror?!”

“Do not yell at me, I had to make a quick decision, and you know I’m not good at those!” they reply.

They dig their feet into the ground and pull on the shard. They wince, and it’s no wonder, as they have nothing on their hands to protect from it cutting them. They yank and grunt. The air shivers and rips a few centimeters, releasing a burst of the smell and Déjà Vu magic. The oracle stops and cocks their head to the side.

“Ooh…” they say.

“Bunny, look out!” Ombric cries.

He looks up in time to see the shadows rushing him and the oracle. He has just enough time to retrieve another explosive and throw it before they get too close. However, it’s just close enough to send him and the oracle flying.

Once Bunny sorts his limbs out, he leaps up and throws his boomerang through the retreating swarm. The darkness is not enough to strengthen the shadows and overwhelm them. They’ll need a source of light soon to contain them, something closer and more permanent than the moon. Bunny regrets leaving Sandy at the Pole. Still, they may just be able to pull it off.

Bunny checks on the oracle. They aren’t screaming, so he reckons they haven’t managed to slice their fingers off, but the mirror shard is unstuck from the air. In its place is a much wider rift. A shifting glow emanates from it, and the oracle reaches out their hand.

“Don’t touch it!” he yells. They startle and look at him.

“I think I have an idea!”

“No more ideas, you need to get to safety!”

“Bunny!”

“WHAT?!” he yells, twisting to shout at the wizard, who’s smiling and waving to the sky like the daft old man he is.

The area darkens one or two degrees. Bunny catches his boomerang and tenses, breath coming shorter. Large, eldritch conglomerated shadow beings aren’t off the table. He’s fought one or two before, though something like that would mean that they were on the verge of another major resurgence, perhaps with a newly manifested Nightmare Man or two.

The Stranger, the shadows, this oracle. What else, then? What else is gonna—

A loud, echoing honk interrupts the thought, and a following, equally echoing bellow makes his heart leap. The shadow above resolves into Kailash, Katherine’s gigantic goose, and on top is the woman herself. Her booming word of power crashes into the shadows, flattening them as they scramble far enough to regroup. Bunny hops back a step as Katherine eases Kailash down, though she doesn’t land.

“Where’s Sandy?” she yells. “I thought he was over here!”

“He was!” Bunny replies. “He was helpin’ North, but then he trotted off to go yell at the werewolf, and me ‘n Sandy put a stop to that nonsense. He’s still there in case North went silly again.”

“You didn’t bring him to a shadow fight?”

“I didn’t know! I just felt a disturbance in time-space and rushed back and all of a sudden, these things appeared!”

He gestures to the shadows. The mobile ones are forming back up. The bottom of the column sits, bulging as the shadows try to escape. It’s a slow build, though. They’ll be stuck for a while yet. Katherine sighs, but nods. She nudges Kailash and flies back up again to circle.

Bunny readies himself for the next attack the shadows have, when the time smell grows strong one more time. The oracle! He swerves to them, only to see that they’re cutting the rift wider. It’s sparking now, where the mirror shard touches the edges. He rushes over, trying to temper himself. They’re just a civilian, they’re just a human, they’re just—

But before he can persuade them of anything, they catch his face between their hands. They’re still clutching the mirror. This close to his face, he can hear the glass squealing with how much magic it’s giving off, sounding like it’ll shatter under its own strain.

“Look at me,” the oracle says. He should be getting them to safety. Katherine’s just shouted something else, meaning the shadows are on the move again. He can even hear them shushing over the ground, getting louder. He tries to pull away, but they pull him back and say again, “Look at me, please, Aster.”

At the inexplicable use of his name, he does, and he’s once again struck by their current lack of anxiety.

“I’m not sure how I got to this specific moment, but I’m going to do something you probably think is stupid and I’m not gonna dispute that. Honestly, I’m terrified, but I know you’ll be there to help me when our time and place match again.”

“You’re just a human, and we need—”

They cover his mouth. “Until then, the me that’s still here needs you to understand that you can’t solve everything yourself, and sometimes, ‘just a human’ is what you need to gain a little perspective. Got it?”

No, he does not. But, he’s starting to suspect this oracle might not be his oracle. The one from this point in time. The one he’s used to. The one he desperately hopes had nothing to do with the mirror incident.

The oracle in front of him doesn’t wait for his answer. They give him a pat on the cheek and shove him off to his side. It takes him off-guard, but not enough that he can’t recover once he realizes he’s falling. He rolls and manages to get right back up, but by then, the shadows are practically on top of the oracle. He doesn’t waste an instant and throws his boomerang toward the front of the mass. However, in his haste, he failed to see Katherine had swooped low. She’s taking a deep inhale, ready to shout down the shadows, when the boomerang hits the head of the shadows—and of Katherine.

Her head jerks to the side with the hit. She cries out in pain and surprise, the shout blasting the nearby treetops instead of her intended target. She yanks the reins, causing her goose to let out a strangled honk and flap wildly. They veer off into the dark forest, the sounds of snapping branches echoing in the darkness.

“Katherine!” Ombric yells, disappearing after her.

The oracle slips through the time rift, which is already starting to close like a healing wound. The shadows are right behind, falling into the rift more than they are chasing. Bunny whips out his last few explosives and chucks them at the tail end of the shadows. They blast into skittering bits that either curl up and dissipate in the moonlight or quickly bury themselves in the dirt, too small and disconnected to be a true threat to anyone anymore.

The sudden quiet presses into Bunny’s ears. The rift is closed. The shadows have either escaped or are contained in the slowed vortex. He stands there, panting, until a loud crash grabs him from his head. He darts in the direction Ombric took, bumping into trees and tripping over roots as he follows the path of destruction. Soon enough, Kailash’s distressed screeching grows louder, and he comes across where Katherine and Ombric are trying to calm the animal. Finally, they manage to get her to quiet down, the forest spirit producing some foliage for her to eat. Once that’s taken care of, Katherine leans down, picks something up from the ground, and walks over to Bunny. Anger smolders in her eyes, one of which has a developing bruise reaching up from the cheekbone that was struck. His ears drop back, but he manages to stay in place.

“Listen, I-I think I know a bit about what’s goin’ on,” he says, “and if we play our cards right, we—”

She winds up and launches his own boomerang into his face. It surprises him into flinching, but thankfully doesn’t hurt. Katherine then grabs him by the bandolier and drags him down to her level.

“What in the world was that?” she hisses.

He starts to reply when a call for help overwhelms him. He shivers, and Katherine’s anger abates one or two degrees. Still, she doesn’t release him.

“The oracle…” he starts.

“Mm-hm! Yes, what about them?” she replies. “Where did they go? Why did they lead the shadows elsewhere? Why were they… lovingly caressing your face?”

The call in his mind grows sharper, stronger, and louder. The urge to follow it, follow the magic is making it hard for him to concentrate. “Listen, I know it looks weird, but first of all, I’m dead certain that oracle came from the future and two, they know not to call unless it’s important—such as if they’re in danger!” She looks skeptical, so he rolls his eyes. “Come with me if you think I need the backup!”

And that is how Bunny and Katherine find themselves climbing out of a tunnel in the apartment building’s back path. Which is odd, Bunny thinks. He followed the call but was expecting to be let out at Big Root. They ascend the fire escape.

The oracle sits on the windowsill, fiddling with the bristles of a paintbrush and staring at the floor in front of them. Bunny knocks on the glass. They jump at the noise and then do a double take from the window to the clear bit of floor where he usually pops up from. This oracle is back in the clothes they wore when he took them to Santoff Claussen, and the anxiety exuding from them is palpable. Back to normal. Back to being just a human out of their depth. They open the window to let them in.

“Hey,” Bunny says, taking a few steps to them. “How’d you… How’d you get back here?”

The oracle, on the verge of tears, just points to their bed. Katherine gives him a look, one that mostly contains suspicion, but it also has an edge of knowing humor to it. Bunny knows he’ll be grilled about it later, so he opts to ignore everything and look at the actual thing the oracle is pointing at. And he pauses.

Nestled one the comforter is the artifact. Specifically, the one he’s known for hundreds of years, complete with a mean crack up its side. Although, it looks like the crack has gotten longer and deeper. He gives it a quick tap with his fingertips before committing to picking it up. It’s warm—it’s recently been used. He carefully approaches the oracle with it in his hands. They grimace at it.

“Tell me what happened.”

Chapter Text

What happens after the mirror explodes is this:

Glittering shards of glass fly off in all directions, including towards you. You do your best to close your eyes and curl into as small a ball as possible, but it’s difficult to decipher whether or not you have control over your body, or even if your body exists in this space. You go through the motions of screaming, and you swear you can hear it happening in the depths of your own head. The faintest whisper of objects moves around you, brushing against your hands and arms. Is it pain? You squint open your eyes, but it’s hard to tell if the sparkles around you are the distant bright dots or the shards; moreover, if they are the shards, it’s hard to say if they’re moving past you harmlessly, or if you’ll find your arms sliced to ribbons.

Your core flinches as it senses movement. The bright dots elongate into streaks, and then comes the false, temporary weightlessness from the first drop of a rollercoaster. You curl tighter around the bag containing the time egg, but as you drift along, it grows warmer and warmer, one of the few sources of stimuli you can perceive. All at once, it grows white-hot, a wave of energy blanks out your vision, and it feels like something hooks around your stomach and jerks it to the side.

Gravity returns. It’s so sudden, you choke and wheeze, your lungs needing a few seconds to catch up. As you cough, you notice how stuffy the air is. Opening one eye all the way, you find yourself in a corridor. The low ceiling arches over you, melding into the walls like half a tube of brushed metal. The wall next to you isn’t as cold as you’d expect from metal, though, nor does it feel hot, like a motor cover. It does vibrate a bit, and an ambient hum fills the silence. You pull yourself up and bend down for the egg.

“Ah!”

The bottom of the bag drops out, and the egg falls to the ground, sparks bursting from the crack on impact. It starts rolling, bouncing off the sides and turning, too asymmetrical to move in a straight line. You catch up to it and stop it with your shoe. It sparks again, and you release it to get out of the way, but thankfully it stays in place. The edges of your mind are starting to go fuzzy, squeezing your focus into an anxious pulse. Your next breath in is shaky, and the breath out feels as loud as the time egg crashing had been.

Where am I?

You spend the next minute willing your feet to move so you can look around the corner of the hallway. It’s only a few steps but even that feels like too much. And you can argue with yourself all day that “feels like” and “actually is” rarely coincide but that will not change the foremost fact that you’re in a strange place with strange architecture and are yourself a stranger to whoever—you swallow thickly as you think “whatever”—lives here.

The glow in the egg dims as you stand there trying to do something productive. You command yourself to touch it, just to check the temperature. Your knees pop a few times as you crouch a little too fast, but you make it down to the floor. You reach a shaky finger out and tap the egg with one finger. Warm. Too warm to carry long without protection. You glance at your shirt. It’ll have to do. You stretch the hem out to cover your hands and carefully lift it up. It gives off one last, weak spark.

Now you need to find a way out of here. You tamp down a nauseating bout of catastrophizing, funneling all your effort into getting a little bit somewhere else. Upon examining the T-intersection at the end of the hall, you see that there’s nothing but dizzyingly long corridors ahead and behind. Were it not for the warm, reddish tones of the metal walls, you’d think you were in some curve-positive brutalist structure. You back up, readjust your grip on the egg, and then look back the way you’ve come. It’s the same story: bunker-like with passageways only big enough for two people to walk side by side. Maybe three if they’re all particularly skinny and coordinate their walking.

There’s a sudden hiss and squeak. A few meters ahead, part of the wall slips from its position flush against its neighboring panel and slides aside like an automatic door. A figure comes through. At first, it’s just a mass of green, harshly contrasted against the surroundings. You blink and then notice a gray, furry head perched on top of the mass—the robes. Two long ears fall over its shoulders, and you could cry from relief.

“Bunny?” you call. An ear raises at your voice. Your muscles loosen and you run towards him. “Bunny!”

As you get closer, however, you realize there’s something off. The anthropomorphic rabbit certainly resembles Bunny, but he’s slightly taller than he is. Also, Bunny has markings on his face and arms, and while you can’t account for the arms under the robes, the ones on this rabbit’s head are similarly placed but different patterns. You freeze, juggling the egg to keep from dropping it. This rabbit’s eyes are not visible behind the dark lenses on their face, but his entire head turns to focus on the egg.

“Now where, I wonder, did you get that?” he murmurs.

“From… myself? Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” you reply. You can’t extend a hand to shake, but you do nod to him.

This draws his attention to you. He cocks his head.

“They spoke,” he says. “And… my what advanced manufactured fabric they wear.”

You get a feeling he’s talking about you, but not to you. Still, you say, “Yes? They’re cheap but they’ll last.”

“What in the world language is that, though?”

At this point you realize that, although you can understand this rabbit, he’s not speaking English. Or Spanish. Or any Earth language that you might be able to recognize. What comes out of his mouth is a whispery language that, for some reason, you comprehend. Clearly, the understanding does not go both ways. Nevertheless, you keep talking, trying to deescalate the situation before it turns dangerous—more dangerous—than it is.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t speak your language. I don’t know why I can understand it, but you can’t understand me.” You start to raise your hands to show you’re unarmed and harmless, then remember the egg.

The rabbit looks at it again and then puts his hand to the door that just closed. It hisses open. He enters, leaving the entry wide. A few seconds pass without anything happening, and you start to get antsy. Every second spent here is another second you’re even further out of your depth than usual. At this point, you just want to curl up in bed, watch cartoons, and talk with Gillian and Jesús like you would if your life had remained as mundane as it was supposed to. You take a step or two back, checking around in case the featureless hallways decided to show you the path out since you last looked.

Suddenly, a high-pitched tone goes off, and an announcement comes over hidden loudspeakers, “Phalanxes —— through ——, report to the stern. Phalanxes —— through ——, to the small ships. Phalanxes —— through ——”

It went on and on, though you’re more fascinated with the words you don’t comprehend. You can hear all the whispery words, but some just… don’t translate, though you do understand the general intention. They’re organizational words, like numbers or using alphabet letters to denote groups. You’re so busy marveling that you don’t notice the rabbit come back until he’s wrapping his hand around your elbow and dragging you through the door.

“No, stop!”

You struggle, but you’re over the threshold before you can get too far. The door slides shut behind you, melding back into the wall. The rabbit releases you and you press your hand against the door, searching for a handle or button, but you find nothing. You’re stuck. There’s a tap on your shoulder, and you whirl around. The rabbit is closer than you wish they were. So close you can smell an awful combination of flowers and chocolate on each breath. Perhaps he’s eating some, as his jaw moves up and down.

“Speak,” he commands. “Come on, speak, please.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper. The egg isn’t hot enough to burn anymore, so you hold it close to your chest, as if it will protect you from harm. “I don’t know how I got here, I just want to go home, and I think—” You swallow to wet your dry throat. “I think I may have time travelled? Is this the past? I guess it would be the present for you. Is this even Earth?”

“Earth?” His ears perk up.

“You… understood that?”

He cocks his head again, brows furrowing. You might not have noticed if you hadn’t seen Bunny do the same thing countless times.

“You don’t—and I’m sorry to make assumptions,” you say. “But you don’t happen to know Bunny, do you? Or, oh what’s that full name he told me? Uh, E. Aster Bunnymund?”

That, the rabbit very much understands. “My student?” he asks. Then, he clears his throat and says slowly in English, “My student, yes? You ask about Bunnymund?”

“Yes.” You emphasize with a nod.

“Yes,” he repeats. He shifts in place awkwardly. Something ripples under his robe. “Keep speaking. I’m coming to understand better.”

You wrinkle your nose as a stronger chocolate smell wafts over, but in every other effort you strive to keep your expressions polite. He knows Bunny. That’s a half-decent start.

“Wait.”

He holds up his hand in front of your face and glances above your head, ears twitching. A second later, you hear the march of many, many people passing down the corridor. Your head spins at the idea of an army’s worth of anthropomorphic rabbits. You’ve never asked, and that’s your fault, but you always assumed Bunny was just a rabbit that wandered into a lot of magic one day. Or was the result of spontaneous generation via the unknowable forces of the universe. A weird existential dread overcomes you as you imagine an entire species—an entire race of these people.

What happened to them, you wonder. Supposing they’re anywhere near my w—

The rabbit shifts to the side as he continues to focus on the marching on the other side of the wall, revealing a small, mostly black circle on the other side of the small room. You slip past him and inch over to it. It’s a porthole, you realize, looking out into some dark area. As you get closer, you see several mostly white, glittering dots in the far distance. A shiver runs up your spine. They’re stars. Which means that the glimpse of blue you saw is a planet. And as you gaze out the porthole, your worst fear is confirmed when you see none other than the blue-green marble you call home placidly sitting in the void.

You inhale sharply and try to back up a step or two, but your legs give out. The rabbit catches you before you hit the floor, and he guides you over to a protrusion from the wall to sit down.

“Please,” he repeats again. “Speech. Speak to me. I need words.”

You barely register the words, turning over the fact that you’re in outer-fucking-space in your mind. As soon as he taps you, however, you just start rambling about whatever comes to mind first. As usual, this happens to be twentieth-century art movements, from the first overtures of the Impressionists to the Postmodernists and even a bit of the Anti-Gens in the 2020s. He sits there for minutes, just staring at you, though as you go on and on, he starts looking more and more confused. You talk until your mouth is dry and you’re too wound up to re-wet it, so you cough and let out a pathetic, “So, yeah. That’s art.”

“Good heavens,” he replies. Funnily enough, you think you detect a bit of a Southern drawl in there. “That is… certainly something to look forward to, I suppose.”

“So, you can just… speak my language now?”

“The magic in the chocolate I ate helps one make connections between vocabulary, grammar, and syntax. It’s much less invasive than most translation spells, and it gives an excuse to have a little treat.” Something shifts under his robes again, and he sighs. “Although for me… Pardon me for this, this is highly inconvenient.”

He pulls his sleeves off his shoulders and lets the robe hang where it’s tied around his waist. You jump. Another set of arms unfurls from his middle, joints creaking as the rabbit stretches them with a satisfied groan.

“Apologies again,” he says, massaging each joint. “My chocolate intolerance manifests in interesting ways.”

“I’ll say!”

“But to business: who are you and how have you come to be here—or I should ask, how have you come into possession of that?”

He points to the egg, finger coming almost close enough to touch the crack. In fact, he seems to trace it in the air. You clutch it a bit closer. Regardless of who knows who, regardless of how much you want to wash your hands of this item, you’re determined to keep it as safe as possible.

“I… gave it to myself,” you say carefully. “And then the other me shoved me through a mirror that apparently allows you to teleport.”

“Did that cause the crack?”

“I don’t know. I dropped it right before you saw me. I thought it might’ve been then.”

“Oh, it’s hardier than that,” the rabbit scoffs.

He crosses to another wall and lays his hand on it. A panel slides away, and he grabs a small sack. He reaches inside to his wrist, to his elbow, to his shoulder and rummages around it while you take a few extra breaths. Then, he gives a little “Aha!” and pulls out a long rod. It’s about his height, you think, until he draws out the other end. Perched atop the staff is the egg, pristine and unbroken like how it was at Gillian’s. The rabbit then proceeds to whack it against the wall a few times. You jump at the noise.

“See? That was the idea behind using stone to craft it instead of gears and metals. Fewer moving parts means fewer points of failure. Not that the council cared one lick. Here.”

He lowers the staff for you to see better. However, as it nears the other egg, both of them start to glow, and the cracked one gives off a spark. You thrust it away from you, and the rabbit yanks the staff back.

“Oh?” he says.

He moves the staff toward the egg again, much more slowly. The glows return, as does the sparking. You shake as you hold it as far away from you as possible without letting go. As the staff gets within mere centimeters, a spark travels from one to the other, and both of them stretch in a way that looks like they glitch. The rabbit pulls the staff back again.

“Oh,” he says.

“What? What was that?”

“They’re the same.”

“I can see that.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re the same item, just at different points in time. Due to their nature, however, and possibly because of the crack, they react to each other.”

You glance down at the egg. “Is that bad?”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t recommend running an experiment right now in these circumstances.” He sighs. “I think the best thing for you to do would be to return to your proper time and to refrain from using it too much.”

“No offense, I’d love to leave and go home, but I don’t know how to work this thing.”

“Hold it carefully and use your will to direct you to where and when you need to be,” they reply.

You almost say that’s easier said than done, but in this moment, all you want is to return to safety. So, you drop back into your breathing exercises from oracle training, finding that odd mindstate that feels like a waking dream. The egg starts to grow warm in your hands, distracting you from the task.

“Once more,” the rabbit says. And then, “Before you take off, how do you know my student?”

“He’s a Guardian,” you say. “He and a few others protect the world.”

He lets out a shaky exhale and tightens his grip on the staff. “So, he’s ranked up. Good for him. I don’t suppose he’s ever mentioned me? I gather we’ve never met before.”

“No, we haven’t. And, I’m sorry, but I don’t believe he has.”

“Hmm…” He seems to think over your answer. “I see. In that case, please give him my regards.”

You wait for him to say something more, but he just places his hand on the cracked egg. It glows again, and this time, the magic catches in your mind. It’s very similar to the sensation of a vision, but slightly to the left. Still magic. Still strange. But less wild and uncontrolled under their touch. Eventually, all you can see is a growing brightness around you which flattens the rabbit into just the very edges of his body. Before it overwhelms you, you swear he looks sad or disappointed. And by the time you realize you never got his name, you find yourself back in your apartment.

There’s a solid minute or so where you just stand there, holding the burning egg in your arms. When your mind catches up, you immediately toss it onto your bed. Thankfully, it’s not hot enough to catch fire, though your arms sting. You rush to the bathroom and hold your arms under cool water until the pain recedes. Long red streaks run from your hands to your elbows, but they look like they’re only first degree. No blisters, just pain. By then, exhaustion from the stress of the last few hours overwhelms you.

You ignore your comfy chair, however, and your bed, and force yourself over to the dresser. Pick up a petal. Call for help. Then and only then do you collapse on the windowsill and wait for Bunny to arrive.

You relay the story without verve, as if it was a mundane day in your life. As you get through the part with his teacher, he stiffens and one ear twitches rhythmically as they both press flat to his head. He squeezes his paws into tight fists, rigid at his sides. The young woman he brought with him even looks wary of him, though she glances between the two of you several times. She remains blessedly silent, not even asking any follow-up questions when you reach the end. You wonder who she even is to Bunny. Maybe another Guardian?

“And that’s it,” you finish weakly.

Your eyes start to blur. Blinking clears them only temporarily. The clock on your wall reveals that you’ve only been gone about three hours total, but it feels like you’ve been awake for a week.

“Lemme see your arms,” Bunny says.

“What?”

“Let me check the burns.”

The burns. You just gave him regards from his teacher from the past, regaled him with the worst afternoon you’ve ever had in your life thus far, and he’s skimming right past all that to order you to show him your burns.

“They’re fine,” you reply. “I know how to take care of them. Just take your stupid egg and go.”

“My magic can heal—”

“I don’t care!” you yell. The woman gives you a strange look, then glances between you and him again. “I don’t want you to look at them, I want you to get out of my house and stay out for at least a week!”

“A whole week?!” He untenses. “You still have training to do, we’re still on watch for the Stranger and trying to make sure your friend—”

“With all due respect,” you cut in. “If I had my druthers, I’d make it so that all this magic nonsense exited my life forever and I could go back to a normal, mundane existence. But unless you’ve got the resources and wherewithal to do that for me, I suppose the best I’m gonna get is a single, measly week to myself. I have a show to prepare for, I have a new partner I’d rather not lose so soon, and I am exhausted from the last two days combined. So, if you don’t mind.”

He looks like he does mind, but the woman steps in.

“This is doable for us,” she says. “We will not contact you for a week, though please understand why we will check in from a distance. Moreover, please do not hesitate to contact us if—”

“I’m not stupid,” you snap. “I know when something is out of my control and better off in the hands of the self-described experts.” You point to the egg in Bunny’s hands. “I don’t want to see this again. Please. Just one week of peace is all I ask.”

Bunny hesitates, confusion fighting anger and offense in his expression. But he tucks the egg away into a pouch on his bandolier and opens a tunnel in your floor. Before he drops down into it, he crosses to your dresser and produces another flower. Same color petals. He places it with the nearly plucked one, and with a final look he disappears down the hole. The woman mutters an apology and a goodbye, and you’re finally left alone.

Chapter Text

Mere hours later, Bunny and the others attend a debrief for The North Incident.

At least I’m not the one in the hot seat, he thinks. Not that he’s out from blame, either, but at least he’s there with Sandy and Skreeklavic as the key witnesses. None of them envy North’s position, though.

“So,” Katherine says, rubbing her eyes. “Upon hearing the news—summarized hastily by a third party, and not from the source itself—you immediately rushed back to the Pole to confront Skreeklavic.”

“Yes,” North mutters. “He is leader of werewolves.”

“But I am no traitor!” Skreeklavic growls. “Even now, with your atrocious hospitality, I am willing to help you.”

“We do not truly know!” North shouts back. The onlooking yetis and the rest of the Guardians all sigh. This is the third time they’ve raised their voices at each other, delaying everyone and everything else.

“All right, enough of that.”

Without warning, Ombric throws a handful of magic in North’s face. North sputters and tries to knock his mentor’s hands away but is once again held down in his chair by his own yetis. A few seconds later, once his coughing subsides, North glares at Ombric and opens and closes his mouth. But no sound comes out. North pauses, tries to shout again, and then looks at everyone with the look of a betrayed street dog.

“Calm down, Nicholas, it’s very temporary. You’ll be back to shouting in a few minutes. Now then,” Ombric turns his full attention to Bunny. “Let’s discuss the other poor decisions.”

“Uh, hang on, I stopped him from going off on Skreeklavic,” Bunny says, ears tensing back, leg starting to shake.

“You were, however, the one who rushed off to give him the news… after dumping the oracle in my classroom with nary a goodbye.”

“They had a vision—”

“Yes, they mentioned it, and its contents,” Ombric interrupts. "I even made mention of it to them before my daughter collected me from my home to help fend off the shadows. Which was far more difficult than it needed to be, in my humble opinion given that three of the people I expected to be there to help, were not.”

Bunny doesn’t think there’s anything humble about that opinion, or about Ombric really, but he pushes past his initial rebuttal. Instead, he says, “I came right back, and also you all seemed to have it under control. It wasn’t that many shadows, was it?”

Everyone grows strangely silent. All his friends and the yetis have skeptical looks on their faces. A warm flush of embarrassment runs through him as he realizes what he’s said.

“What I meant was—”

“Regardless of who had what under control, you must admit it’s a tad annoying to find a—shall we generously call it—a ‘routine’ operation hampered so severely,” Katherine says, pointedly laying a finger over her bruised cheek. “Moreover, you still have yet to answer my questions about the nature of the relationship between you and the oracle.”

Bunny sends out a silent wish to the universe for the earth to open up and swallow him. At least he would be in familiar company and away from the piqued interest of the yetis. They perk up, get interested sparks in their eyes and share excited looks.

“No. No, no, no!” He has to stop this now before it becomes the next hot topic on their notorious gossip grapevine. “It’s nothing, it’s purely—”

“Purely professional?” Katherine finishes, small smile on her face. “Could have fooled me.”

The yetis barely suppress their snickers, and Bunny looks to the rest of his friends for help. Tooth looks mildly contemplative, obviously unaware of his unvoiced plea, and Jack cocks his head thoughtfully while he fights a smirk. Beside Bunny, North is too preoccupied getting his voice back, and on his other side, Sandy frowns. Skreeklavic is the only one who looks downright offended.

“So, this oracle I’ve been told so much about is nothing more than your plaything?” he says.

The amusement stops.

“No,” Bunny replies. “Because nothing is happening between us except lessons for them to use their power. They have their own partner to go on their own dates or… do whatever they want to do with.”

“That being said,” Katherine adds, much to Bunny’s annoyance, “if anything were to pass between them, I assure you that Bunny has ample respect for others.”

Skreeklavic flashes his teeth. “For other immortals?”

“For anyone. Over the centuries, I have seen these people engage in several relationships with mortals—all consensual, all willing.”

Bunny reiterates his wish and is seconds away from attempting to fulfill it himself. Skreeklavic opens his mouth to snarl something else, but Sandy’s low voice interrupts him.

“Those facts aside, I would caution against any of us becoming too fond of the oracle. I’ve done my best to try and overcome my initial gut instinct, but after this incident, I cannot help but think there is some merit to my reluctance.”

The room quiets further, for the same reason Bunny was taken aback weeks ago.

“‘Gut instinct?’” Jack repeats. “That doesn’t sound like you. You like everyone. You trust everyone on principle.”

“Not everyone,” comes a voice from across the room. For the third time in ten minutes, Bunny wishes to disappear as Pitch walks over to their meeting. Katherine presses her mouth into a line and moves to the other side of Bunny, putting him between her and the former Boogeyman.

“Why are you here?” North says in a squeaky whisper. Pitch snorts.

“Oh, North… I’m sorry, but that’s really funny. Could I—” He turns to Ombric. “Could I get that spell?”

“No.”

“Ah, damn.”

“Kozmotis, why are you here?” Sandy asks.

“Well, I was trying to have that sparring session North has been cancelling for the last few weeks, but instead I find everyone gathered here for… arguing reasons, I can only assume. Don’t worry, I didn’t hear much.” He looks at Sandy. “Just enough that I felt the need to remind you that your gut instinct has been wrong before.”

Although Sandy and Pitch are on good terms, there’s always been an abrasiveness to their interactions. The reason being that Sandy knew Pitch had once been the much beloved Kozmotis Pitchiner, general of the Golden Age, renown for his tireless crusade against the darkness. When he turned, however, Sandy assumed the worst and neglected to tell the Guardians of the man’s past. Given the history Pitch ended up writing, including a swath of destruction through the Pookas, Bunny couldn’t care less what he had been before. Sandy’s issues were not his own, and the former boogeyman had gracefully accepted his low placement in Bunny’s opinions.

Sandy frowns at Pitch but doesn’t deny anything. “That is true, but I have had strong impulses before that led to correct assessments.”

Pitch looks at him for a second. “Tell me, Sanderson, is this ‘impulse’ more like acting on a memory?”

Sandy startles at that. “How—what—”

“Because he—” He points at North. “—said something during one of our sessions not long ago. In fact, I believe it was just after Easter, after he’d taken in the werewolf.” He nods at Skreeklavic and then focuses fully on North. “We take time to vent about our work as much as we spar, and I remember you say—oh, don’t worry, he never tells me specifics or numbers or detailed plans. He keeps all the Guardian-only information to himself, and I appreciate that. Anyway, he did mention something interesting:

“He said that although he has no reason to suspect anything, his belly was driving him in a direction of suspicion of his new guest. Moreover, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Santoff Claussen was in danger of invasion. It’s happened before. I would know…” Pitch clears his throat and continues. “My point is that he described it as a memory reawakening in him, too real to ignore, yet logically, he knows nothing of the sort has happened. What was this… ‘imagined’ premonition again? Post-monition?”

North coughs and clears his throat a few more times. When he speaks, he finally gets above a whisper. “That a pack of werewolves exploited the evacuation route and attacked the village during Easter party.”

Many things slot into place at once. North’s sudden urge to move the route, the growing obsession with the project, his inability to really trust Skreeklavic. Hell, Bunny now sees why he was out on the taiga the day he came across Skreeklavic and why his first impulse was to attack the man. From the look on the werewolf’s face, he realizes, too. Unlike Bunny and the rest of the Guardians, however, there’s no hint of sympathy about him.

“There was not an Easter party in that village,” Skreeklavic growls. “I believe you went to one in Bunnymund’s home in the hours after he finished his task. I was not invited; I was still under close observation.”

“I know!” North cries, voice breaking. He throws up his hands. “I know there is no reason to think this way. Yet… I have terrible feeling of truth deep in my belly. I know there is truth!”

“And I’m suffering for a mere hunch!” Skreeklavic flicks his eyes around the workshop. His fur stands on end. “Is this why I cannot wring any semblance of help from you all, no matter how much I plead? Because of gut feelings and false memories?”

“You know, if you want some resolution to the memory idea, I think there’s someone who can help.”

The room turns to Toothiana. She has a serene yet excited look on her face, one Bunny recognizes. So does Jack, as he stealthily removes himself from her path. She starts hovering towards the main knot of people.

“Ah, well,” Pitch says. “I’ve said my piece and I think I’ll be going.”

“I’ll pick thought your memories next week. Don’t be late,” she replies.

Pitch laughs through his nose once and disappears in a flash of silver. Tooth, meanwhile, picks her way over until she hovers in front of North, a much larger grin on her face. She cracks her knuckles.

“Ready?”

North tries to leap from his chair, but the yetis maintain their hold. Tooth hums as she forces his mouth open, animated and slightly manic. It’s not that they think she’ll hurt him—or any of them—when she does this. She’s just always very enthusiastic about exploring other people’s teeth, checking up on their health and the magic and memories within. If they’re not careful, suddenly they’ve been sat for hours, jaw sore from being held open as she divines their dental work.

“As usual, you’re very lucky you have the healing factor, or else I think you’d have fewer of these,” Tooth mutters. “You already lost a number of permanent ones in your youth, so take care of these.”

Ombric clears his throat. Tooth raises her head and tilts her ear to him.

“I’m not taking critique right now.”

“Toothiana, please, we are still on a tight schedule. The vision may be what started this kerfuffle, but it is still a premonition of an attack here.”

“All right,” she sighs. She returns to her prodding, albeit in a more focused way. “All right, since it’s about Easter, we’ll start in short-term.”

An aura of magic rises, a haze like heat in a desert surrounding North’s head. Tooth closes her eyes and shifts her fingers around a bit, humming here and there. All of a sudden, the haze thickens until it looks jelly-like, and both North and Tooth seize up. A smell of nostalgia wafts over to Bunny—for him, a bewilderingly comforting mix of sanitary corridors, fresh greenery, and burnt chocolate. It covers the others as well; Katherine slowly leans against Ombric, and he reaches his arm around her shoulders.

Tooth and North sit like that for a solid minute, and then the haze dissipates, taking the smells with it. Both exhale sharp gasps. A mini-fairy guides Tooth’s hands back to her sides and then her back to her seat. The yetis release North, who champs his teeth and rubs his neck, blinking rapidly.

“Well, I’ll be,” Tooth says. “That’s a true memory.”

The atmosphere of the room shifts.

“What do you mean a ‘true memory?’” Skreeklavic asks, ears flicking anxiously. “It cannot be true. Surely it was altered or falsified.”

“Changed memories leave a mark or a blip at the splice. False memories are uncanny and disorienting. I’ve had plenty of practice retrieving lost true memories this last decade thanks to Kozmotis, so I assure you, I know the difference.”

“So, you’re saying that Santoff Claussen was attacked.”

“Yes, exactly as North said.”

North shakes his head. “Except it wasn’t.”

“Bunny,” Tooth says,” you remember the human tooth my girls retrieved from the werewolf village? How it contained a memory from the future? This felt like that.”

Bunny takes a moment to digest the revelation. Everyone does, including North and Skreeklavic. This whole busted time thing is starting to become too much, too dangerous. He still hasn’t even told them about the fact that Gillian knows of their active presence.

Do they need to know right now? he wonders. After all, we’re still just interacting with the oracle, not using them for any other espionage.

Skreeklavic eventually speaks up. “In your memory, was I party to the invading force?”

North shakes his head. “This memory is a bit scattered, but I see now that you were friend to us. Trying to help.” He looks up, genuinely contrite. “I apologize for my mistrust. True memory or not, it is not fair to assume the worst.”

“Thank you,” Skreeklavic says. “I still have my criticisms of how this is being handled, but I can now understand where your antagonism came from. There is still much to do, however.”

“Agreed.”

Not long after that, the meeting breaks up. Skreeklavic heads back to his room, though there is an air of temporariness to his continued stay. Bunny doesn’t blame him. After everything, even with one mystery being solved, there’s still a lot of ill will built up. North heads off with Katherine, Ombric, and the yetis to see what preparations they have made for the attack to come. Before he tunnels home and Tooth flies away, however, Sandy calls her.

“If North’s memory was true, then there is reason to believe mine might be,” he says. “Could you please check?”

She doesn’t hesitate. After another few minutes, they emerge from the memory. Sandy looks like he’s torn between triumph and resignation.

“As I thought,” he says. “I have a true memory of the oracle doing something terrible with the artifact.”

Bunny runs cold for a second, but Toothiana replies with, “Technically, all we saw was that the oracle had the artifact in their hands in some part of Big Root. It was too bright to see where they specifically were and what they were doing.”

“The egg was sparking.”

Bunny remembers the oracle’s story a few hours ago, how the artifact had grown warm and sparked in their grasp before they were deposited into—

“But you don’t know if they were the cause of it?” he asks.

Sandy’s vindication deflates. “No. Just the bare facts of the scenario. I do distinctly remember that something was terribly wrong, however.”

Despite knowing he’ll pay for this later, Bunny opts not to inform the two of them that sometime in the future, the oracle will, in fact, come back to break the time mirror. If they hear it from Katherine or Ombric, they can come after him themselves. He’s already been exiled from their life for a week, there’s no reason to make it worse on them. So, he makes his goodbyes and starts back for the Warren.

He sits himself at a table and turns the artifact over in his hands, leg bouncing. He’s bumped up against yet another wall. He has the original back, crack and all. So what? Where does this get him? It’s too dangerous and unstable to use as a counter to whatever the Stranger’s having Gillian do, but that leaves them without any means of their own, with the mirror out of commission.

Maybe we can use the other shards to our advantage, he thinks, remembering how the shard the oracle swung around made the air feel like it was cutting the atoms of time and space itself. Made him vibrate with it, not to mention how they comported themself. It was like when they were drunk, but truer; what had intrigued him the other night now felt like a mean tease to who they really are. A full blossoming rather than a hesitant budding. Now, it’s sealed itself closed. Who knows when they’ll feel comfortable like that again. A shame. They looked so… So…

Bunny hurriedly starts making rounds through the Warren to shake out his energy. Almost by accident, he find himself in the experimental garden, wandering between the various magical flora Calymma cultivated long ago. He takes a deep breath, contemplating the message given across time. To think the oracle had been there and then. To think they’d run across his mentor.

“So, he ranked up.”

Try as he might, he can’t unstick the quote from his mind. The oracle had relayed it like the rest of their story: neutrally, blandly, a little spitefully.

What if that was how he said it, though? Did he think I forgot him? Forgot how awful the hierarchy was?

A twig snaps underfoot, and he looks up. He’s arrived at the Yggsbark tree. Unlike most trees on Earth, Yggsbark most often resembles a dry, dead trunk devoid of branches and leaves. It’s thriving. Yggsbark is native to the Pooka homeworld and has been a key material over the course of their history. Even after the pivot to mechanics, there were still some things made from its dense, resilient wood, such as weapons. It grew fast in its native habitat, especially after blooming season. Unfortunately, on this planet, it takes much more effort to keep it growing. This particular one hasn’t bloomed in near three centuries, which is frustrating for Bunny because one of his twin boomerangs was destroyed a decade ago. He’s made do with just the one, but peacetime is always easier to handle with less physical force. With things spiraling as they are, he’s staring to feel like he’s missing an arm.

“I think I may have a way to make this bloom more frequently.” Calymma’s words suddenly manifest in Bunny’s mind, a long-lost conversation returning—and immediately disappearing again, solution gone.

Bunny’s teeth squeak as they grind together. The sounds makes hm relax his jaw and take in another deep breath. He does an about face. He calmly walks back through the experimental garden. He pauses at the boundary. Then, he drops to all fours, opening a tunnel and racing through it.

Wasting time again. Need to get back on track. If we don’t have the mirror, can’t use the cracked artifact, then we need the uncracked one. Stupid of us to let it alone so long. Need to move on, move forward, take away this being’s ability to mess around with time. They’ll thank me later.

He emerges on the roof across from Gillian’s home, ready to give it one more short stakeout and burrow in the next time he leaves the room. But when he looks up to focus on the window to the man’s room, he freezes.

It’s gone. The building isn’t there anymore.

No, wait… Bunny squeezes his eyes shut for a full ten seconds and then rapidly blinks. In the split-second strobing images, the building returns. When he holds his eyes open, they slide right off the bricks as if it weren’t ever there. But it is. Bunny swallows. He prefers to see where he’s tunneling if it’s not a familiar destination, but this calls for drastic measures. He dives in.

And a force not only knocks the wind out of him, it bounces him out onto the sidewalk. He stumbles into the street, disorientation mixing with shivers as human after human walks through him. He presses himself against the windows of a store across the street to steady himself. As he catches his breath, he squints in the direction he knows this damn building is in. But it’s like his mind can’t grasp onto the reality of knowing anymore. It becomes so uncomfortable that he turns around to rest his eyes.

In the sagging glass of the window, however, he sees the translucent reflection of the missing building. It wavers and takes effort to see, but it’s more stable than looking. A white rectangle catches his attention. It looks like a piece of paper pasted on the wall with a shape scribbled on it.

Oh. He recognizes it. Oh fuck.

It’s a warding rune. A strong one. Gillian has locked him out.

Chapter Text

You start your week by forcibly finding enough strength to haul yourself out of bed, find some food, and wash away the worries of the previous few days in the shower. You’ve tried meditation before, many times, but never have you understood the nebulous phrase “When a thought comes in, just push it away” until now. Thoughts of the last few days sweep in, and you throw up a metaphorical wall of anything else to crowd them out. It takes some effort, but you’re determined that they will not reach you. This week will be about anything else.

Coming out of the shower, you nearly trip over one of your larger paintings, kicking up a few motes of dust that had settled on the thin edge of the canvas. Excitement starts to rebuild in your heart as you look over this and the other paintings strewn about the apartment. Soon. The show is mere weeks away. You just need to touch everything up, figure out how to arrange them, and get whatever paperwork you need for promo material info. What little promo material they’ll be able to scrounge up, anyway. Nirupama can let you know on one of your next shifts, all of which are clumped at the end of the week.

Today will be about re-centering, re-defining, re-prioritizing. Remembering what life has to offer outside of—No, no worth thinking about.

You send away a pang of guilt and nervousness and assess your art. The ones not part of the Ava-vlog are a bit shabbier than you remember them being, but that’s what happens when they sit outside of a protective portfolio for three years. You spend the next few hours going over each one, clearing away any dust and evaluating if it’s even worth going into a show collection.

Most are fine and just need a bit of dusting to bring the bright colors and textures back. One of them, however, makes you worry. It’s been directly leaned up against the wall, on the paint side no less, and at first it sticks in place. After a few minutes of careful tugging, it cracks away from the wall. When you turn it around, you cringe.

Blotches of waxy, brown discoloration cover the entire thing. You had tried a new sealant recipe with this one because you’d been weirdly proud of it. You’re not sure why; the composition is a clumsy experimental combination of hierarchy of scale with one-, two-, and three-point perspective. Your perspective guidelines moved a lot, so the building-like figures and other geometrical shapes are wonky, to say nothing of the humans you tried to add. Still, it is a complete painting and could help fill in some space. You know, if not for how disgusting it looks.

You go to scrape away some of the waxy layer with your fingernail, only for Gillian’s voice to rip through your mind, yelling about botched restorations or degradation due to finger oils. Then, you realize.

If anyone can help get this show-ready, it’s him.

You start texting him but hesitate. Though you want—need—his expertise, you have a feeling in this direction layeth more magic nonsense, this time from the other side. But you miss him. You miss your best friend so much. For many reasons, you regret getting yourself into this mess, though you also must remind yourself that, technically, you never asked for any of it. Agreed when pressed, sure, but first Gillian and then Bunny—

No, enough of this. You miss your friend, you need his help, and if that means gritting your teeth and bearing his lecture on all of this, you’ll do it. What’s one more new mental compartment to fill? You finish the text and send it before you can talk yourself out of it. His reply comes back so fast, you think he may have been hovering over his phone, waiting for you to contact him. Or trying to compose something first. Of course, he’s happy to help, he says, though he insists on doing it over at his place rather than yours. That seems slightly odd, but you chalk it up to him having the supplies and possibly not wanting to leave the time egg alone.

You spend the next hour going through the rest of the paintings and sorting them into either yeses or no’s. You get in the groove of the action, downright enjoying yourself, when all that screeches to a halt as you pick up one of the Ana-vlogs. The one with your high school monster. And Mothman. And a rabbit. You stare at the rabbit specifically. It’s just a silhouette—to match the usual depiction of Mothman—and you chew on the inside of your cheek, stealing one glance at the new flower he left you the previous night. Eventually, you store all the no’s away properly so they can (more slowly) degrade in the back of the closet.

The Ana-vlog goes back to leaning against the wall. It’s still one of your more interesting compositions. You rest your mind from everything by calling Jesús to make a date and chat until it’s time to meet Gill.

You trundle down the street with the canvas. Gillian meets you at the entrance and as he shuts the door behind you, you notice a paper off to the side flap up with the breeze. There’s something drawn on it, but he ushers you inside too quickly for you to see what it is exactly.

“Slap it up here,” he says, patting the kitchen counter. He puts out some food for y’all to munch on, and then spends a minute or so looking at the canvas. And then a few more minutes. “Hmm…”

“Can you save it?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s a bit of mold. Won't be that hard to bring it back, don’t worry.” He tilts his head side to side a few times, turning the canvas the opposite way at the same time. “I don’t think I’ve seen this one before.”

“Yeah, it’s just gonna be some wall filler for the show.” You wave your hand to indicate that he shouldn’t worry too hard. “I figure the colors will be enough to satisfy people until they get to the next one.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, this is nice!” he says as he gets to work.

You two chat over the next hour, mostly about art and a rundown of your date with Jesús. Despite how tiring everything was that came after, recounting the date comes easily and even re-excites you about everything.

“And we’re going to a show later tonight, and then they wanted to see about meeting up tomorrow as well.”

Gillian clears up the used q-tips, rubbing alcohol, and other cleaning solution. “Neat. Let’s let this sit for now. Then I’ll go in and see if the varnish itself needs any work. In the meantime…” He gestures to his room.

“We can’t talk out here?” you ask.

At that moment, a toilet flushes loudly, and Gillian’s dad walks into the kitchen. He greets you with a warm smile and starts getting himself a late breakfast. Gillian’s mom comes down not long after, and soon enough, the both of them are crawling around each other, filling up all available counter space. You dive in and rescue your painting before they can accidentally drop jam or crumbs on it, and gently place it on the least-used chair in the living room. As you come back to the kitchen, you watch Gillian’s parents. He looks on with a mild expression, but you love watching them interact. Right now, they’re having a small word game, trying to see who can say “bless their heart” with the twangiest, drawliest, most over-pronounced Southern accent. His mother leans her chin over his father’s shoulder, easily hanging off of him and becoming part of him at once. It’s sweet, and it makes you ache for that kind of easy closeness. It also makes you run a little hot for a second as you imagine yourself in the scenario, partner holding you from behind.

Gillian catches your eye and nods to his room. This time, you follow him, listening to his parents chatter and laugh until the closed door cuts them off.

“They’re so cute,” you say.

He shrugs. “Yeah, they are. Granted, sometimes I just want them to chill out, but it brings good energy.”

You sit across from him, desperately trying not to stare at the bag on his desk, the one holding the—

Actually, you look at it. Recognize it. It’s the same bag the other you shoved into your arms, but this one hasn’t ripped. Gillian lays a hand on the bag suddenly, making you jump.

“So,” he begins. He draws out the time egg, whole and pristine. “About… about magic—”

“Mm-hm?”

“You remember how I said you’re an oracle, right? You can see the future.”

“Yeah,” you say. He perks up a little, interested. “They’ve been popping up a lot since the first time you told me that weeks ago. Very… strange. But I can’t really deny them.” He nods. You nod. “You said you had a friend who wanted to see what I could do?”

“Yeah, it, um, it’s a very powerful being. Not a true immortal, though! It assured me of that. Although…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Not important.”

“What do you mean ‘true immortal?’” This, you’ve never heard before. “Last time we talked about this, you were talking about faeries and werewolves.”

“Oh, well, they’re real! Definitely real. But there’s different kinds. Cryptids, for one thing—”

“Like Mothman.”

“Or Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster. Anyway, they’re very long-lived, but mortal just like us.”

“Oh,” you say. “So, how many Bigfoots have there been?”

“Well, it’s not, like, a hereditary position or anything. There are different family groups of them, like sasquatches or skunk apes or—”

“Yetis?”

Gillian snaps his gaze to you, and you regret saying anything. He would know, wouldn’t he, that Santa Claus allegedly has a horde of yetis at his beck and call. You try to look as bewildered as possible.

“That’s the other main one, right? Yetis? The snow Bigfoots?”

He regards you for a moment, then nods. You might be getting better at lying, or at least better at diverting the truth. Besides, it’s not like he has any proof you know what you know.

Does he?

“Anyway, yeah. So these types of being, like I said, are mortal, but they often live much longer than humans. But, they’re not the only magical-ish things out there.”

“There’s ‘true immortals,’” you say. He nods. “What’s the difference?”

“The major difference is like the difference between Tolkein’s elves and the Valar. That being said, even true immortals can die.”

You have a visceral reaction to that, so sudden that you can’t even try to hide it. But it seems to encourage Gillian. Fire sparks in his eyes and he leans forward in his seat. You, meanwhile, try not to think about dead Guardians.

“Can they?” you say.

“Well, it’s less death and like… becoming so forgotten they don’t exist in a meaningful way anymore. See, true immortals are more like concepts, and they thrive on those concepts, even controlling them.

“But! They can only become so powerful by themselves. If they want to become even more powerful and really control their domain, then they need… Believers.”

Gillian pauses, allowing you to digest all that. You make as good a show of it as you can, but this is hardly new information. That was the intro speech you got about Bunny, et al, albeit a little glossed over and contracted. Not to mention that belief, if not faith, is a key feature in stories about them.

“What if they don’t find any?” you ask. “It sounds like they don’t need them to just exist.”

“True, they don’t, but finding even one means their power grows exponentially. If word spreads, they can become near-godlike. Powerful enough to influence the world.”

“So what?” You say it before you can think about it. Hurt washes across his face, then horror. You rush to clarify, “If all it takes is some belief, then what’s the difference between them and a religion? So long as they’re not harming—”

“We’re not just talking about regular belief. This is capital-B Belief, one of the purest, most primal forms of magic. And they take it from us for their own agenda!”

He looks ready to burst into flames from passion or mania. He grips the egg so tightly that if you hadn’t seen the other rabbit bang it against a metal wall, you’d be afraid of its integrity. Seems the uncracked version is much less fragile, regardless of time period. After a second, Gillian relaxes.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s just that, my Friend showed me what’s possible if humans weren’t giving it all up to them. Humans used to be more magical, you know. Just look at history.”

“How do you get people to stop Believing in something, though? Moreover, how does that even kill them?”

“It at the very least depowers them. And if they’d been relying on all that Belief to exist, then they collapse. They might return every so often, but only as long as one person really and truly Believes to their core.”

“But how do you get people to stop believing like that?” you repeat.

Gillian opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He deflates and sits back in his chair. “The plan so far has been to get the truth out to as many people as possible. Still kind of working on it, but my Friend is leading the charge. The true immortals have great PR and even people who don’t necessarily Believe can contribute to it by condoning others’ Belief. Usually because they don’t understand the consequences of ceding that sort of magic rather than harnessing it for themselves.”

You take a deep breath. “So where do I come in?”

“My Friend most wants—hopes that you can foresee any incoming attacks on the werewolves. Give us a leg up on our mission. This is, admittedly, a very long-term thing, possibly years in the making, especially given who and what we’re fighting.”

You swallow an objection that you haven’t agreed to help yet. Better to play along for now. You just nod.

“Where does the time egg come in?”

Gillian shrugs. “Gives us another way to fight back and takes away another means for them to keep themselves afloat. Time travel doesn’t necessarily stick. It’s malleable, sort of. Some things wrinkle up, though, and kind of reappear down the road as the timeline tries to smooth it all out. Bigger events are harder to deal with, but not impossible…”

You keep nodding as Gillian rambles on, not quite sure you understand the mechanics of it. Not quite sure he does, either. Regardless, after he’s done, he asks if you mind trying to bring on a vision right there. It amounts to a simple breathing exercise, likely one right out his New Age newsletters that’s probably three times removed from a psychiatric newsletter. It’s similar enough to what Ombric instructs that you easily slip into a state. Your mind starts to catch on something, but you shove it away. Not this week, not right now.

After an hour, Gillian calls it and y’all return to the kitchen to finish cleaning the painting. By now, his parents are down in the bar prepping for opening. The bangs of pots and pans echo up the stairs and through the open door, as do the smells of biscuits and sausage gravy.

“You don’t have to stick around, this is still gonna take a while,” Gillian suddenly says.

“I don’t mind,” you say.

He gives you a look. “You’re going to a show tonight, right?”

“Yes.”

“Y’all meeting up for dinner beforehand?”

“Maybe a small meal—”

“Knowing you, you’ll need the rest of the day to choose what to wear and keep yourself hyped up enough so that you don’t second-guess yourself.”

Your mouth drops open at the accurate read and Gillian laughs.

“I’ve seen you like this before. ‘Sokay, go on. I’ll get this ready for you for tomorrow or the day after.”

You check one more time to make sure he really is okay, and then gather yourself up to go. He walks you to the door and gives you a hug.

“Keep trying,” he whispers in your ear. “If we all work together, then I know we can free humanity and change the world.”

Jesús takes you to the one hundredth anniversary revival of Hadestown. From everything you’ve heard, tickets have been sold out for the next seventy-five performances, matinees and evening shows alike. When asked how in the world they got tickets, Jesús just smiles, shrugs, and says that they know the right people.

Orpheus and Eurydice circle and chase each other, get into communication blocks and reject each other. It’s a struggle told over and over in the show, and as the songs say, over and over each day. You know how the story ends; you’ve known since you studied some of the Ancient Greek myths over the course of your literature classes in school. And yet, despite everything, by the end of the show you can’t help but gasp when Orpheus turns around at the exit, can’t help but cry with Eurydice as she returns to Hadestown, can’t help but mourn with Hermes and the chorus as they sing the final reprise. Jesús drapes their arm around you and holds you close throughout act two, and you lean into them as they guide you from the theater and into the softly lit Times Square. You find a spot on a bench to decompress.

“What a show,” you finally say. “So tragic, though.”

“You think it’s tragic?” Jesús looks at you.

“Yeah, of course. They’re doomed to meeting and falling in love and being separated and then, just as they’re about to conquer the odds, Orpheus falters. And they’re separated again. Forever.”

“Not for forever,” they say. “They’ll go through it all again. And again and again and again.”

“Yeah, that’s the tragic part. Always finding each other, but never able to be together.”

“But they can learn. Grow stronger.”

You look at Jesús, confused. “I… I’m not sure that’s what the play’s about.”

They cock their head and then lightly brush a bit of your hair out of your face. Their fingertips graze your cheek, and you involuntarily shiver, goosebumps appearing in the wake of the touch. They let out a small hum.

“Orpheus and Eurydice are not the only ones stuck in the loop, though. The gods are, too, as are the gods’ issues. They will play out parallel to the humans over and over again, no respite for any of them. Yet, the show will never be the same twice. The actors will always bring any lessons they learned from previous performances into the next ones, as will the crew and producers. Small tweaks will appear, seemingly out of nowhere to the characters, but they’ll be powerless to stop the changes. Incidentally, that means they’ll accumulate the changes, even if they’re unsure of where the knowledge comes from.”

Jesús’ grasp tenses and pulls you closer. You listen to them go on and on, trying to keep up. It’s not uninteresting, but it seems to be missing a few steps of analysis. Or maybe you’re missing the analysis. You’re an artist, not a literary academic, so you do your best.

“At the end of it all, the gods are doomed to be distracted by their own problems, and thus, the main characters have a chance to interrupt their fates, if only they were intelligent enough to take advantage of that chance, then they could ascend out from the narrative's trap.”

The intensity with which they speak abruptly ends with their final sentence. They relax their arm around your shoulder and soften their face from focused concentration.

“That’s…” You search for something to say to that. “That’s an interesting interpretation. If you expand it, you might have a dissertation-worthy thesis.”

“Come home with me,” they suddenly say, lilting the words into the tune from the show song. You flush instantly.

“What?”

“Come on a trip with me,” they say instead, smiling. “Have you ever been to Eastern Europe?”

“That’s a little sudden, don’t you think?” you say weakly. “We’ve barely known each other for a month.”

“It feels longer. To me.”

“In a good way?”

“I feel very confident about this.” They stand, bringing you with them, and start heading in the direction of the train. “I know you don’t, but I want to show you all sorts of things, broaden your horizons. It would mean a lot to me.”

They slip their arm around your waist and gently pet over your ribs. The sensation is barely there, yet too noticeable to ignore in this proximity. Your mind races, trying to sort through everything, eventually latching on to the fact that they think you have no confidence in this partnership. You did say that didn’t you? Or imply it? A few days ago. No, you meant that starting new things activated the part of you that wanted to run. You’ve spent a decent chunk of your life fighting against that impulse. Before now, you thought you had even mastered it. But this is still only your second date, and your first was two days ago, give or take a few extra hours.

“I think I’d like to,” you say. They brighten and kiss your temple. “But can it be two months from now? Or three? I have a show coming up that I need to get ready for.”

Jesús sighs through their nose but doesn’t argue. Nor do they pull their arm away from you for the entirety of the train ride, which you spend trying to tamp down the beginnings of a panic spiral. The last few weeks have been one right after the other, especially after you reduced your medication. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider that one. Still, you’re not being unreasonable, right? A big international trip after barely a month of knowing someone and two dates? Statistically speaking, it’s happened a few times, and surely not all of them ended badly, right?

“Goodnight.”

Jesús’ arm drops from around you, and they turn to leave. You notice now that you’re in front of your building.

“Wait!” You grab their elbow before they get too far. You have to prove something to them now. You pull them back and crash your face into theirs so hard your teeth cut into your inside lip.

But the clumsy kiss is enough, apparently. Jesús hesitates for a second and then shifts so that they can correct their head position. You pull back quickly to keep from coming off as overbearing and aggressive. Luckily, they have a smile when you see their full face again.

“The trip sounds lovely, but I really need to stay for at least another month. Long enough for the show opening, and then I’ll let everyone know I’ll be out for a bit.”

“Marvelous,” they reply. “I’ll start making the preliminary plans.”

They leave and you make your way upstairs where you just manage to change into sleepwear and then fall into bed. It takes another hour before you finish trembling out the nerves built up from such a bold, desperate move.

Hopefully the rest of the week goes better.

Chapter Text

In a way, the oracle asking for an away week is a blessing in disguise. Now, Bunny’s able to help shore up the North Pole’s defenses, as well as enact some sort of penance for causing trouble. Maybe, also, if he hangs around, he can snuff out the rising gossip tide.

Until he realizes he’s making it worse. No matter what corner of the Pole he goes to, whispers follow. Yetis, especially the younger ones, peek at him around the corners. They’re not subtle, though he doesn’t think they’re not trying to be.

After finding out about North’s impossible true memory, some of the tension between him and Skreeklavic have, thankfully, faded. The trust is irrevocably shattered, but they’re back to having semi-civil, professional conversations. But, after the fifth time North asks Bunny to deliver a message to the werewolf in two days, he cottons on that he’s now unofficially in charge of placating North’s guest.

“It’s cause we’re both animals, isn’t it?” he says to North.

“No! No, no—”

“Calm down, I know it’s not. What’ve ya got for him?”

Bunny shows Skreeklavic photos of the various fronts they’ve set up. He gives some input, but mostly nods and hums appreciatively and asks simple questions. They both know that he has little to offer if he wants something changed.

“Why do they stand with him so fiercely?” Skreeklavic asks suddenly. Bunny looks in the same direction, which is out the window to a crowd of yetis milling about. “Do they have leverage over him? Are there simply too many of them to fight against?”

The unsaid question, Bunny realizes, is, “Why are they loyal to North when they are not true immortals themselves?” He bristles at the implied slander.

“They’ve built up centuries of good will and trust between them because he’s not actually an unreasonable man. Too cocky with a bit of an ego, yeah, but those flaws don’t consume his personality.”

“Well, good for the yetis for achieving such a rare and privileged position,” Skreeklavic huffs. Almost as quickly, he sighs and shakes his head. “I suppose that’s not entirely fair, given the circumstances.”

“It’s not unfair,” Bunny concedes.

The wolfman’s perpetually raised hackles flatten a degree or two and one of his ears flicks toward Bunny.

“Do you have any…” He waves a hand at the yetis. “Companions of your own?”

“What? Oh, no. I have a bunch of enchanted stones eggs my late mentor created. They’re constantly underfoot and they don’t do much, but I can’t get anything done without ‘em.”

“Have you ever considered employing others?”

Bunny tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Are you volunteering?”

“No!” comes the expected response, drowning in disgust. “But you clearly approve of such things, and if the talk around here is anything to go by the lot of you even draw humans—”

This time, Bunny doesn’t rein in his annoyance. “All the ‘talk’ ‘round here is just hot air, no matter if it comes from the yetis or not! I’m not involved with the oracle beyond helping with their training so we can get our own advantage over the Stranger!”

As he yells, he gestures wildly and knocks over a tea tray. The hot liquid splatters over the rug on the floor, and fruity, flowery fumes blast back up into their faces. They both take a few moments to sneeze and cough as the strong smells dissipate. Bunny immediately bends down to scoop up the cups and leaking teapot. Skreeklavic shuffles away from him, hackles raised yet again, eyes firmly locked onto Bunny. Thankfully, the tension leaks out of him, and he mutters, “Sorry, sorry, that was an overreaction.” Still, he still stands on the other side of the room, lip curling just enough to show the tip of a canine.

“Sorry,” Bunny says again. “I’ve just gotten a little tired of all this. Once the yetis get ahold of some juicy gossip, it takes a miracle for them to let go of it.”

“While I’m relieved you have the restraint not to toy with them, bodily and emotionally—” Bunny nearly drops one of the cups. “—You do realize that your distinction for the oracle as a ‘tool’ still does not overly assure me?”

He opens his mouth to argue. He doesn’t view them that way! Of course they’re more than just a tool for them! He respects them and all—well, most—humans! He…

The light touch of their hands on his face. The intense look in their eyes as they reassured him of what they were about to do. The admonishment for (rightly) worrying.

He closes his mouth. Skreeklavic gives him a withering stare until something occurs to him.

“Y’know, to humans, you’re an all-powerful immortal, too,” he says. A thin, brittle straw to grasp at, but he takes the chance. “You outlive them by at least twice and have a deeper understanding of and control over magic. It would be just as well they distrust you as much as us.”

“Perhaps,” Skreeklavic growls. “I, however, am not dependent on their borrowed power and faith. If anything, I find a mortal kinship with them. We can move amongst them where you cannot without having already established your influence.”

“Yeah, that’s part of the problem with the Stranger, isn’t it? It’s one of you, able to walk around with—” Bunny pauses. He nibbles on a claw as some dots connect. “You and the Stranger are physical enough to be seen by humans by default.”

“What are you suggesting with that tone?”

“If you can interact with the world on a mortal level, can you get around certain wards?”

A few explanations later, Bunny sneaks Skreeklavic out of the Pole. He’d rather not have to explain his other shortcomings to the other Guardians just yet. They drop out onto a roof adjacent to Gillian’s building, though not the same one as the stakeout, not yet; as visibility on his room isn’t important for the first part. As soon as they exit, Skreeklavic takes a deep breath, nose twitching as he inhales all the overlapping scents in the air. His ears swivel in every direction, and he winces slightly. New York can be extremely overwhelming if you’re not used to big cities, especially in the daytime when most of the business takes place. Nevertheless, Bunny pretends he doesn’t see the man’s tail wagging.

“All right,” he says once Skreeklavic settles down. “So, can you see the bar on the corner?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Can you see the rest of the building above it?”

“Yes.” He squints and leans over the ledge. “There are several papers pasted all over it. They seem to have an odd symbol on them, but I can’t…”

“It’s a warding rune,” Bunny says. “I can’t see the building except in a reflection—barely. Can’t enter it, either.” He then moves them to the rooftop across from Gillian’s room. “You see the windows over to the right before the alley? That’s where the human sleeps and where he’s got the artifact.”

Skreeklavic looks, and then flattens himself against the roof. Bunny’s about to ask him what’s wrong when he grabs his arm and pulls him down against the roof as well.

“He’s in there,” Skreeklavic hisses. “I don’t think he’s seen us, however.”

Internally, Bunny screams in relief, as he hadn’t thought about how he could no longer tell if he’s being watched. In light of this, he immediately escorts them several streets away. In an impulsive attempt at goodwill, he ducks into a quick service restaurant and grabs two sausages in buns. He holds one out to Skreeklavic, who scowls.

“Did you really just steal that?” he says.

Bunny is three seconds away from kicking his face in, but instead he summons one of his eggs and instructs it to bring him some of his reserved gold. A few minutes later, he slips a whole gram into the cash register, knowing he’s overpaying by a lot. With any luck, the humans can reinvest their surplus. He thrusts the sausage back at Skreeklavic.

“Take it now?”

He sniffs it a few times before cautiously handling it. One tentative bite, and then another, and then he relaxes. Bunny chews and thinks about how and when to finally retrieve the damn artifact. He watches the people down on the street stream by, marching by foot or mobility aid, by autonomous rickshaw, by bike, and occasionally by automobile. From this far away, they scurry like insects, and it’s easy to imagine them queueing up and down a myriad of tunnels, picking up and putting down parcels or food. Just moving without much real direction, mindless—

A queasy feeling builds in his stomach at the thought. It’s an unfair notion, though an easy one to entertain. Easy, however, does not always necessarily translate to “correct.” If anything, the easy route is more often than not the worst route to take. He glances at Skreeklavic, who runs his tongue over his muzzle several times, clearly enjoying the dregs of a savory meal. Bunny tries to relax with him, but his leg starts bouncing on its own as he tries to plan out the next five moves, as if reality were a predictable game of chess.

“Why ask me?” Skreeklavic suddenly asks.

“Hm?”

“Why ask me to circumvent the ward? Our mutual opponent is friends with the oracle, is he not? Why not them?”

Bunny’s ears slump against his neck. “Cause I think taking the artifact back sooner than later will help us in the long run. And…” He sighs, “the oracle requested a week to themself. So I can’t actually ask them to rob their friend or persuade them that doing so is, in fact, for the best.”

“And you’re honoring the request.” A statement, not a question. Bunny shrugs, and Skreeklavic says, “Wouldn’t it be easier to force them—”

“Do ya want me to respect mortals or not?!” Bunny cries. “Yes it would be easier to force them, but one: I don’t want to, two: I don’t need to, and three: it in no way benefits me to treat humans this way. I know you don’t like us, don’t blame ya, but fact is, we need humans more than they need us. Plenty of immortals have few or even zero Believers, and they do just fine.

“However, we are given shape and meaning by mortals. I am given shape and meaning by mortals. And my way of saying thank you, returning the gesture, is to—at least once a year—remind people that despite everything, the sun will rise tomorrow. And that, despite everything, tomorrow is worth fighting for.”

He shoves the rest of his sausage in his mouth and stares at the neighborhood. It’s funny; if he were in the middle of the Easter run, he could find his way from point A to point B no problem. Outside of that, the streets are completely unnavigable to him. There are exactly two places he truly knows in this city, both of which he’s currently barred from. Only one he enjoys visiting.

Enjoy? He blinks. Yeah, I guess it’s not so bad. Usually. Small but cozy.

“Bunnymund.” Skreeklavic stands and starts to tuck the parchment paper wrapper in his sleeve. Bunny offers to hold it and the wolfman readily hands it over. “I think it best I return before I’m missed.” Bunny opens a tunnel, and as Skreeklavic lowers himself into it, he adds, “I’ll help you with this task, though I assume it may take a few days to find an opening to retrieve the artifact. Still, I will help.”

Bunny leads him back to the North Pole, silently breathing in relief that he has some sort of ally.

With the blessings of the Guardians, they return over the next few days. The Guardians aren’t too happy to learn about the wards, nor fond of Bunny running off when there’s another (more important, in their opinion) front to guard and prepare. But they relent when they realize that if Skreeklavic is willing, then this could go a ways to repairing their relationship. The fact that it gets the werewolf out from underfoot is a bonus.

What’s less encouraging is what Skreeklavic reports from their stakeouts. Gillian has become a shut-in, barely leaving his apartment, let alone his room. Skreeklavic’s magic is tied to his shapeshifting, plus or minus some enchantment abilities, the same as Ombric’s students. He has no means of teleportation, which means the only way he’s retrieving the artifact is by old-fashioned infiltration. After finding a copy of the building’s blueprints on a historical society’s archive, the two realize that they have very limited means of getting in and out.

Through the bar is obviously out of the question, and the back stairs dump out into the kitchen, giving Gillian too much time to catch him. The window isn’t the worst idea, but trying during the day has too many opportunities to be spotted and reported, and at night, Gillian never leaves his room anymore. In fact, as far as they can tell, he’s started sleeping with the artifact. And if Skreeklavic’s assessment of the man is correct, he’s a very light sleeper with a touch of insomnia to boot. At first, it seems like a no-brainer—just call Sandy—until they remember that he can’t get past the wards, either. So, the plan is to wait until Gillian just drops from exhaustion altogether. Well, step one of the plan is to find the code to the back door, as that might be the smoothest entry. Which means they sit around staring at a stained door in a dingy alley most of the time.

To make things more complicated, they get to watch the oracle disappear into the building literally every day. The first time it happens, Bunny perks up when he hears a familiar gait, and then shrinks behind the lip of the roof when he sees who it is. He nudges Skreeklavic.

“See them? That’s the oracle.”

The werewolf regards them, ears flicking between alert and wary.

“What’s wrong?” Bunny asks. It comes out a little harsh, but Skreeklavic doesn’t mention that.

“They’re just… so ordinary. They way you all have spoken about them, you’d think their presence was overwhelming.”

“Well, that’s probably because up ‘til a few weeks ago, they were just an ordinary human. People don’t become extraordinary overnight.”

“Still, to suddenly have enough influence that it causes an entire communication collapse—”

“Will ya shut up about that?!” Bunny yells. Then, he ducks again, peeking over the side of the roof. The oracle is nowhere to be seen, however.

“Where’d they go?” Skreeklavic asks.

“They have the back door code. Keep an eye on the windows.”

A minute or so later, he settles back with a small, “Ah, there they are. And there’s the Stranger’s crony.”

So it goes for the next few days. The two of them grow more annoyed with Gillian’s refusal to either go anywhere or pass out, and Bunny specifically gets agitated as he watches the oracle come and go.

“They always look so miserable when they leave,” he says.

“That’s what has you worried?” Skreeklavic gives him a look. “Not the fact that they’re constantly visiting the enemy, who has hidden himself behind a powerful barrier?”

“Well, yeah, that too. But I know they have more potential than what they usually show on average. I’ve seen it. They light up and stop stumbling over themself. They smile and seem like the world is a friend rather than a weight around their neck. The closest they’ve gotten is when they talk about this art show they’ve got coming up, or—” He sighs. “Or their new romantic partner…”

Skreeklavic snorts. Bunny glares at him, and he shakes his head.

“Ignore me,” Skreeklavic says. But Bunny offers no more remarks about them.

The time passes. Gillian stays holed up and the oracle walks by a few times. To visit their friend, for work (he assumes), and then later to go out in the evening (on a date, he assumes again, given their nice outfits).

Busy week they’re having, he thinks. He’s tempted to tail them a bit, just to make sure they’re all right. Knowing them, they could be on the brink of a meltdown all day. In his opinion, they could stand to open up more, let other people know what’s going on in that head of theirs. Ultimately, he stays where he is. He only leaves once midnight once again comes and goes, and Skreeklavic is too tired to break in, let alone keep watch.

Upon transporting him back to the Pole, Bunny tries to take up another shift looking out for the werewolves, but he’s not needed. The yetis throw him out of a few more departments before he gives up and heads back to the Warren. He inspects the fields and grabs a pair of shears to prune back some overgrowth. All the while, something tickles at the back of his mind. It’s nothing new. If it’s not one thing buzzing in his brain, it’s another, and there’s comfort in staying busy. It’ll work itself out as he goes on.

Indeed, it does. However, he anticipates it to be about the wards, some revelation on how to retrieve the artifact, the Stranger, something about the actual problems they’re facing. Instead, he keeps getting stuck on his friends’ teasing, the yetis’ whispering, Skreeklavic’s skepticism about him and the oracle. Wrenching away from that lands him stuck between the oracle’s hands, watching them reassure his despite their clear newness and anxiety. Then stuck on that day on the fire escape, the night market, how frustrating it is to see them hamper themself as they refuse to move forward—

The shears lower to his side. He’s being stupid, he realizes. He drops his face into his hand and rubs his eyes. He’s been so, so stupid.

“Dammit,” he hisses. This is not the revelation he needs right now.

Chapter Text

You give an inch, and life takes a mile. Over the next few days, Gillian and Jesús unknowingly compete to see who can send more messages and take up more of your time. You see Gillian for at least an hour every day, doing yet more breathing exercises and yet more sitting with your eyes closed. Jesús and you get together each evening, at the very least to eat at a restaurant. You don’t really mind, you insist for the first two days, but by the third and fourth, you start looking for excuses.

The first and most foremost one is work. You slide into the Standstill Symposium and sigh in relief at the relative quiet. For once, you don’t mind interacting with the different, sometimes demanding visitors. Around midday, Chrissy skips in.

“Hey!” you say. She waves back and leans on the welcome desk. You ask, “Here for more planning?”

“Not really. I’m here to set up a meeting between the Collective’s Show Lead and Nirupama. Considered doing it over email, but I’ve been inside a lot the last few days and needed to get out for a bit.”

“Will you be here long enough to catch lunch?” You surprise yourself with the question.”

She looks equally surprised to hear it, but she smiles and nods. “Sure! You have any place in mind?”

You end up at a tapas bar, sharing the plates and just talking. You still end up mostly discussing work or art, but it’s less of a bridge topic and more of a true conversation. Perhaps she’s not destined to be a friend you can go to about deep concerns, but it’s just as nice to have someone you can turn to purely for art matters. In fact, you show her the paintings you’ve picked out for the show. She looks over them with genuine interest, complimenting them and suggesting some changes to placements you’ve been thinking about to enhance the styles and colors by contrast.

“As the Collective says, it’s important to have art in conversation with itself as well as the viewer,” she says. There’s a minute or so of companionable quiet, and then Chrissy grows a sly smile and leans in. “Nirupama let slip you’ve been seeing someone new.”

You heat up a degree and instinctively duck your head. “Yeah, I have. They were a visitor to the museum and then… they kept coming back to see me. They do some photography—great stuff—although…” You shake your head. “No, they’re great.”

“‘Although’ what? Come on, everyone has drawbacks. It’s what makes us human.”

“They… have gotten enthusiastic really fast. We went on our first date only five days ago, and now I’m seeing them every night and they—Chrissy, they got me a full bouquet of orange blossoms. Fresh! In spring!”

“Are you allergic?”

“No, but they won’t tell me where they got them, just that they ‘know someone.’” You sigh at her confused look. “Fresh, out of season flowers? How expensive could that have been?”

“Ohhh.”

And over the last few days, they managed to find orchestra section tickets for Hadestown—” Chrissy gasps. “Seats at La Rogue.” Another gasp. “And the Gamblin Legacy color set.”

“The Legacy set?!" Chrissy’s eyes bulge, her mouth hangs open, and she places a hand over her heart. You swear she’s on the verge of drooling. To be fair, you’d nearly done the same over the paints. “Including the—”

“Including the limited run of reproduction Mummy Brown.”

Chrissy takes a moment to gather herself up and then says, “They poly?” At your exasperated look, she holds her hands up. “Sorry, sorry, I had to. But, yeah, that’s a lot. They sound loaded. Who even are they? Do you have a picture?”

You bring up a photo on your phone. She nods neutrally at first, and then takes the phone from you to look closer. She spends so long with your phone that you wonder if she sees something you don’t.

“You recognize them?”

She shakes her head. “No… yes? I feel like I know them, but I’ve never seen them in my life. Hm… Can you send me these? And maybe their work?”

“Why?”

“You know I know people. I can ask around and see if anyone in the Collective knows them. DeShaun does a lot with photography—”

“I don’t need you to run a whole background check on them, thank you” you say, taking back your phone. “I just want them to chill out a little.”

“Not to throw out a turn it off-turn it on, but have you talked to them about it?”

You shrug and avert your eyes, earning a, “Mm-hm,” from her.

“I’ve tried! They can be a little overwhelming when they’re excited and… I know it’s a little hypocritical, but I do like the attention. I do like the gifts. Maybe it’s just because I spent last month really having to watch myself, but not having to worry about spending lots of money on nice things is, well, nice.”

“Hypocritical, maybe, but understandable.” Chrissy perches her head in her hands. “Feeling wanted is always great. I mean, I say that as if I’ve had a lot of serious relationships in my life, but the few I have had, it felt great to know there was a landing place waiting. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“Still, talking to them might help. Maybe you plan the date next time. What’s your idea of a perfect date?”

“Oh, nothing too fancy. Probably something like dinner at my place, and then sitting out on the fire escape with a drink or two and watching the—” You cut yourself off, thinking. “Watching the sunset.”

“So humble and romantic.” Chrissy checks her watch and gathers her things. “I have to get going, but I hope it works out for you guys. And if you ever do need me to dig up some dirt on them let me know.”

You return to work slightly more relieved, if annoyed at yourself. Miscommunications happen, but there’s happening and then there’s letting them happen. You scrawl off a quick message to Jesús. They insist they already have unchangeable plans for tonight, but tomorrow is free and open. Your stomach ties itself in a knot and both ends try to run away from each other. But you’re glad that they’ve agreed to something more low-key. After that, you breathe a sigh of relief and resolve to cook the meal yourself. It’s not your strongest skill, but you want to impress.

Chrissy (9:55 am)
Ar yuo at work?? Need to tal

You notice the text halfway through your commute to work the next day, though the timestamp is from an hour ago. You’d been at Gillian’s, pretending to search for a large, important vision in the ether. In truth, a few smaller, insignificant ones floated by. People tripping, dogs on walks trying to chase squirrels, a fire hydrant bursting into a geyser. Admittedly, that last one is slightly less significant, but you didn’t get a street name, so you’ll have to trust that someone else will alert the fire or water departments.

Behind them all, a larger inkling has been lurking all week, like that shadow of a whale drifting under a rowboat. You’ve opted not to look into the water as much as possible.

You (10:07 am)
On the way there now. What’s up?

It doesn’t send until the train crosses the bridge, and then you’re back underground, watching the three dots bounce as Chrissy types. Her reply pops in as you trot up the stairs to the street at your stop.

Chrissy (10:20 am)
I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

As if this week of “peace” hasn’t already been a disaster. You half-jog to the museum, choosing to burst through the back entrance and throw your bag in your cubby as you furiously type back to her. Then, you hear your name. Nirupama slides into the room, a worried-looking Chrissy on her heels. You look at her and she just mouths “I’m sorry” to you. You take a deep breath.

“Please come to my office. I have to talk to you about something,” Nirupama says. “You don’t have to clock in for this.”

She tries to give you a smile, but it looks weak. The anxiety bubbling below the surface since Chrissy’s text boils over. A wave overtakes you, focusing your sight until it seems like you’re looking through a camera with Vaseline smeared around the edges. It takes a concerted effort to direct one leg in front of the other while remembering the path to Nirupama’s office at the same time. Each second, you’re monitoring your gait and facial expressions, trying to keep them as normal as possible. Stress tears start to well up, and you will them away.

Am I being fired? She told you not to clock in, what else could it be? You run back the last few weeks in your mind. You thought you were being as normal as possible, that any weirdness had been quarantined to your off-hours, specifically to when you were at home and the weirdness was visiting. Clearly you haven’t been careful enough. I wouldn’t have had to be careful if not for…

You enter the office. Nirupama gestures for you to sit and then slides behind her desk. You clench your teeth and try to keep the knot in your throat down.

“First of all,” she says, “I want to say I’m sorry that I got your hopes up. I should know better than to entertain something before getting the final details nailed down. But I have been informed that the GreenWitch Collective will be showing one of their own artists at the show here in a few weeks.”

Your body stops shaking. The choking lump in your throat disappears. Your vision sharpens, still narrow in focus, but terror no longer burns at the edges. Now, you perceive every atom in this office at the same time.

“What,” you say.

Nirupama takes a breath to talk again, but Chrissy jumps in. “This is why I texted earlier. I just found out a few minutes before then, and I ran here to talk with Nirupama about it on the phone with the Philanthropy Lead. We tried, I promise we tried to change their minds, but…”

“Money talks very loudly sometimes.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Your voice is low and ragged. Nirupama sighs.

“According to the Collective, a new patron offered an unfathomably substantial donation less than a week ago. Enough to fund the outreach program completely over five years, no other fundraising events required. The caveat was that they requested a specific artist be featured at the promotional kickoff events. Including ours.”

“Naturally, we thought it was a scam,” Chrissy continues. “The amount is huge, they said we needed to decide within a few days, and the selected artist has only been with us for six months. But he doesn’t know this person and comes from an underprivileged background where none of his immediate or extended family has that sort of cash to throw around. And then a money transfer came through for just a portion of the proposed donation and… the bank said it was legitimate.”

“So, I don’t get the show,” you say. They shake their heads. “Not even a corner?” More head shaking. “And you’re just okay with this?”

“The building needs to come up to code,” Nirupama says. She doesn’t look at you, instead picking at the shipped veneer on her desk. “With the share the Collective gives us, we can complete most of the renovations as I focus on applying for more funding grants and fundraising efforts. Frankly, we’re lucky the inspectors have only dinged us for smaller things so far, and that there’s nothing too noticeable in visitor spaces. We’re caught in a corner.

“I am really sorry. I shouldn’t have encouraged you to get excited about this when the plans weren’t fully set.”

“It was so sudden and fast, I kinda figured we were just being casual about it,” you reply.

“Me, too,” Chrissy says. She places her hand on your shoulder. You stand suddenly. “Where are you—”

“Can’t waste time,” you say, starting for the door. “I’m sure I have lots to do, and there’s still visitors coming in.”

“I was going to send you home, actually.” Nirupama looks serious again. “I knew this was going to be a lot to take in, so I asked Rebecca if he could cover your shift. It’ll count as a sick day for you, so you’ll be paid for the day. But I want you to go home and rest.”

“I’m fine.”

Both of them give you skeptical, knowing looks. Despite feeling in control, you imagine that you actually look like hell from the outside.

“Go home for today,” Nirupama repeats. “Please.”

Chrissy jumps up and loops her arm through yours. “I’ll walk you to the subway.”

You grab your bag and allow Chrissy to pull you out the back, sparing you any rubbernecking from visitors. She waits for the next downtown train with you, offering to escort you all the way back to your apartment, but you fend her off.

“I’m sorry again,” she says, squeezing your shoulder when you board.

The ride compresses into an instant, and you nearly miss your stop. You find yourself on the platform, down the street, in front of your building. As the elevator jerks into motion, you release a deep, whistling breath. Tears prick your eyes, but the emotion accompanying them isn’t despair. It’s anger. You storm off the elevator, nearly ram the door down, and let your bag slide down to the floor without caring where it lands.

Finally alone in your apartment, your tears start. They’re silent, any idea of loud, gross sobbing replaced by an existential realization of how much control you lack over your life. Your knees start to buckle, but you catch yourself when you spot one of the paintings. The rest are scattered around your apartment, having been waiting for the okay to bring them in, give them meaning beyond a hobby and justify your hard work. This one Ana-vlog, however, focuses you. Makes you realize where it’s all gone wrong so suddenly, because there’s truly a single point from which your entire life has swerved.

You storm over to your dresser and crush your fist around the new flower Bunny left behind. The whole thing, all five petals. You don’t think any specific word or phrase to summon him. You just let rage, irritation, and disappointment slide down your arm and into the flower. Green flashes between your fingers, far brighter than the previous times you’ve done this, leaving you wincing at the momentary hot sensation and blinking away bright red afterimages. It’s just the result of how the visible light spectrum works, but it feels appropriate to see red right now. You squeeze the life out of the petals until the tingle in your palm becomes too much and you release. A swarm of sparkling green motes puff up from your hand like dust.

It’s not long before there’s a metallic crash on the fire escape. You throw open the curtains, temper flaring as you see Bunny, hunched over on the landing, a hand to his heart as he pants deeply. Seeing him like this sends a brief pang of worry through you, but a powerful satisfaction crowds it out. You did this to him. You must have. Every other time you’ve called, he’s been a little out of breath, a little harried. Something in the magic, you think, affects him on a physical level. You wait a few seconds, seeing how long it takes him to recover, before opening the window.

“Took you long enough,” you say, leaning on the windowsill. The last time the both of you were in these positions—him out there, you in the window—flashes through your mind. It may as well have happened a lifetime ago, when you were trying to cope by pretending everything was okay. “We need to talk.”

“Intruder?” he gasps out. He licks his lips and pushes up to his hands and knees, ears flicking all around. “Danger?”

Always with this. Can’t just be that you need to talk. Can’t just be that you want anything. If he shows up himself, it’s for unavoidable Guardian reasons. If you call him, clearly your helpless human ass is in immediate danger.

“Depends on what you mean by that,” you reply. You pull yourself back into the apartment and wait for him. Slowly, he drags himself through, managing to stand.

“But you’re safe right?” he asks. He reaches out to you, and you just manage to avoid his fingertips. They graze your arm, a light touch. Almost caring. It enrages you even more than if he’d kept his hands to himself.

“Do I look all right?!”

He flinches, but that finally seems to get him caught up to his surroundings. He looks you up and down. You steel yourself against the scrutiny, especially as his expression solidifies into something more serious.

“No, you look like shit.” He cringes and shakes his head. You do your best not to break down; your red eyes and disheveled clothing tell enough of the story. You need to remain in control for once. Bunny holds up his hands and starts, “No, that’s not—”

“But it’s no wonder, is it?” you reply. A layer of white noise builds in your mind alongside the agitation. “What could have possibly happened recently that’s put me so far on edge I become a liability for my own work to the point they can’t even bother getting me an art show!”

“Wait.” He holds a hand up. “This is about your show?”

“Not mine anymore! They changed their minds to some amateur at the last minute!”

“Oh,” he says, still looking confused. Then, something dawns on him. His ears fall behind him, and his shoulder sag. “Oh. And… and you’ve decided that’s my fault.”

“I just want normalcy.”

“We gave you the week you demanded.”

“It sucked!”

“That’s not our problem!” His normal attitude is returning. Good. That makes it easier to be mad at him.

“No, y’all’s problem is makin’ sure you have enough human belief to slurp up to keep yourselves nice ‘n cozy!”

He opens his mouth to respond, pauses, and then squints. “That is not what we’re about,” he says quietly. There’s the slightest shake to his voice, like he’s holding back. He’s breaking. You’re breaking him.

“No? You could survive without us surrendering belief to you?”

“No, listen. I know you’ve been talking with Gillian a lot more, but don’t forget he’s being fed lies by the Stranger.”

You’re about to explode, but then you catch on to what he says. “You ‘know’ I’ve been talking with him more? What do you mean you know?!”

He grimaces and mumbles, “I’ve been staking his place out all week. Saw you come and go. I wasn’t trying—”

He flinches as you chuck a pillow at him. You wish it was something harder, but that’s what was immediately at hand. He freezes for a second, and then tilts his head all the way up to the ceiling where he just stares, then inhales slowly and deeply.

Then, he grits his teeth and says, “Like I was saying, I wasn’t there to spy on you. I was doing exactly what I was doing the day we met: my job.

“Now, to answer your ques—no, your accusation, it’s true we gain power from Belief, which, yes, is an extremely potent force. By itself, it’s not quite magic, but it makes all magical things possible. From imbuing runes to visions of the future.” He gestures around. “It even goes into the creativity for your paintings. Although…” he glances at them, scowl forming. “Perhaps you could put a little more in every once in a while.”

The words knock the wind out of you, and you don’t do the best job at hiding it. “Oh, you want to hand out critique now?” You spread your arms out. “Go ahead, do your worst!”

He rolls his eyes, but you gesture him to go on. He stalks around the limited floor area of the studio, stepping from canvas to canvas. His silence starts to get to you, but sooner than later, he swivels around.

“Picasso,” he says, pointing to one that was very much modeled after his work. “Kandinsky. Mondrian. Ringgold.”

Again and again, he identifies the inspiration of every one of your pieces. You swell with pride. It takes work to imitate the masters, as simplistic as their styles seem at first. He finishes naming names and turns back to you.

“Everyone’s here and accounted for,” he says. “Except you forgot one.”

You wrack your mind, trying to figure out what artist you could possibly have overlooked, noting a few and preparing whole speech as for why they weren’t actually notable enough for a study of twentieth century artists. Bunny stares at you, waiting for you to come to the answer. With every second that passes, his gaze becomes more pitying, and you rush to figure out what pretentious, obscure artist—

“You!” he cries. He takes two steps toward you, hands up like he’s pleading for you to understand. “I don’t see traces of you in any of these pieces! Wait, no, I’m lying.”

He points to the filler painting, the experimental one. The one you've never considered to be anything special.

“You’re all over that one. It’s not your most technically impressive one, but I can see just the least little bit of you through it. The real you, the one that peeked out after your first big vision and we had an honest conversation, the one that alcohol let out for a run last week. The one that—” He raises one hand to his cheek for a second. “My point is that if you want people to fall over themselves to show off your work, maybe actually put yourself in there more often. All this feels more like the middle of a decent forgery career.”

Throughout his little speech, your resolve weakens. It’s hard to withstand being seen, especially when you never mean to expose yourself. And as his passion rises, he gets closer and closer until he’s within touching distance. The only time you’ve been closer is the night you overdid it, when you held on so he could teleport y’all. With his final snarky remark, however, you harden again.

“I worked hard on these,” you say. “I work hard on my art!”

“Didn’t say you don’t. But imitating others doesn’t necessarily bode well for creativity. That’s a separate skill.”

“If you have nothing productive to say to me, you can get the hell out of here!”

“Yeah, I thought so,” he says. He leans back from you. “Figured you can’t take what you dish out.”

“Oh, go eat Mothman’s ass!”

The words are out of your mouth before you even think about them. They’re so petty. So immature. You sound like an elementary schooler losing a classroom argument. However, it seems those words find a hairline crack in his façade and burrow in. He fully backs up from you, stricken, before he drags himself back into a neutral formality you haven’t seen since the first few days of knowing him. He crosses his arms.

“In that case,” he says, voice not quite even. “I’m gonna go. You still have tomorrow for your requested week off, and then oracle lessons resume day after.” A flash of hurt sneaks through, but it’s so brief that you barely catch it before he taps open a tunnel. “Bye.”

He takes all the distractions of the world with him, leaving you hyperaware of the paintings surrounding you. For all their non-figural details, it feels like they’re staring. You stand there, calming yourself down from the brink of yet another spiral when your phone buzzes in your pocket. A text from Jesús. You skip everything they say and instead ask if they can come over early today. They arrive in less than an hour, and you curl into their arms, tears streaming down your face as you tell them about the lost show.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” they reply, lightly stroking your hair. “Your art is perfect and worth a solo show in the most prestigious gallery.”

“Yeah, well, nothing’s ever perfect.” You sit up and gesture around. “Actually, maybe you could give me some feedback. Tell me which direction I should go to really show my talents.”

Jesús glances over them from where you sit, not taking but a few moments on each one. Then they look back at you. “They’re very expressive.”

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“I think you need not linger on the bad opinions and tastes of the gatekeeping elites.”

You tense at their tone. It’s light and conversational enough not to scare you, but there’s an edge that you don’t want to sharpen. Instead, you nod and lean back against them, enjoying their company. Just as you’re about to ask if they’re hungry, a delivery arrives with a spread of Southern comfort food so authentic that it nearly drives you to tears. You’ll have to ask them where the restaurant is so you can go, even if it’s a four-hour round trip. As you eat your mind clears and settles. The roil of anger—now joined by a sliver of nonsensical regret—is still there, but it’s easier to think through. And you reason, now that you don’t have a show to look forward to…

“Hey,” you say to them. “You still want to take me to Europe?”

They beam.

Chapter Text

“Let’s go.”

Bunny tracks Skreeklavic down yet again during his evening tea in his room. Bunny motions for him to follow, but the movement a bit too quick. His chest twinges from the rough magic, and he groans, breath hitching. He leans against the threshold to avoid collapsing to a knee. Those flowers are imbued with some of his magical essence. When he’s called, there’s a physical response. Never—never­—in all his years of existence has anyone used the entire thing at once. Every individual molecule of his being was yanked across space, and if he hadn’t teleported immediately, he felt he might have ripped apart.

After what the oracle said to him, it may have been the less painful option.

Once the pain subsides, he repeats, “Let’s go.”

“To where?” Skreeklavic asks. “What’s going on?”

“We gotta get that damned artifact back. Today. Now.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“You go in, disrupt the wards, I go in and snatch it up.”

“And if we come across the human?”

Bunny falters. On the way over, only one scenario played out in his mind’s eye. A clean, quick in-and-out. Now, he realizes Gillian may not actually be on shift tonight. Skreeklavic places his cup down.

“What’s this really about, Bunny?”

He does not say the truth, which is, “I’ve been thoroughly rejected by the oracle and I’m crushed.” That’s too honest. He’s only just come to terms with romantic notions towards them. The storm has become a maelstrom.

Instead, he answers, “I’m tired of this shit, too. We’ve wasted too much time, we should’ve taken it back ages ago.”

Skreeklavic looks skeptical. Bunny swallows and wets his dry mouth.

“If we get the whole artifact back, then we can use it to prevent the Stranger from ever deposing you, from ever getting this far in the first place!”

Now he has the werewolf’s attention. There’s still an air of caution about him, but a wave of eagerness is cresting. Bunny nods, trying to hype up the idea, to lose himself in it as much as he needs Skreeklavic to do. It works. Skreeklavic tidies up, his tail swishing in bursts all the while. Then they’re off.

Deep night falls before Gillian moves from his room to the bar. Skreeklavic quickly confirms that the man is occupied with work and then turns his attention to the invisible box. Invisible, but not completely. A perimeter of pigeons roosts on what should be the roof ledge, soft coos mixing with the eternal ambiance of the city. Skreeklavic approaches the gaping hole of nothing. He looks around himself a few times before reaching up and snatching at something. A paper appears in his hand, and the building flickers into view for a second. It’s a small pulse of energy, but enough to wake a few of the pigeons and spook them into flying away. Skreeklavic looks over at Bunny, who’s hiding in a nearby alley.

“One more?” Bunny stage whispers, holding up a finger.

Skreeklavic nods and moves around the building. After a minute, he stretches up, missing a few times before coming away with another paper in hand. The building lasts for nearly a full second this time, and a dozen more pigeons scatter. Skreeklavic doesn’t wait for an answer before searching for another ward. He slides into where the back alley should be, and then backs up to the other side before launching forward. He runs up the wall, reaching at the peak of his height. As he falls, the building flashes into existence, but this time, the back corner remains visible. The rest of the building fades back into invisibility a few meters from the corner in all directions. Bunny dashes across the street to join the werewolf. He claps a hand to his shoulder.

“I see it, a little bit. Thanks,” he says. “Now, let’s get inside.”

“All right, go ahead and open—”

Skreeklavic jumps as Bunny slams his boomerang into the door lock, denting the hollow metal. That… That felt good. So, Bunny whales on it again and again and again until the motion strains him to the point of triggering more chest pain. He catches his breath and rubs it until it subsides. Finally, he reaches for the hole he made to unlock it from the inside, but Skreeklavic yanks him back.

“What are you doing?!” he growls. “What happened to your tunnels?”

It takes a second for the words to reach Bunny. His mind buzzes with activity and the intensified triumph of gaining entry. Once he hears properly, though, he wilts.

“I… Sorry,” he says. “Let’s hurry up.”

They enter as quietly as possible. Despite the outside of the building having faded back to invisible, it seems like the entirety of the interior is accessible to Bunny. He hops over and touches a sideboard located where it should start fading. But nothing happens. The wall above it makes his spine tingle when he looks at it, though. Hesitantly, he touches it; his fingers bounce away. Not as violently as when he tried to tunnel in, but there’s a similar aura. Satisfied for the moment, he takes stock of the two doors in the hallway. The one at ground level has a muffled hubbub behind it—the restaurant. Skreeklavic is already through the other door, ascending the steep, narrow stairs to the apartment.

“Interesting…” Bunny says, catching up to him. “Seems like the wards act like a barrier. Perimeter only.”

Skreeklavic stops mid-climb. “You did not know that before?” He looks despairing. “If the runes had penetrated the entire building, what was your plan? Me, by myself?”

Bunny grits his teeth. This is not time for questions. They have to move. Isn’t that was he wanted? Action? So what if it takes an impulsive streak to do it? He rubs his heart again. This time, the pain has little to do with any lingering magical effects.

If we get the artifact and prevent this whole mess, Bunny reasons, my job will be done. I’ll never have to see them again.

Outwardly, he shrugs and tries to push past him. Skreeklavic grasps his arm and shoves him into the hand rail.

“If we’re caught, I will not try to save you.” He glares into Bunny’s eyes. “If this fails, I will leave and never trust the Guardians again. Do you understand?”

Bunny’s ear twitches. He pulls himself free and pads up the stairs. Behind him, Skreeklavic sighs, but follows.

Upon entering the apartment and turning on a light, they’re met with a lounge room and kitchen in the center, with two rooms farther back on either side. Judging by a beam bulging out of the drywall, the faint outline of a former doorway, and a strange, split layout for the kitchen, this may have been multiple apartments in its past. After a quick sweep of the outer rooms, Bunny looks between the four rooms, choosing the two on the right to check first. He doesn’t have to open the first door to know it’s a home gym. The smell of stale sweat wrinkles his nose as he approaches. Perhaps if he cannot find anything at all, he’ll rummage through it, but the first place to look is the adjacent room: Gillian’s.

Bunny flicks on the overhead light and starts searching. He checks under his bed, in his cupboard, and in his desk drawers, tossing aside all papers and clothing. But no artifact. He swallows a knot of worry and searches again. Then, he dashes into the home gym and turns that over, with just as much luck. His pulse gets louder in his ears as he switches to the other side of the apartment. He throws both doors open, rummaging through the bedroom on this side before turning to the adjacent office. It’s sparsely furnished, though there is a desk and cork boards, all of which are covered in receipts, notes, childhood scribbles, bills, and purchase orders. He sighs and moves to get started.

There’s a noise on the stairs. Bunny returns to the doorway. From his vantage point, he can just see around the corner into the kitchen. Skreeklavic freezes behind the island at the noise. There’s another creak. Another, and closer. Someone is coming up.

Skreeklavic ducks behind the island. Bunny shuts off the bedroom and office lights and closes the office door until it’s only open a crack to keep an eye on the lounge room and stairwell. As quietly as he can, he opens a tunnel next to Skreeklavic. The werewolf looks around until he notices Bunny, and then he carefully lowers himself in. He emerges behind Bunny a moment later.

Just then, Gillian crests the stairs, wearing a rumpled apron. A bulging, crinkling rubbish bag swings at his side.

He must’ve been on his way to the bin and seen the door. Bunny winces at that. Then, Gillian’s eyes lock onto his bedroom, he takes a sharp inhale, and Bunny realizes, I forgot to turn off the light.

Gillian tracks his head around the main room, scanning over the sofa and island and appliances. Then he turns back to the light, fury on his face. He raises a foot to step.

“Gill, honey?” a voice comes from the stairwell. He jumps, dropping the bag. He hisses between his teeth and snatches it off the floor. An older woman enters the apartment. “What’re you doing? Why are you up here with the trash?”

“The back door is broken and the door to the stairs is open,” he replies. He does another sweep of the room. “I just wanted to check real quick.”

“If someone broke in—”

“No!” Gillian holds his hand up and softens his voice a tick. “No one’s here. We’re safe. I think someone just got too excited and threw something heavy. Go back to the bar, I’ll be right there once I toss this.”

His mother nods and heads back down. Gillian scans around one more time before following. The door at the bottom of the stairs squeaks shut, and finally Bunny lets out a relieved sigh. He stands and opens the door.

“Where are you going?” Skreeklavic asks.

“Just gonna turn off the light. Maybe he’ll think he imagined it.”

Skreeklavic points to the floor next to him. “No time, let’s search this.”

Bunny glances at the space. He turns on the light to see if he’s missing something, but no. “Try what?”

Skreeklavic looks at him oddly, and then he says, “Ah… I see…”

He kneels and starts messing with the air. His hands shape a box as if he’s a mime, and it finally clicks. There’s another ward.

“I can’t see it, what is it?” Bunny asks.

“A safe. More than large enough to hold the egg—aha! There’s a second one.” Skreeklavic points, then makes an exasperated noise. “There’s a chain of runes on every side I can see.”

“Rip it off, let’s see it.”

“It’s carved into the metal.”

Bunny opens a tunnel. “Can ya toss it in?”

Skreeklavic wraps his arms around the air. It’s larger than Bunny thought. He strains and grunts, but it doesn’t seem to go anywhere. Finally, he shakes his head.

“I can’t tell if it’s too heavy or bolted to the floor.”

“Bolted.”

The two of them turn to the voice. Bunny barely has time to register Gillian before the man traces a shape in the air. Vines burst forth. Some shoot past him to Skreeklavic, and many more catch his ears and ankles, pulling him down to the floor. He manages to keep his eyes on Gillian, whose knees nearly buckle. He’s sweating, probably unused to the strain of casting magic. Because of it, the vines falter just long enough for Bunny to rip one of his arms free. He reaches to his bandolier for the communication stone. He starts to send and SOS, but more vines wriggle into his fist, bending his fingers back and making him yell in pain. They slam his hand to the floor. The tendrils on his ears yank back, forcing his head to look towards Skreeklavic. The sight makes his stomach drop.

The vines are choking Skreeklavic, almost all of them around his neck, squeezing. His legs flail and spasm. Harsh gurgles escape from his throat as he claws at the vines, eyes bulging.

“Let him go,” Bunny rasps. “Your fight’s with me and the Guardians.”

“My Friend has been searching for the former tyrant,” Gillian replies. “It’ll be glad to see him caught and imprisoned.”

“He’s the tyrant? When the Stranger just came in and overthrew everything?”

“My Friend is restoring power to the pack from where it was concentrated in the hands of the unworthy and the greedy. Soon, it’ll do the same for mortals everywhere. Traitors to the cause must be punished.”

Skreeklavic’s gurgles become fainter. His flailing peters out. There’s not much time left before… Bunny adjusts his hand, finding a good press on the vine. He sends a jolt of magic into it. Blossoms erupt along the vines until the entire thing is nothing but petals that collapse with one shake. He twists his body as much as he can do the same for Skreeklavic, managing to get about half of them. Despite his violent shaking, Skreeklavic tears through the rest of them, inhaling a loud groan once his airway is clear. Then, his arm flops to the floor.

Gillian growls. There’s a slight fluctuation in the air—he’s casting again. Bunny find the stone and blasts out an SOS as loud as he can.

More vines crash into him, crushing his neck. Funny thing about true immortality: knowing that he’s unlikely to snuff it from anything short of being smeared into atoms does not quiet the part of him that remembers the threat of death. He should scrounge up the strength to give these vines the same treatment as before, but as his airway constricts, his eyes bulge, his vision tunnels, all his panic thinks to do is struggle.

“What the fu—”

There’s a crash, and then a rush of noise. The vines crumble away, allowing bunny to gasp in fresh air. He tries to sit up, but his head splits in pain. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. The sounds of a nearby scuffle come into focus, and he registers high-pitched chirps and the hum of tiny, beating wings. He manages to lift himself from the floor and crack open an eye.

Small, bright dots flash in front of his vision until he blinks rapidly, and only then can he see a bunch of tennis ball-sized objects pelting Gillian, who’s thrown his arms up to protect his face from the mini-fairies surrounding him. Bunny drags himself over to Skreeklavic’s body, relieved to see that he’s still breathing, though harshly. He needs to get to a safe place. A panicked peep near Bunny’s ear makes him whirl around. He’s greeted by a worried mini-fairy.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says hoarsely. He coughs and rubs his eyes again. The mini-fairy flits around him, cheeping and fretting/ “I’ll be fine. Take care of Skreeklavic while I get the artif—ack!”

The mini-fairy jabs him and chitters that they need to retreat. Bunny tries to ignore her, but she calls over a few others from Gillian and they start insisting.

“All right, all right!” Bunny opens a tunnel and grits his teeth as he picks up Skreeklavic. Once he’s inside, he yells, “Ladies, let’s go!”

The flock darts in and they start the arduous task of moving the werewolf as fast as they can down the corridor. Bunny takes one last look at Gillian. He glares from behind his raised arms, streaks of bleeding cuts decorating from elbow to knuckle. Bunny wants nothing more than to finish this, force him to open the safe and hand over the artifact—

The mini-fairies screech for him to hurry up.

—but he’ll have to leave that for another day.

The fairies help him and Skreeklavic to the Warren where they can finally stabilize the werewolf. Once done, and he's resting in a spare room, Bunny sends messages to the others, making zero excuses for himself. Toothiana arrives only a little after.

“Thanks for sending the girls,” he says. She huffs.

“I’m going to skip the ‘What the hell happened’ question and go straight into the consequences. Because this time, you’ve really overstepped. Put your whole foot in it, whatever the saying is. You should have come to us for help.”

Bunny nods, but doesn’t reply. Even after the silence goes on for over a minute; even after Tooth tries to prompt him to speak; even after she finally leaves, telling him when he’ll hear from the rest of the Guardians about what they’ll expect from him due to this. A few hours later, Skreeklavic recovers enough to roam about. He find Bunny, sways on his feet, and shakes his head as if to clear it. After a moment, he steadies, stretches, and looks around.

“Where am I?”

“My place, the Warren.”

“Where is the nearest exit?”

For a second, Bunny considers not letting him leave, for his own safety and for the sake of the Guardians’ secrets. But what’s one more questionable decision from him? He’s been on quite the streak these last two months, and he’s finding it hard to care anymore. So, he leads Skreeklavic to the continental tunnels, normally reserved for the yearly distribution.

“Pick one. There’ll be paths for different countries and regions as you go down. Go anywhere ya like.”

And to emphasize that, he turns around and heads back to his house. Minutes later, the Warren feels emptier; Skreeklavic is gone to who knows where. Only then does he scream. Dozens of stone eggs come running at the noise, but he doesn’t answer their questions. He stops when he feels like it doesn’t matter anymore.

If that point comes when his chest starts hurting from the strain yet again, he doesn’t admit it to anyone, let alone himself.

Chapter Text

As you walk into work the next day, Nirupama meets you in front of the task schedule.

“Hey,” she says, “how’re you feeling?”

“Actually? I’m all right,” you reply.

Nirupama looks skeptical, but she turns to the schedule. “Okay, well, I have you in the rotation for the front desk again, but if you feel like you need some time away from a public-facing task—”

I’m fine,” you interrupt.

And it’s true. The crushing disappointment, the spiraling despair, and the violent jealousy has fizzled to almost nothing since you said yes to the trip. Jesús keeps sending you messages about places they want to take you and pictures of sights they want you to see. The more they do it, the more their joy and excitement rubs off on you. All it took was one Dracula joke to get them discussing the story, especially the fun fact that in the novel, wolves do the bidding of the vampire several times, and that the whole werewolves versus vampires bit was a mid- to late-twentieth century invention. Regardless, a serene haze has engulfed you for the last several hours, and you don’t need any pity or worrying to set you off. So, you reaffirm your stance to Nirupama with a nod.

“At the very least, it’ll distract me.”

She looks about ready to gently object again, but instead she says, “If that’s how you feel, all right. If at any point you need a break, let me know.”

“Should I get—” You glance at the schedule. “Should I get Arnum to cover me if needed?”

She coughs in a way that sounds like a redirected laugh. “No, come get me. He’s not in the right headspace at all for public-facing work.”

She slips past you, waving and telling you to have a good day. However, you remember just in time and stop her.

“Wait! I need to talk to you about some vacation I want to take soon.”

“Oh? Okay, yeah, going somewhere?”

“My partner wants to take me to Romania.”

Instead of the usual “Ooh!” or “Whoa!” that usually accompanies an intercontinental trip, she stops so fast that her shoes squeak against the tile.

“Romania?” she asks. “All the way across the ocean? And then some?”

“Yes?” you reply. “That is in fact where that country is.”

“This is the same partner you met only a few weeks ago? The visitor who wouldn’t leave you alone?”

You stiffen. “Sometimes, real life acts like a rom-com. Improbable but not impossible.” Before she can insult you further, you say, “I’ve got the desk covered today, but I’m hoping to be out for a week or two and leave sooner than later.”

She blinks and says, “Well, I’m not going to make you another promise I can’t keep. But I’m sure we can work something out.”

The managerial answer satisfies you enough, and you head for the front desk to shuffle brochures and glance through the inbox. Towards the end of your shift, Jesús comes in. You light up when they enter and chat with them between greeting visitors. Nirupama passes by during this time, pausing silently to watch you. When she notices you’ve noticed, she skulks away. All in all, it’s a quiet four hours, and with nothing to do for overtime anymore, you head to Nirupama’s office.

“Hey,” you say as you enter.

She gestures for you to sit. As you do, she hurriedly gathers up the printouts strewn over her desk. This is the usual state of things, but then you glance at the papers and realize they’re the pieces actually going into the show. You tear your eyes away from them and wait for her to continue.

“So, the vacation…” she starts. “Is it possible for you to leave in three weeks?”

“My partner and I were hoping to go in the next week, and we’ll be gone for about two weeks from there.”

Nirupama does a mental calculation. “You’ll miss the show opening.”

“If you don’t mind me skipping that bit of disappointment.”

Her eyebrows shoot up at the remark. You grit your teeth to keep yourself from reflexively apologizing. There’s no need to apologize; you did nothing wrong. She jumped the gun. You relax your shoulders and just look at her, an intoxicating wave of pride coming over you as you realize what it means to internalize apathy towards things that ultimately don’t matter and cannot affect you in a way that tangibly matters. Your insides still clench as she hesitates, wondering if she’ll really say “No,” to the entire thing, though you’re pretty sure she legally can’t.

Still, you temper the remark, “They’ve already started making plans and accommodations. Also, I haven’t used any of my leave in months.”

She sighs. “Ok, then, I’ll be straight with you: I’m worried on a personal level. You’ve been an excellent employee, and I’m not trying to overstep (especially considering yesterday) but I’m worried that recent events might have made you more distressed than you realize.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Just!” She holds up her hands. “Just that I don’t want you rushing into anything! This person is new to you, you don’t know them that well, and maybe you should start with a weekend trip on this continent before heading to another.”

A familiar ping of anxiety starts resonating at the back of your mind You shove it away before replying, “I appreciate your concern, but this is overstepping. As legally required, unless there is literally no way to accommodate my absence in the schedule, you must approve my leave.”

Nirupama looks at you for a second, and then shifts a few papers to uncover a schedule for the next few weeks. She pretends to stare at it, but you know as well as her that there is nothing you need to be there for. Anyone else can help cover this, and the show prep is hardly on the level of gala crunch. Eventually, she concedes. You dot the I’s and cross the T’s, and then you’re walking Jesús out of the museum. As you head down the sidewalk, movement catches your eye. You glimpse Nirupama holding up her phone in the office window. In another second, however, she disappears behind the curtain. You shove it out of your mind and strive to enjoy the anticipation of the trip.

Mild dread settles under your ribs as the next lesson draws near. Home half an hour early, you tidy a bit and in doing so, notice the Easter egg you started preserving weeks ago. You’ve been washing dishes around it this whole time, all the upheaval pushing it further down your to-do list. Now that you’re going out of the country, however, you really need to deal with it.

You bust out the decoupage glue and carefully brush a watered-down layer over the outside. The activity calms you a little bit, though you have to summon some cognitive dissonance to get around the reminder that this was created by that Guardian. Now, you make it yours.

Maybe I should shatter it and use the pieces in one of my next paintings, you think. You glance up at the studio. All the paintings are still sitting out, bathing in the sunlight streaming through the window. You wince but pull your attention back to the egg, conceding that, The pattern on this is rather nice. For someone who otherwise clearly doesn’t get postmodern art.

A staticky wave of magical energy wafts through the room. You’re annoyed, but not surprised, to see Ombric. As you walk over to start the lesson, you notice he’s alone. You scan the floor for an open tunnel, but there isn’t one.

“Looking for something?” he asks, brushing dust off his sleeve.

“Doesn’t he usually come with you?”

“My dear, you’ll have to be more specific than that. ‘He’ who?”

“You know damn well ‘who,’ sweetie,” you retort.

Ombric lets out a soft laugh before launching into the lesson. By the time it’s over, you’ve summoned the Pole invasion vision twice more, with little insight, leaving you exhausted. The pattern repeats over the next few sessions: Ombric alone, repeat the vision, and become tired from the effort. At work, meanwhile, Nirupama keeps you as far away from the show gallery as possible, which you appreciate. You and Chrissy still cross paths a lot, and one day, she invites you out to lunch. She takes you to the same tapas bar as the previous week, and you amuse yourselves with new dishes.

“So, you’re actually going on that trip?” she suddenly asks. She’s good at abruptly changing a conversation’s course and having it seem natural. But she’s been squirming this entire time. Despite how smooth the question is, you guard yourself.

“Yeah. I’m very excited.”

“Are you sure you should, though?”

At least she’s not prolonging her pretense. You sigh.

“Yes, I’m sure about taking this trip. I’m not a child.”

“But you’ve been stressed and upset recently,” she says gently. “You were just telling me that you wanted things to slow down, and now it seems like you’re making an impulsive decision.”

“I am!” you shout, startling a passing server and the table next to you. You wave to apologize and repeat, quieter, “I am. Of course I am. But what do I have to lose? Not an art show anymore. Just my mind if I don’t do something of my own accord.”

“Maybe you should try Canada first, if you want a couple’s international trip? Just for the weekend, it’s not that far away. Or, Mexico if you want something a bit farther…” She struggles for words before flapping her hands helplessly. “Just don’t put an ocean between you and home. Like, please admit this whole thing is a field of red flags, at least.”

“Most things look like red flags to my anxiety.”

You pay at the counter and start back for work. You get halfway when Chrissy grabs your arm and halts you.

“I know you’re disappointed. I get it. I would be, too. And I know we’re just really getting to know each other on a more friend-like level, but I do care if you’re okay. And you haven’t been okay recently.”

You blink at her, trying not to react too much. In truth, it is nice to know people would miss you if something happened. It’s nice to have someone to bounce crazy ideas off of since Gillian’s become preoccupied with other things. You nod.

“No, I haven’t. Thank you for being concerned.”

“Of course! Anyone would!” Her smile drops. “You’re still going on the trip, though?”

“At this point, nothing will convince me otherwise.”

Well, you think, Maybe one person’s opinion could change my mind. Gillian’s been so busy, though.

Chrissy swallows. “Okay. Just know you can call or text me whenever you feel like it, regardless of the time difference. Okay?”

“Okay,” you reply. “Thanks.”

When you get back to work, Nirupama is speaking to a young man flanked by people you recognize from a few GreenWitch Collective events. Which means the young man is…

A knot forms in your throat. You make yourself busy at the desk. With her chirpy voice, Chrissy rushes over to greet them and suggests they go to the show gallery. Their footsteps fade and you dare to look up to see Chrissy and Nirupama halfway hidden around the corner. Nirupama whispers something, and Chrissy replies with a solemn head shake. Nirupama’s shoulders slump. Chrissy holds up her pointer finger and then taps her phone, indicating something.

Are they talking about me? Conspiring together?

As if reading your thoughts, Nirupama looks over at you. Her eyes meet yours, widen in surprise, and she guides Chrissy fully around the corner. You work in a state of lowkwy rage for the rest of your shift and spend the train ride home fuming about it. It’s nice to know you’d be missed, but you are an adult! In your thirties! You have only taken two crazy chances in your life: going on the annual senior ghost hunt and moving to New York. You’re overdue for a third. You toss your bag into your chair when you get home to channel your anger into something tangible. The chair lets out a small cry, and you jump, windmilling your arms until you realize it’s just Ombric. Once again, he’s alone. And it fully pisses you off.

“Okay, this is ridiculous, where is he?” you demand.

“I assume you’re speaking of Bunnymund?” he asks.

“Why is he avoiding me? Why’s he being so immature?!”

He cocks his head, lips twitching as if stopping himself from pasting on a self-satisfied smile. He clears his throat instead.

“As he pointed out himself, he is no expert in this form of magic and therefore his presence is not necessary at the lessons. The only reason he came before was that it was his problem—his artifact stolen, his home violated, his duty on the line—therefore he felt it necessary to supervise. According to him, anyway.”

You slide onto your bed, looking at Ombric across the way. You clasp your hands together to keep from gesturing wildly in your frustration. He takes it as the cue to start the lesson, but before you get too far into the first breathing exercise, he pauses.

“He asks after you,” he says. You open one eye. “I always stop by his place to keep him abreast of your progress. But he always asks about you. Specifically, if you’re all right.”

No words. Plenty of thoughts in your head but trying to articulate them results in a strained noise in the back of your throat. It feels like someone has thrown a bucket of water over you, weirdly enough. The odd shock is enough to get you from trembling, though you warm. Probably due the confusion, stress, and anger of the whole day. Ombric watches you, worried, until you finally get a response out.

“Why?”

He has no reason to. He has less than a reason to do so. Ombric shrugs.

“He always asks after people he cares about to some degree. Although… Did something cross between you two recently? He mentioned something about you summoning him here the other day.”

“I…” You cringe, remembering the petty argument. “I might have said something insulting about him and his ex. Him and Mothman?”

“And he still—!” for the first time, you see what Ombric looks like when he’s on the verge of excited hysteria. It’s alarming, and you wish you hadn’t sat down with your back to a wall. “He still asks? Oh… Ohhh!”

He mutters half words or perhaps in a language you don’t know for a minute or so. Eventually, however, he contains himself, refuses to answer anymore questions, and moves on with the lesson. Things return to the usual state, and you find yourself giving in to everything just to get it over with faster. Interestingly, this does result in a new development in the vision.

“I think this takes place during summer,” you say as you sip some water. It’s gotten easier to jump into visions, especially those you’ve had before, but that doesn’t mean it takes less energy. “Something about the atmosphere was just… middle of the year.”

“Excellent! I’ll mark that down, and we’ll be able to plan accordingly.”

“What if I’m wrong, though?”

“Hm?” He looks up from the note he’s making. “Well, it’s hardly a precise science, and you’re still getting in tune with everything, so if some things are off, so be it.”

“But what if?”

“Then you’re wrong. And you’ll have other opportunities to be right.”

“What if I’m so wrong I don’t get those opportunities?”

He shakes his head. “If you’re still alive, there is still time. But I also would not take too long to make a decision, just in case.”

He gathers his things and starts opening one of his own portals. Right before he steps through, you say, “Wait! Hang on a sec.”

He turns to you.

“Can you… Can you tell—him. Him.”

It seems like you should have Ombric take a message. If he has been asking after you, it seems fair enough to send something along. You struggle for the why and what, though. Then your eyes land on the experimental painting. You cringe at it, have for the last few days every time you made the mistake of looking at it. Worse, you almost understand what he might have been getting at. You still disagree, obviously—even Jesús thinks you other pieces are better—but after thinking back about other critiques you’ve gotten over the years, there’s an uncomfortable pattern emerging.

“Can you tell him that… his critique. That he gave me was. Not. The worst I’ve gotten. And I’m… Thankful for his honesty.”

He huffs a laugh. “I will do so. Have a good day.”

“You too,” you mutter.

As soon as he disappears, you remember that you never told him about your vacation. Oh well. There’s no lesson scheduled for before you leave, so a note left on the fire escape will have to suffice. A small thrill grows in you at the thought of defying the Guardians like this. Yes, you’ve been very overdue for a wildcard, impulsive decision.

The final day before the trip dawns, and it’s a special one. You walk down the road from the station arm in arm with Jesús, the sign for The Live Oak bar beckoning you onward. Today, Jesús meets your best friend.

It’s late—you’re just getting back from yet another long date they surprised you with. Another hard-to-get Broadway show, another expensive meal, another long walk and talk. The plane takes off early in the morning, but you really want to introduce the two of them before you leave. Gillian’s been badgering you about it for a while. It’s standard procedure between friends, and he’s been itching to give a good shovel talk. There’s a chance he may never forgive you if you skip town before he gets the chance.

As you approach the bar, despite the darkness, you notice that the papers that had decorated it are gone. When you asked, Gill said they were for protection, just a simple ward to keep bad vibes away and to keep his home safe. His obsessions are getting worse, including about the time egg. When he absolutely cannot have it on his person, he apparently tapes a ward to it and places it in a safe which he carved the ward into. Overkill, you told him, though he hasn’t actually let you see where the safe is. And apparently, he keeps the safe code behind three different ciphers to make sure only he can get to it. It’s bad. It’s getting worse.

Which is why you hope this meeting will roundaboutly snap him back to normal. For a bit, anyway.

You open the door and a ruckus greets you. The late-night fervor gives you a second wind, and you slalom Jesús through the crowd to the bar.

“Hey!” You wave down Gillian’s mother. She leans across the bartop to give you a hug, which ends up more of a clasp on your shoulder. “This is my partner, Jesús!”

“Well, hello! We’ve heard about you.” She indicates for you two to sit as she grabs two glasses.

“Just water for me,” you say.

“The same for me, if you please,” Jesús adds.

Two waters slide over, and she points to the kitchen doors, “He’s in there. Had a surge of gritcake orders, so he’s makin’ the pucks right now.”

You slip to the other end of the bar and carefully poke your head in the kitchen. Immediately, warm sweet and savory smells overwhelm you. The house syrup mingles with the sausveg gravy to make your mouth water, despite how full you are from your meal hours earlier. Gill stands over the square, stainless steel worktable, expertly flipping five gritcakes at a time into a heating well. Despite having a good rhythm, one falls and splits in half on the edge of the baking sheet. Gill actually bares his teeth and growls before grabbing the split pieces with his gloved hand and tosses them onto a pile of other ruins. He then sighs and rubs his eyes as best he can on his shoulder, blinking rapidly.

You wince. He’s getting less and less sleep as his obsessions grow.

Behind him, another worker rushes past, pausing to look at you strangely. Once she recognizes you, she nudges Gill with her shoulder, flinching when he turns on her to glare. She nods your way and scurries off. Gill finally notices you and flashes a weary smile.

“Gimme two minutes!” he calls. Two minutes later, he emerges, tossing his gloves into one of the compost hampers. He adjusts the finger cots on his pointer and middle fingers and rubs his hands together. “All right, where are they?”

You lead him to where his mom is still talking Jesús’ ear off. She looks up and indicates you’re on your way back, busying herself as Jesús turns to you. Gillian falters. You reach Jesús, sliding into their hold. Gill, however, is a few paces behind, gripping the bar, an odd look on his face.

“Gill?”

Jesús slips past you and holds out their hand. “Hello! It’s nice to finally meet the Gillian I’ve heard so much about.”

After a second, Gillian grasps their hand to shake.

“Same,” he says. Then he rubs his eyes and leans against the bar. “Sorry. I’ve been pulling a lot of all-nighters recently. I’m a bit tired.”

“You seem like a busy person.”

“You know it!”

Gill laughs at his joke, but Jesús merely smiles. They seem a little tense. Actually, both of them seem tense. Gillian is in his customer entertainment mode, which he can normally breeze through, but you can see the whites of his eyes surrounding his irises. You’ve been that tired before, though; maybe he’s just trying to act awake and is overcompensating. Jesús, meanwhile, is their usual polite self, but the look on their face suggests a warning. This is not how introducing your best friend to one of your partners has ever gone.

You wonder if you should step in, try to lighten the mood, but before you can, the need to go to the bathroom hits. Gillian’s mother hovers nearby, clearly keeping an ear out on her son as she bartends, so you feel comfortable disappearing for a minute. When you return, she’s clear at the other end of the bar helping the other bartender deal with some drunk, overexcited customers. Jesús is leaning close and speaking rapidly to Gillian, who scrunches himself down and nods.

“A field of red flags,” Chrissy’s words echo.

No, you tell the voice. It’s not a red flag if two people just don’t get along. Maybe we can’t all hang out at once, but we’ll figure it out.

As you approach them again, Jesús looks up and relaxes their posture.

“Are you ready to go?” they ask. You nod.

“Hey, sorry we can’t stay long,” you tell Gill. “We got caught up in things, but y’all’ve met now, and we can hang out a bit more once we get back.”

“Y-yeah!” he replies. “Honestly, I think you’re really gonna like the trip. Transylvania is really pretty, so I think you’ll find lots of inspiration for your art.”

You frown. “Wait, have you been?”

You can’t remember Gillian ever going to another country. Niagara Falls is the farthest you thought he’s gotten, and you’re unsure if he actually crossed to the Canadian side of it.

“Oh.” He’s sweating, looking like a deer frozen in the road. “Oh, no, I just went down an internet rabbit hole a while ago. Researched a lot of it. Looks nice! Like, maybe I’d… like to go one day.”

You don’t think you’ll get much more out of him tonight, and Jesús is gently tugging you to go. You pull Gillian into a deep hug.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” you whisper to him. “Soon, please.”

He squeezes back. “I will. I promise.” He lets you go, and with a strange solemnity he adds, “See you soon.”

You fall into bed once back at your apartment, and it seems like only seconds before the alarm goes off and Jesús drags you to the airport for the four AM flight. Despite your intent to sleep for half of the ten-hour flight, your mind buzzes too much to fully drift off. It’s too late, though, to try and help Gillian. He’ll have to lean on his parents until you get back.

Chapter Text

Bunny carefully pries apart two thick flower stalks that have twined together. It takes a few minutes, as both are over ten centimeters thick, and by the time he has one free, he’s drenched in sweat. The stems have grown into spirals, so thankfully it doesn’t take too much effort to wrap one arund a waiting post. A few minutes later, the other one goes around its own post and the two can finally stop choking each other out.

He wipes his head, cringing at the amount of sweat soaking into his fur. But, it’s a job well done, and he looks on the giant flowers with a pride which doubles when he sees a cloud of glowing pollen wafting over to them. He glances at the center is the full, confusing room to the near-invisible hole in the floor—the Source of Spring. It doesn’t produce the pollen, but its power seeps into everything nearby. There are a few trees in this room, and any roots that breach the surface of the soil have green streaks running through them. It’s quite the effect. He looks around for something else to fix while he’s here when the stone eggs call for him. He heads down the tunnel, back to his version of civilization, and sees Ombric.

The wizard not-so-sneakily “examines” one of the germination trays near Bunny’s house. As a result of his outburst, he’s getting the North treatment: the Guardians have officially put him on restrictions for the foreseeable future, and he may not interact with persons of interest without express permission from them, save for any previous obligations. He’s excused himself from the oracle lessons regardless, using all the extra time on his hands to crossbreed the egg plants for the first time in half a century. This time, he aims for thicker shells with a rougher tooth to hold paint and dye better. Unfortunately, whenever Bunny tries something new, Ombric is right there, eager to get his hands on it for his own tinkering.

“Don’t ya got a lesson to get to?” he asks loudly. Ombric jumps, guilty expression on his face.

“Ah, Bunnymund!” He opens his arms wide. “Yes, I was about to head for the oracle, but I felt I should stop by again first.”

“You don’t need me there, I’m not going,” Bunny recites. He reaches into the germination tray and presses the soil lightly, checking the moisture. “They are doing okay, though, right?”

A thoughtful smirk creeps across Ombric’s face. “Yes, they’re fine, at least they were a few days ago. Still crushed by their lost opportunity, but they did tell me something interesting.”

Despite pretending his disinterest, Bunny’s ears both immediately turn Ombric’s direction.

“Really? What’d they say?”

“Why, E. Aster Bunnymund, they told me that you two had gotten into an argument the day you went rogue.” Bunny rolls his eyes. It wasn’t that bad. “And they said they’d mentioned, of all beings, the Mothman—Arreedra!”

Bunny bristles, rubbing at his chest subconsciously. “Yes, and?”

“My boy, since your terrible relationship with him, you’ve hardly allowed anyone to mention him in your presence! To have that weaponized against you and still ask after their well-being?” His smirk grows wider. “The yetis’ rumors have slowed since your restrictions, but I would put money on them having merit after hearing this!”

“All right, first of all, I'm not your 'boy.'” Bunny raises himself up until he towers over the wizard and shoves a finger into his chest. “Second, Arreedra… isn’t—wasn’t—leave him outta this! And third!” He falters a bit and settles back on his haunches. “Third… who cares if it’s true or not? The yetis and half of you all have already decided what you think, the oracle has a partner and is mad at me, which doesn’t exactly make for—”

“They said they appreciate your critique.”

His mouth snaps shut. Ombric continues.

“They have asked where you are at every lesson you’ve missed. And once they confessed to their low blow regarding your personal life, they looked quite contrite. Bashful even. And then they asked that I pass along the thanks for... I assume an artistic critique you gave them.”

Sometimes, Bunny resents being the Guardian of Hope. He finds it too easy to succumb to his nature, despite a strong desire to stew and wallow. Granted, he sees no path to a romantic relationship with them at this point. Then again, he’s seen worse starts.

“No, no, you’re quite right,” Ombric says, jolting Bunny out of his thoughts. He apparently took the silence as anger. “That’s hardly an apology from them. Well, if they say something else, I’ll be sure to pass it—”

“Can I go talk to them?” Bunny asks. “Just really quick. I don’t need to stay for the lesson, I just want to clear the air.”

Ombric smiles. “Of course, my boy.”

Bunny opens a tunnel and leads the way, popping out onto the fire escape. As he goes to knock on the window, there’s a note taped to it.

Ombric,

Sorry for forgetting to tell you, and I promise I really did forget, but I will be on vacation for the next two weeks with my partner. I promise I’ll do some breathing exercises along the way. You can yell at me when I get back. Thank you for your patience.

Bunny rereads the note three times in the space of as many seconds. Ombric leans over his shoulder to see.

“Bunny,” he says, warning in his voice.

Bunny tunnels into the apartment, calling the oracle’s name. “Come on out, tell me this is a bad joke! Please!”

“Enough!”

A magical force slams into Bunny, knocking him to the ground. His arms lock to his sides and his legs stiffen. He lays there on the ground, no visible bindings, but he knows a capture spell when he’s in one. Ombric stands over him, shaking his head. Bunny starts to say something, but he snaps his fingers and the words disappear with a silencing spell. Just then, a crackling noise catches their attentions. It seems to come from around the entrance way, and after another few seconds, the noise gives way to the sound of the oracle’s name.

“Are you there? It’s Chrissy. I just want to talk for a second.”

There’s a click, and the sound goes dead. Bunny wriggles just enough to turn his head and see the ancient intercom. Ombric looks just as intrigued as he does.

“Hello?” comes the crackle again. “Please be there. I know you’re not at work, but you told me you’re leaving tomorrow. Please, can we please talk?”

Ombric approaches the intercom, snapping to dispel the binding spell.

“Should I try?” he mutters, finger hovering over the call button. The chances of this human adult Believing enough to understand them is slim, but sometimes radios or phones or security cameras act as just enough of a medium for direct communication. Bunny nods. Ombric presses the button and says, “Greetings, Chrissy. Can you hear me?”

There’s a delay before she responds frantically, "Hello? Are you there? Your end might not be working but I heard the button click. Please, please, please talk to me. Please answer your phone!”

The two Guardians sigh in frustration. No, she’s a very normal human.

“Hello?!” She sounds on the verge of tears. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t think your partner is who they say they are!”

At that, Ombric tips his chin and teleports them out to the front door. They find a smartly-dressed blonde woman alternating between calling into the intercom and frantically hitting the buzzer. The entrance to the building has a whole wall of windows. One of the tenants stands back toward the lift, a skeptical look on their face as they watch Chrissy’s hysterics. Eventually, though, Chrissy lays her head against the brick wall.

“Sunuvabitch, you’ve already left, haven’t you?” she whispers. She bangs her head against the wall a few times before pushing of of it with a gasp. Almost immediately, it turns into a groan and disgusted grimace. “He’d be the one to know though, wouldn’t he? Dammit!”

She takes off down the street, walking much faster than Bunny thinks most humans can in open-toed kitten heels. They’re right behind her, unsurprised when she beelines for the gaping hole that is the Live Oak bar. About half a block away, Ombric grabs Bunny and casts an invisibility spell over them both.

“Let’s not take any unnecessary risks,” he says, and they approach where the entrance way should be. They monitor the people going in and out, and not five minutes later, Chrissy bursts from the ether, red-faced and crying.

“Fuck you and your stupid… stupid… Fuck you!”

One or two passersby make a wide berth around her. She watches the entrance way and after a second, she throws her hands up.

“They’re your best friend, how can you not care?!” A pause, another fresh wave of red into her cheeks. “Fine! Fine! Fine!”

And she storms off toward the train station.

“I think she’s our only lead on this,” Bunny says to Ombric. “If there’s something weird about their partner—if their best friend isn’t trying to contact them…”

For a second, the wizard looks conflicted. Bunny swivels his head to keep an eye on Chrissy, making sure the crowd doesn’t swallow her.

“Yes, let’s proceed,” Ombric replies. “I will contact a liaison as soon as possible.”

They spend a deeply uncomfortable thirty minutes in a packed car, at least two humans each halfway passing through them the whole way. Ombric takes it worse than Bunny. Although Bunny himself could do better at getting out more, but Ombric rarely gets out of Santoff Claussen. He heaves breath after breath, bordering on hyperventilating, until Bunny reaches out and lets him hold his hand in a death grip. Finally, though, finally Chrissy rushes back to street level and they can get fresh air and some extra space.

She doesn’t stop until she gets to a beautiful old building, its first floor home to a variety of colorful businesses and a small queer history museum. Despite being in a third floor walkup, the climb barely makes a dent in Chrissy’s stamina. She smoothly unlocks her door, slips in, and slams it in bunny’s and Ombric’s faces.

“Augh!” she shrieks within.

After tunneling into her apartment—a spacious two-bedroom that makes the oracle’s studio seem like a closet—the two of them search for some extra identification information. A surname at the very least. As they rummage through her papers, she occasionally looks up at the noise, her confusion growing when she can neither see anything happening nor find an open window to explain the sudden verve of inanimate objects. But they find what they need, and Ombric makes the call.

Andre knocks on Chrissy’s door. There’s no answer right away, so they knock again. Bunny hears confused murmuring and shuffling inside. Given that it’s ten pm, he understands. Nevertheless, she approaches, and Bunny bounces on his paws to burn off some of the anticipation. Beside him, Ombric, Toothiana, and a few of her fairies wait patiently. Chrissy unlocks the door and opens it as far as the chain allows.

“Can I help you?”

“Good evening,” Andre says. “Are you Ms. Chrystal Applegate?”

She winces at her full name. “I usually just go by Chrissy—I mean, who are you?”

“My name is Andre, and I came to you concerning a mutual friend.”

At the oracle’s name, Chrissy’s eyes light up. Her hand twitches up near the chain, but it retreats.

Andre continues, “I and my cohorts have been in contact with them, and we recently were told that they were seeing someone. However, we could not learn much about them, and only some hours ago, we found out that the two had, allegedly gone off together on some sort of trip. They mentioned you a few times as a friend, so we were hoping you could enlighten us. We’re very worried for their safety.”

“‘We?’” She narrows her eyes and darts them around, clearly seeing none of the others.

“My colleagues and I.”

“You’re par of some sort of organization?”

“In a sense…”

Andre takes the opportunity to do some minor magic. With a flourish, they summon a smoky prism pulsing with rainbows. With their other hand behind their back, they project a breeze in her apartment that stirs the papers and knocks something over. Chrissy looks at the noise, jaw tight, and then she peers back through the crack in the door at the prism. Just then, one of the mini-fairies—which had been unusually calm and very focused on the human—sneezes. It’s a tiny, adorable sound, but Chrissy briefly turns in the direction of the sound.

They have an in.

Andre says, “If you’ll let us in, I can explain everything. All we ask is that you Believe. I promise we have only your friend’s safety in mind.”

There’s a buzzing noise. Chrissy yanks out her phone, only for her face to fall. She goes back to contemplating the request, tapping her cheek with the phone.

“Can’t we talk out here?” she asks.

Andre shakes their head. “I’m afraid this must be done in your home. That’s why I ask you to Believe—that you will walk away from this conversation, and that your friend is in good hands.”

Her resolve wanes.

“Please,” Andre tries again, “we went to Gillian but he—”

“He’s an ass who’s no help,” she spits. “Fine. You can come in, but the door remains open.”

Andre nods. Chrissy shuts the door and the chain rattles and scrapes on the other side. She reopens the door and ushers them in. Andre helps themself to a chair. Chrissy remains standing. Bunny enters, and Toothiana holds his shoulder. She places her hand on the threshold, ducking as she passes through, and once in the clear, she pulls a tooth box—Chrissy’s tooth box—out of her bag to wait for the signal. Meanwhile, the mini-fairy who sneezed hovers around Chrissy and chirping. She must detect, however faintly, that something is there, as she shakes her head and waves her hand around her ear as if shooing bugs away.

“By the way,” Andre says, holding out the prism to her, “this is for you.”

Distracted, she takes it automatically. There’s a moment where she looks at it properly that she freezes. Not in fear, but in realization of its true nature. Her hand starts shaking.

“Oh!” She drops it. Both her hands fly to cover her mouth.

“Now, Tooth,” Bunny says.

Toothiana’s fingers dance over the tooth box. Its tiled cover unfurls, letting a brief, bright light out. The mini-fairy fussing over Chrissy glows in concert, chirping and darting around the woman’s head. Chrissy… pauses. Her face relaxes, serene, and she kneels down to pick up the prism.

“Huh…” She turns it over and over, watching each facet. Then, the fairy chirps again. Chrissy jumps and locks her eyes directly on it. “H-hello?”

Tooth inhales sharply and grips Bunny’s shoulder. Worried as he is for the oracle, he still smiles at her excitement. It’s always nice to know their work is well-received.

“Can you see this?” Chrissy asks Andre. She holds her cupped palms out to the fairy, and it lands in the center.

“I can, yes,” Andre replies. “That’s one of the Tooth Fairy’s many helpers.”

“The…” She raises an eyebrow. “TheTooth Fairy?”

They smile kindly. “Of course. When the Tooth Fairy manages to collect a whole set of baby teeth, their combined magic manifests into one of these fairies. And this one in particular—”

“This one!” Chrissy stares at the fairy, who puffs up proudly and cheeps. “This one… This one?”

“Yes.”

“Oh…” Her eyes glimmer with tears. “Oh, wow!”

“Attagirl,” Tooth says, tearing up herself.

Chrissy’s head snaps up, and she clutches the mini-fairy to her chest protectively. Her eyes widen when she spots Toothiana, and Bunny nudges Tooth toward the human. Chrissy spares him one bewildered glance before returning to Tooth.

“Hello!” Tooth says. She holds out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Your teeth are gorgeous.”

The meeting runs for over an hour. Half of it is spent fielding questions and letting Tooth bask in newfound admiration. Eventually, however, it comes back to the task at hand. And how.

“So, you know, despite not being the best of friends with them, I’m still gonna watch out for them!” Chrissy says. Her mini-fairy pats her cheekbone, having relocated to her shoulder. “Both me and Nirupama did our best to try and mitigate whatever might happen. Here.”

She pulls out her phone and swipes through her photos, cruising past selfies, public art installations, and appetizing meals until she gets to a blurry photo. Bunny inhales shakily. There they are, the oracle. He swallows. They’re grinning up at another human, presumably their partner based on the way they’re holding them.

When did my feelings get this strong? he asks himself. Feels like I just realized…

“So, they told me that Jesús did photography and even showed me one of their pieces briefly. Nirupama managed to get this picture of them, and I called in a favor with DeShaun, our resident photography guru, and he asked around and… And literally no one in anyone’s circle had heard of this person. And that can’t be right! They’re dropping bucketloads of money left and right on expensive gifts and hard to get tickets and international trips and—” Chrissy’s brows knit together. Her eyes widen, as if realizing something. “And possibly sponsoring last-minute art show changes that would lead to a mental breakdown and an openness to impulse decisions…”

“D’you have one with their partner’s face clear?” Bunny asks. After looking at this for long enough, a sick feeling creeps into his stomach. But, no, it couldn’t be, right?

Chrisy shakes her head. “It’s the strangest thing. Nirupama isn’t a photographer, but she knows how to use a camera. The fact that zero photos have a clear image of Jesús’ face is creepy. Come to think of it.” She bites her lip. “I know this isn’t a good thing to say, but they give me the creeps in person. Not even because they look ‘weird’ whatever that might mean. But, gun to my head, I could not pick them out of a lineup.”

The sinking feeling settles further in his stomach as he swipes between the photos of the oracle’s partner. It seems so obvious now, he wants to kick himself. He hands the phone to Ombric, who takes a moment before realizing as well.

“Oh no,” he says.

“What do you mean by that?” Chrissy says. “Oh, that means it’s bad, isn’t it?”She looks between all of them. “No, no. That means it’s worse.”

“That’s the Stranger,” Bunny says.

Somehow Chrissy goes paler than she already is. Bunny has years of practice staying calm for others’ benefit, but he wants to do the same, to look as terrified as he feels. But he sets his jaw and pretends as if they already have the situation under control.

Ombric wipes his hand over his face. “The Stranger has the oracle and it taking them gods know where.”

“Romania.”

They all look at Chrissy. She wrings her hand.

“They were talking all the time about how Jesús was taking them to Romania. And Transylvania.”

“To the werewolves,” Bunny says as Chrissy blanches for the third time. “It’s delivering them right to the werewolves.”

Chapter Text

Despite napping and a caffeine pick-me-up at your layover, the twelve hour flight takes its toll. Once you finally disembark, it takes every ounce of your remaining stamina to get through customs. Jesús more or less ends up carrying you to a waiting cab. You take a bleary look at the driver, struck by their wild mane of hair. It’s thick, groomed, but in a way that suggests they’re outside for hours at a time.

The hair around their ear twitches. You blink and squint, swearing that their ear is covered in the same hair, as well as long and someone pointed. Not like an elf’s, but maybe a cat? Or a corgi? The car lurches into motion and your exhaustion catches up to you. You doze on Jesús’ shoulder.

Sometime later, the car hits the brakes hard jolting you awake. The world is bathed in dappled gold, but you’re too disoriented to figure out if it’s because of sunrise or sunset. The confusion delays the realization that Jesús is no longer beside you. The front doors open, and both the driver and the front passenger get out.

Was there always another passenger? you wonder.

You rub your eyes to wake up a little more, but they’re still puffy and itchy. Suddenly, the back passenger door opens, and someone slides in beside you. You zip to the other side, knocking your head against the roof of the car. Almost as quickly, you relax and feel silly. It’s just Jesús. They fold their hands and look at you with a placid smile. You start to return it, but then you blink a few times. Then a few times more. They look different, despite looking the exact same they always have. Yet, there’s no question about it: their visage is… off. You home in on the smaller details until they call your name, and you snap up to their face.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Jesús says. “But, before we arrive at our lodgings, I need to explain something to you. I need to explain myself.”

You nod, thinking, There was a better place to explain this, surely. Like North America before liftoff rather than the middle of a Romanian forest.

“I knew you were special the moment we met. I could see a magical spark in your eyes. And I am in dire need of someone like you.”

They flux. That’s the best way you can process it. A smooth ripple across their skin; ink dispersing into a cup of water. The topography of their facial features shifts.

They continue, “My people and I are under attack from others. They kindly adopted me into their clan when I had nowhere else to go, and in return, I helped them dispatch a tyrant.” Something pings at the back of your mind. Your stomach does a small flip. “Now, please, do not think of them as simple folk. They have seen much hardship, both from the more urban centers of society and from being under the thumb of an exploitative coward. Their lives are only getting harsher, and we have a limited time before the revolution is completely crushed.”

That field of red flags saturates bright. You shake your head and slowly lean your arm over the car door. The latch is right beneath your fingertips, though you wit to do anything rash.

Say “Just kidding,” you think. You want it to be a cruel prank, what you think is going on, who you think Jesús might really be. But you know them, right? This is just bad timing, awkward reasoning, terrible misunderstanding.

Another confession,” they say, not waiting for you to reply. “Yesterday was not the first time I’ve met Gillian. He and I have been in correspondence for some time. I am his Friend.”

Your stomach sinks. This is the other shoe dropping right onto your head. Before you can reply tactfully and safely, though, you open your mouth and say, “You’re that Stranger Bunny’s been talking about aren’t you?”

At once, its face freezes into a hard glare. Its entire body stiffens preternaturally, and you feel like cornered prey.

“He assured me you were ignorant of the Guardians,” it rasps. “He told me he had kept them from poisoning for mind.”

You open the door and launch yourself out. It’s not especially graceful, since you fall backwards, but you manage to kick the door shut in the Stranger’s face. A twin line of tire tracks lead away from where the car is parked, and you allow panic and survival instinct to get you up and follow them, even managing to keep track of it where the impressions are light.

Suddenly, your sight flickers. A dark shape bursts from the bushes on one side, and you swerve. Yet, you stop and nearly fall, the double vision confusing your balance. You concentrate enough to get rid of the future while not stopping your run. You shortly reach a now-familiar point in the forest and swerve to avoid the wolf—at the wrong time. You screech to a halt, barely avoiding crashing into the wolf.

Oh, it’s huge! You swallow, throat dry and scratchy. That can’t be how big they really are. Maybe… maybe because it’s a werewolf…

Said werewolf reaches your chest at its shoulder and is two thirds the size of the car. It stares up at you with eyes too keen to be an animals’ and bares its teeth. You try to sidestep, but it swipes a paw at your leg. You dance out of the way, doing your best to even out your breathing and invite the future visions back in. Maybe you can conjure up a happy ending to this nightmare.

Three steps. Back against something. So sidestep left on two and a half. One… two… You angle yourself left before the hit it supposed to come. A hand barely misses catching you. I can do this. I have to do this.

You start to turn, to finally run and trust the overlaid visions to get away and back to the nearest town, but not three gallops down the road, your ankle rolls, catching in the depression of the tire track. It’s a sprain; you know it instantly. Your entire body weight falls on it, sending a sharp pain through your ankle and up your shin, pins and needles fizzing right after it. There’s a huffing sound over your shoulder. The werewolf towers over you, shrinking your flight instinct into a meek freeze. It chuffs, its breath gusting over your cheek.

“All right, now.”

A hand grasps your shoulder. The Stranger leans down and helps you up and balances you when a mere step nearly makes your leg collapse from the pain. There werewolf transforms back into a humanoid to grab your other side, but the feat doesn’t register as extraordinary in the face of your current kidnapping. They lead you back to the car. Ease you into the backseat. Strap you into the center bench seat away from the doors. The Stranger drapes its arm over your shoulder and clutches so tight you can’t even lean away from it. Its other hand clamps around your wrists and keeps them firmly in your lap. It speaks lowly and gently, but you deliberately focus on your ankle for the duration of the ride, watching it swell and purple, feeling every jolt of pain that comes with the rough ride to stay grounded and not cry.

The only time you look up is when the car passes through a magically charged field. You can’t see it, but you feel the zing of power rush up your spine, where it settles into a crackly haze around your mind. Visions crossfade back and forth across your sight like a movie. You turn to the basic breathing exercises, and while that does help you concentrate, there’s something about the proximity to so much magic that you can’t escape. There was a similar hum in your brief time in Santoff Claussen, but this is so much, so thick, so wild. You shiver. The Stranger squeezes your shoulder.

“Almost there,” it says.

Ten minutes later, the car slows and parks. Low murmurs start to build outside, and a swath of furred heads bob around the car. You keep your eyes down. If you see how many werewolves there are, you will lose it; all of this will become real. That doesn’t stop you from hearing the murmurs turn to cheers and excitement, though you’re thankful you can’t understand a word of the language. The Stranger makes some sort of announcement, resulting in more cheers, and then it leads you through the parting crowd, over to a nondescript building. The first floor has remarkable flooring; under other circumstances, you’d love to examine the rest of the architecture, especially since the ceiling is just visible in the reflective tiles.

The Stranger leads you to a small, windowless room on the second or third floor. It may as well be a glorified closet. But finally, it sets you on the bed, propping your ankle up. You stomach turns. Your head continues to buzz. Your sight slips into flashes of visions over and over again. The Stranger sinks into a chair pushed up next to the bed and gently grasps your hands. Only a few weeks ago, this had been comforting. Maybe. Had it ever really been? How long has it been planning this?

“I’m sorry to bring you here under these circumstances,” it says. “Rest assured, we will get to the bottom of the miscommunication with our mutual friend. In the meantime, we have some deprogramming to do, don’t we?”

It starts talking, but not really. Its voice seems to permeate every cell in your body, but you’re not quite sure if that’s a power it has or due to the continuing havoc of your visions trying their best to overtake you. Regardless, you’re losing this battle. Sinking, sinking deeper, your body relaxes, even if you can’t stop shaking and your heart beat wildly, and your jaw is clenching so tight that you feel pressure on your teeth. The hypnotic chaos surrounding you drags you away from yourself until you find the multitudes of compartments you’ve been crafting and tuck yourself into the nearest one.

Just in time, as there’s a huge wave of magical energy that washes through, thoroughly triggering your visions to become vibrant displays encompassing your entire current understanding.

Chapter Text

For once, Bunny is completely still, sunk in a deep chair. He grips the arms in his claws as if he’s clinging to a cliffside. His muscles strain and his tendons thrum, matching the buzz in his head. All that kinetic energy has to go somewhere.

Eggs in the basket: 1) The Oracle has been kidnapped, 2) to the werewolves in Transylvania, 3) and they have hidden the village behind anti-immortal wards.

Now, how do I get them out of there?

A sound outside catches his attention. His head moves slowly, remembering motion, until he faces the front door of his dwelling. Someone hikes over the grassy paths outside. They slow and speed up, but never fully falter in coming closer. Alongside them, there’s a second set of loping steps, completely animal in nature. Said creature emits soft bleats and sneezes.

“Bunny?” the hiker calls. The creature’s footsteps suddenly become a gallop. “Kidra! Kidra!”

A ten-foot-long animal—hunched, sloping back like a hyena, short black-green iridescent fur, long front claws that curve as it trots on its knuckles, patches of hard, scaly armor covering its face and leg joints like an armadillo—scrambles through the front door, nearly climbing up the wall as it slides through the sharp turn. Its batlike ears pinpoint his location, and then Kidra rushes over, rubbing its lithe body on his chair and laying its head in his lap. Despite himself, Bunny gives it some scritches. A few seconds later, the immortal known as Cheirok—an alchemist and Pitch’s partner—walks through the door.

“Oh, there you are,” the alchemist says. They glance back out at the Warren. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place at low production. Very quiet…”

“D’you have it?” he says.

They pull out a burlap sack, the contents chiming and clinking against each other. Bunny reaches for it, but they pull it just out of reach.

“Do the others know you’re doing this?” they ask.

He presses his lips into a tight line and tries to grab the bag again. They whistle, and Kidra perks up from where it’s wrapping its prehensile tongue around a paintbrush. It heels, shoving between the two of them. Bunny sighs. If he didn’t need this stuff…

“I only ask because my partner heard from North that you did something, uh, unwise? Recently. And now, like when North acted up, you’re… grounded?”

“Pretty sure there’ll be an inquiry when they find out what I’m doing,” he replies. “You sure you want to know?

They consider that and finally hand over the bag. He nods in thanks.

“I still get two hours, right?” they ask.

“Two? We agreed to one.”

“Yeah, but if this—” they wave their hand over the bag. “—is so bad that you won’t tell me anything about it, I think my silence and apathy are worth more than that. Probably worth closer to ten, so three is a bargain.”

“Three now?”

Though they’re a true immortal, the alchemist is not a Guardian. This means that they have no business with Guardian business. However, they always manage to glean the outline of things, what with their sharp sense of observation and their partner’s friendship with North. In exchange for them circumventing his restrictions and delivering some components to him, he agreed to let them collect samples all around the Warren for use in their many questionable experiments.

Still, they have a point…

“Sure,” he says through gritted teeth. The alchemist’s eyes widen in shock, and then a delighted, almost manic, smile worms across their face. “Three hours.”

“And I can go anywhere? And take samples of anything?”

Just say you’re gonna go straight to the Source of Spring, Bunny thinks. But he replies. “Yes. Anywhere and anything. Within reason.”

“Of course, of course…” But they’re not fully paying attention. They start for the door and pause. “One more thing: I’ve heard a few more rumors coming down the North Pole grapevine…”

Bunny closes his eyes.

“Do you—”

“Yes!” he says “Yes, I do like them! Who cares?”

They blink and finish, “… Do you really have a time travel egg?” They tilt their head, eyes alight with keen interest and a leer on their face he swears they learned from their partner. “Go on.”

“Two and a half hours starting now!” Bunny says, burning up.

They roll their eyes but whistle for Kidra. The creature darts out the door ahead of them, ears alert. Before the alchemist follows, though, they say, “Since this sounds like a dire situation, have a bit of this.” They rummage through their bag and produce a tiny vial filled with a violently green viscous substance. “Distilled luck. My son went to Ireland last year and came back with some clovers.”

Bunny cringes at the sight of the thing. Their experiments are interesting, but it was one such concoction that blinded Tooth. He’s been reluctant to try any since unless they had years of development and at least two others have used it without harsh side effects. The alchemist’s track record since Tooth’s incident has been spotless, but that distrust lingers… perhaps strengthened by their choice of partner.

This could mean the difference between success or failure, though, he reasons. Slowly, Bunny takes the bottle from them. Can’t be more than a hundred milliliters. Maybe two sips.

“It can’t overwrite everything,” the alchemist says. “A drop or two can help find something small. Probably would have to chug a gallon to win the lottery. It’s very frustrating that I can’t make consistent predictions on it beyond ‘more liquid equals more luck to accomplish bigger tasks.’”

“You’ve tested it?”

“As much as I could. The comparisons are relative, but it wont change fate.”

“Won’t iron out a big enough wrinkle…”

The alchemist is halfway out the door now. “Whatever metaphor works for you. Bye!”

They rush after Kidra, predictably disappearing in the direction of the Source.

Bunny tucks the bottle into his bandolier and tips the bag out onto a table. Dozens of mirror shards clatter onto the wood, sparking and humming where their jagged edges touch. Some are completely inert, too fractured to keep more than a faint, generic trace of magic in them. Most still spark with the time magic, but they’re far too small for what he intends. Unfortunately, there are no pieces like the one the oracle-from-the-future had. Nothing even close to dagger-length that would be easier to wield. The best he has are three hand-sized pieces, surfaces cloudy with minute, smoky sparks.

He holds one between thumb and forefinger, arm outstretched, and moves it in a circle like he’s slicing the air. It takes a few passes, but then there’s a snag. He carefully applies more pressure to the spot in the air and cuts. The small rift fills the room with the tang of time. Bunny’s heart thumps in his ears, and he breaks into a cold sweat that makes him shudder. The sudden reaction takes him off-guard, and at first he thinks it’s just apprehension at circumventing the Guardians’ restrictions. Their friendships have survived worse, however, and once he makes the test rift larger, the truth strikes him.

Pooka culture demanded reverence and deference to the time stream. Specifically, to making sure linear time flowed unimpeded and unmolested. It didn’t matter what tragedies or suffering or evil came to pass, they were not to intervene, nor tolerate anyone who tried. Whatever happened, happened. Merely implying they use time travel to change an unideal outcome was tantamount to blasphemy and came with whispers, frowns, and clucking about how “uncreative” and “barbaric” the blasphemer was. Bunny has lived among humanity for so long that this rigid morality had nearly left his mind and mannerisms. Yet, before he can make the rift big enough to poke his head through, he clenches his hand so tight that there’s a pop, and the shard shatters in his hand.

“Ah!”

Bunny carefully picks the smaller pieces out of his paw before the wounds close over the splinters. This is unfortunate. Actually, it’s closer to a disaster. He only has two tries left to see if he can get back in time before the wards went up…

Three more tries, actually, he realizes suddenly.

Bunny grabs the other two shards and marches straight to his storage shed, brushing right past the clutch of stone eggs he’d set to guard the entrance. They startle and try to follow him, but he’s not going far. Just to a certain display case, which he opens, retrieving the cracked artifact.

Three more tries, counting this. Maybe more.

The mirror shards spark in his hand, and the crack of the artifact responds much the same. Bunny tucks away the shards so he doesn’t accidentally set anything off. He’d like to actually complete one stage of his stupid idea before it starts blowing up in his face. In fact, in light of that, he retrieves the luck and takes the tiniest sip. Immediately, a calm sureness floods through him. He almost gets sick with nervousness, but he knows he’ll be okay—or at least has the confidence to try despite the odds. He nods to the eggs swaying by the entrance.

“Make sure to kick ‘em out after three hours,” he tells them. He concentrates. The artifact warms and light swells up from the crack, and he feels a tug. Bunny falls through time, the glow encompassing him.

His feet touch chilly earth, and the scents of alpine trees and distant woodfire flood his senses. He’s alive, at least. He checks: no missing limbs, no horrible burns, though the artifact is extremely overheated. He props it up on some rocks as he gets his bearings and tries to figure out when exactly he’s traveled to, not to mention if he’s remotely close to the werewolves.

Soft footsteps approach. Bunny spies an outcrop of gray boulders. He snatches up the artifact and lays flat behind them, peeking up just enough to look over them as he (hopefully) blends in. As the footsteps get louder, so do yips and whines. Three wolves, about as large as Skreeklavic, come into view and approach the spot he was standing before. One of them puts their nose to the ground and sniffs before raising their head. The other two sniff after as the first turns toward the rocks.

Bunny slowly backs away from his lookout, swallowing his panic down. He carefully opens a tunnel and waits. He listens, tracking the movement of the wolves, who are now padding toward him. He waits… waits… waits… until he’s sure they’re almost on top of him, and then he slips into the tunnel. He emerges under a dense brush cover several meters away just in time to hear a snarl and see the first wolf lunge at the rocks. The other two rush after them, spreading out to flank their prey. Upon finding nothing and not picking up Bunny’s scent again, they trot off.

Bunny follows them at a distance, and they lead him right to the village. It seems he traveled far back enough that they haven’t set up the wards, which is good. Plan working so far. That night, he ventures into the village after most everyone falls asleep and finds a curiously unused building. The main foyer seems to be clean, suggesting consistent use, but even a simple closet off to the side has a centimeter of dust buildup all over it. To say nothing of the cellar he sets himself up in.

Best place to lay low, he says to himself, trying to get used to the smell of musty, moldering root vegetables. I should be able to find out how long until the oracle gets here.

Turns out the werewolves use a lunar calendar rather than the Gregorian one. However, it’s a lunar calendar unlike any he’s seen for various religions or other societies have used. Worse, they only have one, huge timepiece located in the middle of the village, something between an elaborate sundial and Stonehenge with fewer features. He tries to puzzle it out in between watch patrols over the course of a week, but he quickly tires of spending up to sixteen hours in the cellar. The next day, he hears a bunch of wolves gathering in the foyer and decides to eavesdrop, see if he can’t be more productive during the daytime.

He tunnels into the forgotten storage closet and waits. Luckily, it seems like it’s a bunch of wolf cubs at play. Children of all kinds are more prone to letting secrets drop, unaware of what it really means to keep a secret yet.

“Have you heard of the night creature?” one asks. Bunny freezes.

“My brother saw it!” another replies. “Said it looked like a starving bear on its hind legs and was hunting around the calendar.”

“I saw it too, and it tried to eat me!” yet another child adds breathlessly. “But I hit it between the eyes with a rock and chased it away.”

“Nuh-uh! My brother heard it running around last night when he was on patrol!”

Another reason to put a stop to his new skulking habit. If enough children lose enough sleep, they’ll no doubt increase the patrols. Just as he starts trying to work out the logistics of learning to read the calendar, there’s a wave of Déjà Vú magic and the pups start yipping excitedly.

“You’re back!” they yell. “Why were you gone so long. Tell us about SCAD!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Gillian says. Bunny glues his ear to the door. “I can’t play today,” he says to a chorus of howls. “I have to help get a room ready for the friend I keep telling you about.”

“The oracle?!” The pups go ballistic, chattering over each other.

Gillian tries to quiet them down gently a few times before yelling, “Silence!”

The atmosphere shifts. A few whines break through the new silence, and Bunny resists barging in to confront the human on the children’s behalf.

“Sorry…” Gillian says. “It’s been a bit stressful lately. I had one of the immortals break into my home back in New York.” The wolves voice their sympathy and fear for him, and Bunny tries not to be sick. They’re being fed fearmongering lies, and sure, to some extent so is the human, but at some point he needs to question things for himself and realize what good and bad is. Gillian speaks up again, “But, yes, I’ve also been preparing for… the oracle to arrive.”

“Tell us more about them,” the pups ask.

“Sure. They’re my best friend,” Gillian says, genuine fondness entering his voice. “I love them very much, and they’re an excellent artist and…” A hitching breath. “They’re… powerful. Or they have the potential to be very powerful. So powerful that our Friend… wants their help. Instead of just relying on us.”

Is that what this comes down to? Bunny wonders. Jealousy that they have powers and he doesn’t? The artifact isn’t enough?

“Thank you for listening to me,” Gillian says. “But you all go out and play. I have to go upstairs and fix up that room. They’ll be here a while, to my understanding.”

“When are they coming?”

Bunny is about to head back to the cellar when the last question happens. He settles back in. Gillian thinks for a second, and then sighs.

“Two days, max. It’s a long flight.”

Fuck. Bunny bites his hand to keep from yelling the word. They’re on their way already. Well, at least he doesn’t have to wait several weeks. As soon as they get here, he’ll be able to get them back out.

Gillian shoos the cubs out of the building and heads up the stairs. Bunny does his best to follow at a distance, but hallways are narrow and there are few corners. He does manage to find the room that Gillian fixes up, all the while telling himself that the Stranger does indeed care about him and his contribution to this endeavor. Bunny swallows down his pity; he may not be out to kill this human, but it’s easier to think of him as an enemy. There’s no room for nuance at this stage.

“And once the immortals are gone, society can live in harmony with magic—”

Gillian suddenly exits the room, linens in hand. Bunny had been pacing, mind straying off to other things, so he doesn’t notice when he’s seen at first. That quickly changes as Gillian’s shouting alerts him. Bunny immediately tunnels away to the cellar this time keeping alert in case they look here. He’s not sure where to go if they do find him; he needs to remain here for the next forty-eight hours or so. He fishes out the luck and contemplates taking another sip. If he does that, though, he’ll have less to use for the rescue.

A spike in magical energy ends his inner argument for him. It’s so potent and overwhelming that Bunny can only curl up into himself, locking his jaw tight to make sure he doesn’t scream. A few minutes later, the flare dies down, though the intense swirl doesn’t. Bunny carefully inches over to the tiny square window set high in the cellar’s wall. He doesn’t expect to see much, but there’s nothing. He blinks. What should be the pack’s village in the middle of the day is nothing but blank, vaguely yellowish void.

Bunny rushes to the cellar doors leading to the outside and flings them open. The impenetrable nothingness is flat. He blinks, then blinks rapidly. As he does, the village returns briefly in the strobe. He swallows and reaches out in front of him. His claw barely makes it past the hinges when a sharp, staticky power coalesces at the tip and flings him backwards with such force that his shoulder nearly wrenches from its socket. Once he recovers, Bunny shakily pulls out one of the mirror shards. Sure enough, he can just barely see the reflection of the village in it, blinking in and out of his perception.

The wards are up, at least around the building. So quickly, too, that he has a sickening feeling Gillian stepped through time to install them. Regardless, he’s effectively caged in. The mirror shards and artifacts are the only ways out, but he can’t even think about using them until he has the oracle again. The only option is to wait two days.

So, Bunny settles back in, alternating which legs bounce in anxiety and impatience.

The sun sets twice, as far as he can tell. The void outside can’t block out the sun, so he watches it fade from blueish to gold to black and back again. It’s the only entertainment he has, besides obsessively carving designs into the rotting wood crates surrounding him. But finally, a new noise catches his attention. A bunch of voices swarm into the hallways above him. He carefully tunnels into the storage closet and listens.

“So glad to meet you—”

“Any friend of Gillian’s is ours as well!”

“We can finally vanquish the magic-stealers!”

“Calm, calm!” comes another voice. The surrounding yips and whines die down, and this voice—simultaneously intriguing and slippery—says, “We are all glad to finally see this day. But as you can tell, our new friend is overwhelmed from the journey. I will get them situated, and join you for the celebration.”

Somehow, Bunny makes himself wait. Wait until he hears nothing but the slight hum of electricity in the air. Wait until all the echoes die and then slip firmly into their graves. Wait until the smell of a whole pack of excited wolves disappears.

He exits the storage closet.

He takes out the remaining luck.

And he drinks it all down before bolting up the stairs.

Chapter Text

“First and foremost, you have to understand that the immortals only want to use you.”

You struggle to keep calm in this wild and terrifying situation. The Stranger sits next to you, still wearing Jesus’ face. And you so badly want to believe their words, so badly want to trust that face. Over the last month or so, it’s what you’ve clung to in turbulent times, and there’s a part of you that refuses to reconcile that that safety was and is a lie. You close your eyes.

“This won’t disappear just because you don’t want to look at it.” The Stranger grabs your chin. “Look at me.”

You scrunch your eyes tighter. This has the effect of enhancing the visions forcing themselves into your psyche. (So many small things—werewolf cubs tripping or fighting each other; an alarm going up around the village; terror at the idea of an invasion; finding a lost toy.) It blurs together in a montage of events with no structure. No beginning or end.

“Look at me.” You’d rather do anything else, including falling into the future.

(The art show goes off without a hitch for the lucky artist who replaced you. The art show is underwhelming in attendance for the artist who replaced you. The art show changes almost nothing for Standstill Symposium and is a mild success for the GreenWitch Collective. New York Exists as always. New York Is depressed as the economy stumbles.)

“You will look at me and listen to me if you care about Gillian’s welfare.”

That drags you back to the present, and you open your eyes. The Stranger smiles—as in maneuvers the corners of its mouth out and up to mimic a smile but forgets to engage any other facial muscles to make the effort believable. Or maybe it doesn’t forget; maybe it just bares its teeth.

“Don’t hurt him,” you growl, though your voice trembles.

“I suppose that’s entirely up to you, now isn’t it?” It leans in and you try to pull your head back, try to keep your food down as it barely stops before your noses meet. “What lies have the immortals told you, besides that I’m evil and should be stopped?”

“N-nothing,” you reply.

(The Stranger grips your jaw so hard something cracks. The Stranger flings you away, knocking your head against the wall. The Stranger shakes you and growls.)

The Stranger growls. You strain against the slight shaking motion, a cramp forming in your neck. You rotate your shoulder up to relieve the pressure, and the Stranger relents a little.

“They are like vampires,” it says, eyes boring into yours. “They hoard all this power by convincing us mortals to put our faith and Belief in them. They’re lying about needing it. They just want to keep us from taking care of ourselves so that we rely on them—our hopes, our dreams, our memories, and much more. All of these things used to be out own powers. We used to be able to control them, rather than having them doled out to us at their convenience.

“People like you used to be more numerous, you know. Every culture had its oracles and elementals and empaths and spiritutal healers. Is it any wonder that depression and anxiety became so rampant once they entrenched themselves and put industrial order to the holidays? Mortals used to determine those. Mortals used to chase the dark of winter away and drag good harvests from the summer sun. The Enlightenment stole all the magic away, and they were behind its proliferation across the world. Once mortals believed we were powerless, they stepped in to fill the false void.”

You shake your head. Not even to disagree with it, but to try and free yourself. You start to close your eyes again, but it holds your face in both hands and forces your eyelids up. A shiver runs through your entire body, from head to toe. It reaches your ankle, causing it to twitch at the wrong angle. The pain clears your head for exactly one, blissful second before the visions swarm back in.

(There’s a knock on the door and werewolves break it down. There’s a knock on the door and the Stranger ignores it. There’s a knock on the door and Gillian enters. There’s a knock on the door and Gillian screams from the other side. There’s a knock on the door. There’s a knock on the door.)

There’s a howling beyond the door, several voices joining in frantic harmony. As the close howls fade, a wave of others in and around the building take it up. The Stranger cuts itself off and releases you. It stands and glances out the window, then darts to the door and a hurried knock comes. Two werewolves spill inside when it opens the door. They yip and growl something, but you can only catch the occasional mutter of “Gillian.”

Has he come to his senses? you hope. Is he betraying—

(He does not. He does not. He hesitates but does not.)

The Stranger yells at them and gestures out into the hallway. The werewolves press their ears back at its tone and crawl over each other to get away. The Stranger looks back and forth, then places two fingers to its lips. A long, high-pitched whistle tears the air.

(It grabs you off the bed. It drags you off the bed. You collapse off the bed.)

“Come, we must get you to a safer location.”

It yanks you up by your elbow and pulls you toward the door. You stumble a few steps, but one bit of weight on your leg makes you collapse at the threshold. It looks at you on one knee and tries to life you again, but you get only one more step before falling again.

“Move!” it yells.

(It lashes out. It pulls until it dislocates your shoulder. It reaches. It’s reaching)

You retreat into the small room, rolling just out of its reach. Not far enough, not fast enough. It hauls you up again, flings you over its shoulder, and rushes into the hallway. A bunch of werewolves immediately surround the Stranger. You’re not sure if it means to head to the stairs or if there’s a more secure room. You push yourself up a bit and look around at the surrounding werewolves.

Suddenly, one of them stumbles and disappears with a yelp. The entourage pauses and looks back, but there’s no sign of the fallen wolf. Ahead of you, there’s another cry, and another wolf goes down. It disappears, seemingly into the solid floor. The remaining werewolves start to back away, rumbling discontentment.

(Third from the right)

You cry out and turn to the spot where the next will disappear. Two of the werewolves see you move and glance as well, only for the poor victim to go down. And for a brief second, you glimpse a bright flower between the knot of feet. It, too vanishes.

“Where’s the next one going to be?” the Stranger growls to you. It slowly turns in place. “Tell us. I know you know.”

The answer is “directly behind,” but you bite your lip from saying anything. There's another yelp, and the number thins by one.

“Tell us!”

The werewolves are starting to shift nervously, their eyes glued to the ground. Half of them bunch around the Stranger while the other half hug the walls. You try to look inconspicuously, but the Stranger deliberately twists your ankle. The pain makes your eyes tear up and you spasm over its shoulder before falling limp and panting. It’s hand goes back to the ankle.

“Use your gift. Where is it going to come next?”

With every ounce of mediocre acting skill you think you possess, you whimper, “Under your feet in three seconds.”

The Stranger leaps back a few steps, crashing into the surrounding werewolves. They all watch the space it once occupied, a few even getting their claws ready. However, three seconds later, two werewolves are dragged into the wall, and all semblance of order vanishes. The werewolves scatter, and the Stranger itself starts tripping backward. A few more holes open, but only a gray, furred arm swipes out of them before the hole closes again. Faster and faster, the holes open and close until, the hallway is decorated with a wave of blooms and withers. Then it stops.

“Where next?” the Stranger says. “And do not lie to me this time.”

You consider not looking, but it twists your ankle again. (Middle of the hallway. Jumpable. Ten seconds.)

“In the middle of the hallway. You run forward, count to five, then jump,” you say. You do not say, “It’ll be very close call.”

The Stranger readjusts its hold on you and then starts running to the other end of the hallway. One, two, three, four, five—It leaps, and your heart starts sinking. Then it keeps sinking, though non-metaphorically. The Stranger trips and loses its grip on you. You go sprawling on the floor, hissing and crying as you roll your weight over your ankle a few times. But you manage to push yourself up.

A meter or so away from you, the Stranger strains against a grip. The floor has no handholds, however, and it slowly slips back toward the hole. It huffs and pants and glares at you, assuming you lied yet again. In some way, yes, perhaps. But there’s still a deficit of lying between you and it. It starts to scream, but it finally loses the tug of war and the floor swallows it whole.

For a second, you sit there on the floor. But a howl starts up from elsewhere in the building and you get to your feet. You start hobbling down the hallway. You’re not sure where you’re trying to go, just “to safety.” With every limp, the pain grows worse and worse. A straggling werewolf runs by, not bothering with you. When it reaches the other end of the hallway, a gray blur bursts from a new hole. The werewolf screams, just managing to skitter our of Bunny’s paws. You double your pace, gritting your teeth against every step. Bunny watches the werewolf run off, and he stands for a second, ears swiveling. You stumble in the last few steps, wrapping your arms around him as you barrel into him.

Just as quickly, you’re flung around, a paw gripping your shirt collar. Your back hits the wall and Bunny looms over you. He winds his free hand back into a fist. You close your eyes and tense, realizing you should have announced your presence before grabbing him. All you can do now is wait for the punch.

Something slaps into the wall above your head. At the same time, the hand at your collar slides up to the center of your back and pulls you forward. When you open your eyes, your face is buried in the fur of his shoulder. The arm he was winding up stretches behind you to the wall. He slowly rubs his other hand over your back in comforting circles, panting by your ear. For a second, you’re stunned, still expecting the hit. The only thing that does is reality. You sob and wrap your arms around him, returning the embrace. He holds you tighter and lets out a shuddering breath.

There’s just you and him for a moment. The world around dims and muffles. You sink your fingers into his fur stroking it and letting the softness calm and ground you, remind you what it means to be real and present. Eventually, you ankle can’t hold you up anymore, and you both settle to the floor, still not letting go. You lift your face from his shoulder and look at him. He does the same, and you finally see the sheer relief on his face. After weeks of neutrality, anger, running into wall after wall of his personality, it’s almost terrifying to see him so vulnerable.

It’s…

It’s…

Oh, it’s something you’re gonna have a very long think about once you’re safe.

You lean your head back into his shoulder as a warm flush runs through your body. You feel you should say something, but all you can think of is how y’all left off the last time you saw each other. You swallow.

“I’m sorry,” the both of you say at the same time.

He lets out a huff of a laugh and then moves a hand to your swollen ankle. He winces when you wince from the light press.

“It’d bad, but not broken,” he says. “Here, let me get us outta here before I heal it. Just so we can do this right.”

Bunny fishes in the bag at his side and pulls out a shard of glass. It emits a familiar magical energy that makes you shiver. Bunny rubs your back again and holds the glass up. Then he tilts it slightly. His eyes widen and he looks behind him.

“Let them go.”

You peek around Bunny’s shoulder. Gillian stands in the hallway, time egg in hand. Bunny gently pulls your arms off him and stands. He unsheathes his boomerang with one hand, still holding onto the mirror piece with his other.

“No.”

“Has he done anything to you?” Gillian asks you. His voice breaks.

You shake your head and shift where you sit. Another spike of pain makes you grunt. Gillian hisses and raises the time egg. A tangy smell, like ozone and rust fills the room. Gillian flickers a few times, and then a desaturated copy of him appears slightly to the side of him.

“Don’t do that,” Bunny says sharply.

“Afraid of the possibilities?” Gillian says. And then says again, like an echo. Again, going down the line for a few iterations.

At least a dozen of him stand shoulder to shoulder in the hallway now. You have to squint to see their outlines as the blurriness makes them all blend into each other.

“Microjumps are dangerous, please stop this!” Bunny yells. “This is too much in one place, you’ll kill us all!”

“I know what I’m doing,” the Gillians say. “I’m here to fix the world.”

A feeling like static electricity builds in the atmosphere. The hair on your arms stand on end. Bunny’s fur rises and he drops to a stance.

“You need to give that thing back to me! You don’t know how it works!”

The Gillians draw themselves up and, using the same firm intonation Bunny used, say, “No.”

They start moving together. They’re so blurry that you almost don’t see when two bump into each other. Their artifacts knock together, and then a bolt of unfathombly bright light shoots through the hallway. Those two Gillians cry out and drop their artifacts, and then the artifacts roll a meter or so before rotating around each other. They go faster and faster until the two blurry artifacts merge. It stops turning so fast, now only one object.

That’s what he meant, didn’t he? you think, remembering what Bunny’s mentor had alluded to. Bunny pleads once again.

“This won’t end well!”

Though the artifact slows its rotation, it starts rolling toward the crowd of Gillians. A bolt flies from it to the artifact the one closest one holds. He drops it and the process repeats. This time, the artifact still moves quickly once it merges into one, and it rolls and flies off the floor into the arms of the next few.

“We have to go…” Bunny says. He turns to help you up. “Luck's very much run out, this isn’t gonna be good.”

“What’s happening?” You ask. You look past him and call, “Gillian!”

There’s only utter chaos. Bolts fly off of every remaining artifact, hitting the walls and tearing strange streaks across them and the ceiling. The Gillians panic and some try to run.

“Gillian” you scream again. You try to push past Bunny, but you can barely stand, and he doesn’t so much hold you back as he keeps you up.

There’s a tearing sound at Bunny’s side. Another mirror shard cuts through his bag and shoots over to the merging artifact. The seam tears further, allowing the cracked egg to slip to the floor and get sucked toward the chaos.

“No!”

Bunny leaps to it, managing to get one hand on it. But a bolt connects it to the whole artifact, which leaps into the last Gillian holding a copy. He looks at it, horrified, and then the light brightens to fill the whole space for a second.

And he and his copies are gone.

“Bunny!” you scream. “Where is he? Where is he?!”

But all Bunny does is look at you. He holds the cracked artifact, which still glows and smokes. Some dust glitters around the lip of the crack. The mirror shard is cracked and splintered.

The light starts to overwhelm you again. It grows so bright, the air so acrid, the sound so deafening that it takes everything you have to squint through the wall of light and see Bunny reaching out to you, shards of glass in his hand.

Everything goes white and silent.

Chapter Text

Claws scramble over a patch of water leaking from a fire hydrant. Bunny’s arm collapses under him. He cries out as his body lands on his elbow, but he recovers quickly, keeping an eye on the air above. His heart races in time to his footfalls. All clear, as far as can tell. Just to be sure, he leaps up to a house and works his way across the row of roofs. Something closes around his ankle, halting him. He drops onto the shingles, sliding down the eaves until he hangs from his foot. Above, a glittery streak circles a few times, laughing.

“Cheater!” Bunny yells. He props himself up on his elbows and grabs the edge of the roof.

“We didn’t agree on no rules!” Jack yells back. “Better luck next time!”

He darts backward, farther into the city, holding his finger and thumb on his forehead like an “L.” Bunny watches him, pretty sure that no one has unironically made that gesture for a hundred and twenty years. It doesn’t matter. He has to focus. This is a race, after all.

A solid kick breaks the ice holding him and he rolls down the roof. He flips off the edge, and when he hits the ground, a tunnel swallows him. A second later, he launches out of another, high enough to land on the flat building roofs instead. He spots the little smear of sleet up ahead, pauses to aim, and lets his boomerang rip.

“Gah!”

It catches between Jack’s shins, twisting up his flight pattern. He veers left, right into a tree, screaming. Bunny flinches in sympathy, but leaps over the tree and returns the victorious cackle, catching his boomerang when it swings around.

They trade jabs up and down the blocks, using more creative ways to slow each other down. Soon enough, their competitive natures clash enough that they’re both on the verge of actually hurting each other. After a particularly nasty shear of icy wind, Bunny disappears down another hole, launching himself right onto Jack’s back. He dips and rolls, quickly losing control of his flight, weighed down by the passenger and bickering with Bunny. Neither of them notice how close the ground is getting until Jack’s shin bangs the guardrail over an open-air subway station, and they plummet.

Luckily, they land between the sets of tracks, insofar as that’s lucky for anyone. At least they weren’t hit by a train—not a fatal injury, but an injury nonetheless. It still takes a second for them to recover their senses from the fall, long enough for a curious rat to scurry over and sniff at Bunny’s paw.

“Get off of me.”

Jack shoves Bunny away and they dust themselves off. Jack returns to hovering height, and the two trains walling them in on either side pull away.

“So,” Jack says, twirling his cane. “Guess I win.”

“Neither of us won,” Bunny replies. There’s a buzz in his ear. He opens and closes his jaw a few times to try and get rid of it. It persists.

“That’s exactly what someone who just lost a race would say.”

“We didn’t agree on no rules.”

A sharp breeze cuts over him, but he’s too busy trying to do something about the buzzing to return Jack’s snark. Finally, he realizes it’s his eggs.

“Hey… Hey? No way…” comes Jack’s voice, but Bunny focuses on what’s being communicated to him.

The impressions he gets are a mess. Fretting about dye, paint, rotten eggs. All the usual nonsense. Bunny pauses. That’s all not actually nonsensical—Easter is coming up fast—but his feelings of being sick and tired of hearing about it is very real. Like he’s heard it all before. Well, of course he has, he hears it every year. He shakes his head and tunes out the chaos. The eggs can’t get into too much trouble while he’s gone, and he’ll be returning soon enough. This practice run is a wash. Bunny turns to Jack to say something, but the sprite is gone.

“Hi!” Bunny hears. “Can you see me?”

Jack is hovering over the platform, talking to someone. Bunny’s view is blocked, but he assumes it’s a lost kid. He leaps up onto the platform to where Jack seems to be talking to the backside of an I-beam.

“Don’t be scared! It’s, uh… well I guess it’s weird for you, but I promise I won’t hurt you—oh, here’s my friend! He looks mean, but he’s actually a real softy.”

Bunny peeks around the beam, starting to take a knee to make himself less intimidating to the poor kid. But they’re no child. Instead, as his knee comes to rest on the ground, he gazes up to the face of an adult human. They look like they’re trying to wedge themself into the hollow gap of the beam, looking like they haven’t slept in a while, and that’s on top of the distressed look they’re giving Jack. Makes sense. A human suddenly seeing a pale, flying spirit might be unusual, perhaps. Might even be intimidating this early in the morning—

I promise we’re not monsters, he thinks, heart lurching. He should say that out loud. Please don’t think we’re monsters.

The moment transitions to the next, and their eyes flick down to him. He stares back, unable to do much more. His stomach knots up as their eyes widen in terror at first. But as they take in his stature, their expression softens into confusion. They stop trying to merge with the beam and cock their head slightly, as if trying to figure out why they aren’t more disturbed. They run their eyes over him a few times. He swallows.

The silence must go on for too long, as Jack pokes him with his staff. Bunny jumps, still on his knee, and blurts out, “G’day! G—night? G’day.”

The human raises a single hand to their heart and starts laughing. It’s high and clear, full and genuine, though there’s a slight edge of mania. He huffs a few laughs along with them, recognizing the odd reaction and hoping to defuse the tension. He needs them to be all right.

“Sorry,” they say in a lilting Southern twang after a second. They cover their mouth, hiding their smile. Then they rub their eyes with the heels of their hands. “I thought I saw y’all fall to your deaths, and then I thought he was a ghost, and then he saw me and came over, and then a giant rabbit…” They trail off. Bunny holds out his hand, and to his delight, they take it. He stands with their help. “The last thing I was expecting was that accent.”

“Yeah, it tends to throw people off a bit.”

“Also!” Jack interrupts, “I think technically the ghost thing, for me, is—”

Bunny cuts Jack off before he can finish that sentence. They already though they saw two people die, no need to spook them with his backstory.

“As you can see,” he cuts in, “we’re both alive and well. Sorry to scare you. We, uh…” He glances at Jack, who has a strange look on his face. His eyes dart from the human to Bunny. “We were just messin’ around and fell.”

“Who even are you?” the human asks. “Cause as much as I want to say that’s a costume…”

He draws himself up proudly. “I’m E. Aster Bunnymund. The…” He wonders if they’ll laugh. “The Easter Bunny.”

If they want to laugh, they hide it well. Instead they smile—it’s a nice smile, too—and they say, “That makes so much sense.”

“And I’m Jack Frost!” he says, shoving between them.

Bunny bores his gaze into the back of Jack’s head. The human, who looks like they’re straining to keep up their polite smile. They start fidgeting, wringing their fingers.

“Also, sorry for his rudeness,” Jack continues. “He really should’ve asked your name by now. Although he’d probably ask it like—” He takes a deep breath. “‘Oi! Wot’s yer bloody name, eh?’”

Bloody fuck, that’s worse than his usual performances…

After a beat, the human says, “I think three different continents just put hits out on you.”

Bunny swallows a snort of laughter, lightly coughing into his fist. Jack loses a few centimeters of hover height and scoots over to the side again. The human returns their focus to Bunny. They’re shaking slightly. It’s clearly getting to be a lot for them, and Bunny needs to find a way to excuse themselves and let them get on with their day. Except he really doesn’t want this to end too soon. He’s seen too much in his life to not consider destiny a factor in everything, but he mentally pleads for that inevitability to hold off a bit longer.

“But yes,” they say. “Introductions…”

Their name is the most perfect fit he’s ever heard. It slots easily into his memory, as if there’s already a space for it, and he welds it into place. He repeats it, just to make sure he’s got it right, and they get such a pleased look that if he were shaved right now, he’d be blushing.

Wow, he thinks. It’s been a while since this has happened.

And then Jack lets out a loud, obnoxious yawn. He shows off his tonsils and leans on his staff. Bunny glares at him, but Jack just winks and says, “Wow, it’s pretty late out, isn’t it?”

Oh, he’s three seconds away from chucking a damn explosive at Jack. What’s his deal? Why is he acting like they need to leave now?! Why—

The human covers their mouth as a yawn overcomes them. They shiver from it and sniff. The spark of curiosity is gone from their eyes, only exhaustion remaining. Their eyes go half-lidded for a second before they shake their head and rub their eyes.

“Yeah, it is.” They look up to street level. “I have to get home.”

“It’s kinda dark out,” Jack says, floating close again. “Would you like some company?”

They bite their lip. “That’s very sweet of you, but I can walk a few blocks. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Well, you see—” Jack releases a flourish of snowflakes. “We are Guardians!”

“Oh… kay?”

“Jack?” Bunny taps him on the shoulder but is ignored.

“What I’m saying is that we would be more than happy to escort you safely home. Just tell us where to go, and—well, okay, I say ‘we,’ but in fact—” Bunny jumps as Jack places his cold hands on his shoulders. “I promised to go help North (that’s Santa Claus) with something, and I’m running late. But Bunny here can help you!”

Jack gives him a hearty slap on the back before rising into the sky.

“It was very nice to meet you! Byeee!”

Bunny and the human stare up where he disappears.

“Bless his heart, is he always like that?” they ask.

“Yep.”

“I guess you just get used to it.”

“Nope.”

Bunny’s ear twitches, and he glances at them. This isn’t unideal, this situation. He clears his throat.

“Sorry about my weird friend… But if you’d allow me, I’d be happy to see you get home safely.”

“I…” They look down. He holds his breath. “I don’t want to be a bother, if you really are some sort of Guardian. You said you’re the Easter Bunny! That’s in less than a week.”

“Oh, I know! I know. But part of being a Guardian is takin’ care of the world. Takin’ care of the world means takin’ care of the people. Which…”

He’s definitely said these words before, once or twice in this order. They sound stale coming off his tongue now, though. Hardly convincing.

“All right.”

“Yes?” His ears tremble. “That’s a yes?”

“I’ll allow it.” And they head for the stairs.

The silence is companionable as they start down the street. A soft breeze makes several wind chimes dance and sing around them, and the reverberations mix with the tuktuktuk of electric, self-driving taxis. Bunny looks a little closer as one passes ferrying a group of intoxicated young adults. A dull red beam on the undercarriage shines perfectly centered on a shiny, thin strip set into the road. It turns a corner, still bound in its way to the track.

Such inventions they come up with.

“Let’s cross here.”

He follows them around a corner off the main thoroughfare and onto a residential block. It’s much quieter here, and despite the presence of life around the shops, he doesn’t see or hear another soul on the path ahead.

“So… The Easter Bunny.” They stare ahead, but he catches their glance. They catch him catch them and dip their gaze to the dark asphalt.

“Yeah,” he replies. “That’s me.”

“And a Guardian? Of what?”

“Of childhood. Me and a few others make sure the world is safe so kids can grow up strong and resilient. I’m specifically the Guardian of Hope.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“It’s got its challenges, but for the most part, yeah, it is.” He heaves a sigh. “Though the runup to the holiday is always the worst part. World-threatening disaster? Easy. Do it too often to miss. Getting all the eggs painted and lined up for the different continents? Herding cats.”

They chuckle. “I know what you mean. Sort of. I don’t protect the world, but at the gallery I work at, for some reason it’s easier to deal with angry or entitled visitors than planning the semi-annual galas. They’re not even big galas, the founder just wanted to sound as important at the Met.”

“A gallery? You an artist?”

They nod. “My whole life. It’s like eating. I can only put it off for so long before I starve.”

“I like that,” he says. They light up. once again his pulse quickens and he goes a little lightheaded.

They keep conversing about art. The human’s biggest influences are twentieth century artists he hasn’t thought about in ages, and they nearly trip over a root-raised slab of concrete as they listen to him recall that era. In turn, they wax philosophical and rant about pigments and dyes and the natural or synthetic versions thereof and how the chemical compositions interact with different mediums. He mentally takes notes in case this can be applied to magical eggs. He doesn’t notice when the chilly breeze first kicks up, only vaguely registers the noise of the leaves, twigs, and bushes swishing faster. He does notice when the human crosses their arms over themself and shiver. It’s cold. Unseasonably cold.

Now tuned in, Bunny hears, “C’mon, c’mon,” somewhere to the side and up. He keeps listening, trying to track the little snowflake as he moves. Why’s he even still here? he grumbles to himself before a realization occurs to him and reluctantly feels a smidge grateful. Then, a sharp, icy breeze cuts over he human, making them halt. Bunny nearly runs over them, they stop so suddenly, and to steady himself he instinctively grabs onto their shoulders, his momentum carrying him forward another half step so that his chest bumps into their back.

“Yes!” comes Jack’s voice.

Mind changed, Bunny’s going to kill him.

He quickly removes his hands, crossing them behind his head as casually as he can manage. The human straightens back up and glances back at him, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, I stopped too quickly, it’s fine.” They spin around and keep going.

“Aw, man,” the tiny voice comes again, and that’s his undoing. Bunny draws his boomerang and tosses it in the same motion. A second later, he hears, “Gyah—OW!”

“What was that?” the human asks from a few paces away.

Bunny pretends to look at the treetops and roof eaves. “Raccoon,” he answers. “Fell from a tree.”

“Oh. I hope it’s okay?”

“It’ll be fine.”

They nod and start marching down the street. Bunny summons his boomerang back and catches up. A few turns later, they cross and finally make it to the entrance of an apartment building. Bunny does a double-take at the name of the building, thinking he’s seen it before, but he decides that obviously he has. Statistically speaking, he’s come here before to hide eggs and make sure his believers were doing all right. Now, though, the sight of it makes him despair.

“This it?” he asks.

“Mm-hm.”

They tap their key fob against a pad, and the outer door unlocks. This is the end of the line. They’ll disappear up the stairs and he can only guess when or if he’ll ever manage to cross paths with them again.

I should say something. Ask if… ask if they need help with… anything really. I—

“Would you like to come up?”

The human holds the door slightly ajar and looks at him. They swallow, and all Bunny can think is, Do they…? He manages to nod, and they hold the door open for him, then the inner entrance. They press the elevator button and wait.

What does this mean? he asks himself. It could mean nothing, could just be that they trust him enough to show him their home. Could be they don’t feel safe enough alone until they’re in their apartment. Not that they felt unsafe walking home at night alone at all, he (and Jack) kind of persuaded them into it.

The sound of footsteps coming up the hallway jolts him out of his anticipation. The human waves to the woman passing by.

“Doing laundry late, Harmony?” they ask.

“Only time the machines are available,” the woman asks.

She adjusts her hold on a child in her arms. It stirs and shifts its head until its bleary eyes look over her shoulder. It catches sight of Bunny and pushes up from its mothers shoulder, struggling to form words. Bunny waves as the two vanish into their apartment, the kid straining to keep looking at him.

“Seems like big fan of yours,” the human says.

The elevator doors open. They ride up to the third floor, and way too soon, the human unlocks their front door. Bunny hovers at the threshold until they motion him inside. His throat goes tight, eager and terrified at what might happen next.

The apartment is a humble studio. The decent-sized rectangle runs all the way to the back wall uninterrupted save for a slight threshold separating the kitchen area from the main room. To one side is their bed, mussed and unmade, on the other is an art horse easel with a bent canvas board on it. The picture is of a suburban home, neat and abstracted with cubist-style geometry interrupting the encompassing square facade. Something looming in the corner catches his eye, however: a figure made of darkness with glowing eyes. His mind first goes to the boogeyman, and he wonders if this human had a run-in with him years ago. He thinks to ask, and then they speak.

“So, this is it.” They lean on their bed. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Please, you should see my home, especially this time of year.”

They smile and shed their bag and toss their shoes into a corner. Then they yawn, wide and obvious despite pressing a hand over their mouth. If they mean for anything else to happen here, now is unfortunately not the time to pursue it. He swallows his curiosity and disappointment.

“I should get going.”

“Oh,” they say, looking forlorn. “Well, thank you for walking me home.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Just…” They sigh. “There’s a part of me that really doesn’t want to go to sleep.”

“You’re dead tired, you should.”

“I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find this to be a dream. That I sleepwalked home or that yesterday still hasn’t happened.”

“It’s not a dream,” he says quickly. “I swear this isn’t a dream.”

“Giant rabbits… ice spirits…” Another yawn. He doesn’t have much time before they lay down for the night.

“Y’know, most adults can’t see us.” He steps over to their bedside table, tapping it with his claw. “The fact that you can means you Believe on some level. Maybe you came into contact with magic long ago, maybe it’s subconscious…” He almost misses it, but they flick their eyes over to their canvas. “But it’s there, and I’m glad we could meet.”

They nod. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

“Would that be okay?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“Then I’ll make you a promise right now, and I don’t make these often. I promise, when you wake up—” He presses his finger into the wood of the side table. A glow emanates from the spot. The human’s mouth falls opens, and they watch the magic take form. A flower blooms from the spot. “—you’ll know it wasn’t a dream.”

He exits through their window onto the fire escape. They kneel and rest their arms on the low windowsill. He crouches to be nearer to them. The reality of the upcoming week is creeping back into his awareness. Already, his nature is reasserting itself, and much as he wants to stay, or at least wants to be here when they wake up to really prove himself, that duty to the world he bragged about must come first.

“I’ll be back,” he promises.

“Okay,” they reply.

It pains him, but he leaps from the fire escape, down into the back alley, into a waiting tunnel. He exits on a rooftop a block or two away and sits there, gazing in the general direction of the apartment building. A smile made its home on his muzzle some time ago, and despite his current sadness, he can’t get rid of it. He sits there for a time, head swimming with possibilities, promises, and egg decorations. A chill breeze swirls up beside him, and slowly, Jack leans his face into Bunny’s view, a bright purple shiner swelling up around one cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

Bunny shoves his face away, injecting a bit of his healing magic into it as thanks. Jack tumbles in the air for a few meters, laughing, and then swoops back in to batter him with all sorts of questions. Bunny starts to answer them, when a loud, harsh cry from his eggs drowns out any other thoughts. He grits his teeth, assures Jack he’s all right, and concentrates to tune in to what they have to say.

If it’s another rotten patch I’m gonna—

He listens. He asks them to repeat themselves two more time. Suddenly, he stands, opens a tunnel, and motions for Jack.

“C’mon. I’ve been robbed.”

Chapter Text

The first thing you see upon waking is the flower. A thin reflection of sunlight sneaks through the curtains to illuminate it like an actor onstage, and you lay there, staring at it. Not even the screaming alley cats or the reverberating bass drop from upstairs can drag you away from this promise made solid.

Eventually, you have to get up and shower. You race through the motions, returning to the main room this side of sopping wet to make sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking. The ombre of pastel to deep purple and pop of bright orange remains on your bedside table. Finally convinced it won’t disappear, you finish drying off, feed yourself as you watch a weather reporter interview a Punxatawney local about an unexpected light dusting, and go over to stare at the flower some more. You touch it for the first time, and it falls over.

“Oh no...”

Up until now, it had stood upright, as if it was growing right out of the wood. Thankfully, it doesn’t disintegrate. You carefully pick it up and then work up the nerve to run a fingertip over one of the petals. A strange, staticky zing tingles up your arm, familiar, but wholly foreign to you thus far.

“Magic,” you say out loud, and it becomes realer. “Easter Bunny, indeed.”

You laugh and twirl the flower in your hand. That last hour had been one of your boldest ever. From thinking you’d witnessed a murder or suicide to strange beings flying in your face to purposefully taking a longer path home just so you had a little while longer to talk to him. It’s been a long time since you met someone you got along with so well right off the bat. Naturally, you first found him fascinating because, well, he’s a giant talking rabbit. As you went back and forth, however, it became clear he was very knowledgeable about art in his own way, and you had to restrain yourself from begging him to tell more about the modern and contemporary eras. You suppose, in having to paint so many eggs every year, it’s a skill that just accumulates.

When you try to imagine his egg facility, your mind paints a picture of machines and assembly lines like something out of an early twenty-first century movie, but that’s not right. Not for him. With his casual speech, his easygoing nature, that bandolier—and you swear he had a boomerang at some point—it’s absurd to even consider him as some bedraggled baron of industry. That sort of person bowls another over on the street and doesn’t care to stop or apologize, even if it’s not his fault. The Easter Bunny (the icy one… Jack? Jack Frost, right, right, had just called him “Bunny”) Bunny cared enough to screech to a halt behind you, even if it was a little late.

His hands on your shoulders hadn’t been threatening, either. It was purely for balance, not to grab or toss.

You brush over the flower petal again, letting the sensation of magic pulse through you. The important part is that you’ll see him again. Have the opportunity to ask more questions, maybe see just how tuned into your favorite art movements he was at the time.

“When, though?”

You don’t have time to get lost down that particular spiral, however, as your alarm goes off, letting you know that lunch with Chrissy and Gillian is in an hour and a half. You finish getting ready, and on your way out the door, you slip the flower into small jar with water and place it on the windowsill, cracking the curtain open enough for some sun to get in. It might not need it; it is magic, after all, but you’d rather he return to as intact a cutting as he left it. You’d rather keep the promise fresh.

You nearly pass by the Live Oak on your way to the train and have to double back to pick up Gillian. His parents let you in, already warming up the kitchen for the evening’s service. The rich smell of grits and syrup try to lull you into a slow, Southern stupor, where people meander up and down the streets, small talk takes at least five minutes, and saying goodbye takes an hour. But, you have New York just outside and places to be in said city. His mom jogs up the stairs to go get him, so you sit and wait.

And wait.

And wait a bit more.

The time is starting to make you antsy. You still have time to get to the restaurant without being late, provided the subway doesn’t act up, but that window shrinks and shrinks. Eventually, you get up to walk out the nerves and remind yourself that you can text Chrissy if you will definitely be late. That’s when Gillian bursts through the door, his mom harried and trailing behind. He glances at you, continues to march across the room, and then halts as if realizing who’s waiting on him. You wave.

He blinks a few times and rubs his eyes, then tilts his head up to the ceiling. His lips move, but you don’t hear anything.

“Honey?” his mom says. She barely gets a comforting hand on his shoulder when he jumps and locks his focus on you.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, are you?”

He slaps his chest twice ad opens his arms wide as if to say, “Absolutely!”

“Do you need to go get your binder?” you ask. It’s unusual he forgets, since, as he puts it, his “double-G curse” bothers him so much. Enough to consider surgery, but not enough to overpower his discomfort with the idea of going under. So, he makes do, or at least he has for as long as you’ve known him, going on a decade.

“Nope. I’m fine, let’s go.” He tries to loop his arm in yours, but you refuse to move.

“Are you sure?”

“I can run up and grab it real quick, Gilly!” his mom adds.

“I’m fine!” Two of the kitchen staff peek through the door at the yell. At this point, his father is frowning, too. “It’s not that big a deal. I can survive through lunch. C’mon, I’m paying.”

“What?” This hadn’t been agreed upon. “I… I can get my own—”

“No, remember, I owe you.”

He rushes out the door. You glance at his parents, but they shrug. Oh well, fine. You wave goodbye to them and catch up.

Once on the train, Gillian starts talking up a storm like he usually does, even chatting easily with a few strangers. One of his many talents you wish you possessed. By the time you reach your stop, you almost forget about his weird attitude earlier. Maybe he’d just woken up. It was a weird morning. There are plenty of reasons why someone can get off to a weird start.

Chrissy waves you down in front of the restaurant. You run up and hug her, only to realize in the act that this is not how you two usually interact. It feels genuine, but when you part, Chrissy also has an odd look on her face, but not one suggesting you overstepped. Then, she glances at Gillian, and although her smile freezes on her face, it dissipates from her eyes. Gillian looks equally unconvincing. They merely wave to each other, and then you all sit down for lunch. Sticker shock blindsides you when you finally look at the menu.

Good lord, that’s too much for a slice of quiche! you say to yourself. It doesn’t even look like it’s good quiche. For that price it better be big enough to cover three meals by itself or so good that twenty dollars is undercharging.

Gillian leans over and mutters, “Get whatever you want, I’m buying.”

“You don’t need to do that,” you say.

“You’re my best friend, I care about you, and you can use a break til next week.”

You flush at that last part. Of all the reasons he could have for wanting to cover you, the current lack of money is not the one you hoped for.

“I can get my own meal. It’s not going to bankrupt me,” you reply firmly.

“Why would you think it’d bankrupt them?” Chrissy says.

Gillian falters, but at her voice he doubles down. “They lost the UBI coin flip—” You hiss at him, aghast. “—and I’m their friend. We cover each other’s meals all the time, it’s a gift economy thing.”

That’s not strictly untrue, however, when it’s a group of y’all, usually everyone gets their own unless one bill is established beforehand. This isn’t a problem normally, but the UBI glitch messed a whole lot of things up, and the government’s missteps in handling it—mostly in deciding not to fix the glitch and disburse entitlements late, rather waiting for next month and forcing other systems to work around the glitch—has given rise to some conspiracy theories. All absolutely bunk, but it is amusing to see people post about how all the different bureaucracies definitely worked together on a convoluted, multi-step plan to “save the budget.”

You wish you were reading said amusing conspiracy posts now instead of being caught in the middle of the most awkward fake-polite standoff between your best friend and your best art friend. Thankfully the waiter comes up and asks for your order.

“One egg sous vide and a small breakfast tea for me, please,” you say quickly, and then. “These will all be separate checks.”

The waiter glances around the table, picking up on the vibe. Chrissy and Gillian mutter their orders—quiche and a blended ice coffee, praline pinwheel and sweet tea, respectively—and the waiter scuttles off. The wait then begins. Gillian stares at Chrissy, who pointedly ignores him and watches you, and you pick at your nails and look for faces in the tabletop’s swirly pattern.

“Well, since we’re all here,” Chrissy finally says. “How’s everyone’s art going? Gillian? Anything new?”

He flinches at the question, looks bewildered and confused at it. His mouth opens and closes a few times. Funnily enough, her inexplicable question now has you curious. Despite knowing him for so long, despite meeting him because of a shared interest in art, you can’t actually remember the last time he was working on something. He’s very dedicated to the restaurant, and at some point that morphed into your first thought of him and creation being his pancakes.

He takes so long to answer that Chrissy giggles nervously and says, “It’s okay if it’s not a whole lot. Or if it’s nothing. We all have dry spells. I actually realized last night I haven’t been taking as much time for my own art as I really shou—are you crying?”

“No.” Gillian looks away, but you catch the tears about to spill over. He takes a few deep breaths and then returns to the conversation. You and Chrissy share a glance but don’t comment on his red eyes.

“Nothing. For art. Not for a while… b-but I, oh, you’ll like this—” He taps your arm. “I’m experimenting with a new recipe for the restaurant.”

“Really?!” You focus in.

“Yeah, I mean, the menu’s never really gonna change, it’s always gonna have the same core to it, but every so often it’s nice to see what I’m capable of.”

“Do you cook a lot?” Chrissy asks. Her expression is still guarded, but genuinely curious.

“You’ve never has the Gillian Special,” you realize. “He makes amazing pancakes.”

“Ooh, why are we eating here instead of at your kitchen?”

“Well… it’s my parents’, not mine,” he replies.

“So?” she says. “You’re still allowed to use the grill, right?”

“Griddle.”

“Yes, that.”

“Yeah, obviously. I could warm it up at four am if I wanted, but…”

Both you and Chrissy wait patiently for him to give an explanation, but he runs out of words and just sits there, shaking his head slowly. The silence stretches and is about to rip when the waiter returns with your food. On a dime, Gillian fights his way out of his head and becomes a polite, engaged attendee of a luncheon. Between this and the binder thing, you’re going to have to sit him down and tell you what’s wrong. Not too forcefully, or else he’ll hide more. But you’ve been trying to be firmer in your communication with your friends and colleagues. Terrible uncertainty starts building in you, so you take a few rounds of breath and remind yourself that you are loved, you have the tools for good communication, and once again you should set an alarm to you help remember to take your meds every morning so this happens less often, least of all in the middle of a fun lunch.

“So what about you?” You blink. Gillian chews on his pastry, and Chrissy watches you. The question is for you. Gill continues, “Aren’t you working on that Ana-Vlog project? How’s your new one coming along? It’s the one with the suburban house and the shadow monster, right?”

“Y-yes?” Has he been over at all during this one? You count the weeks Saturdays to Fridays due to when you started the first one, so it’s only been a few days. No, he hasn’t been over. “Do I paint them that much that I’m predictable?”

“No!” he says quickly. “No, you’ve just told me a bit about your plans for the series.”

“Oh,” you say. “Well, yeah. That’s what’s on it. I didn’t get a chance to work on it before the art show, which ran way too late, so I have to organize my thoughts on it today.”

“Well, at least last night had some excitement, right?”

You stare at him, a little freaked out now. Does he know something? You know for sure you haven’t told him about Bunny, haven’t even hinted—

“The guy at the train station who grabbed you.” Gillian searches over your face, like he’s trying to remember something.

Chrissy gasps and you jump, remembering she’s still there. She’s always pale, but somehow more blood drains away from her cheeks, leaving her gaunt. “Oh my gosh, did that really happen? Are you okay?”

“No,” you reply. “That didn’t happen. That’s never happened to me at all. The occasional weirdo on the train with a bad sense of boundaries, maybe, but I’ve never been grabbed.”

“I swear you once said something… Nevermind, sorry.” Gillian shoves the rest of the pastry into his mouth and leans back, chewing like a horse and training his gaze on the center of the table.

“Well, thank goodness,” Chrissy says. “Also, tell me more about this project, it sounds neat.”

The rest of lunch goes about as well as it can, considering everything. It’s surprising that you find yourself enjoying Chrissy’s company this much. For the last few years, she’s been a great person to network with, being with the Collective and all, but she’s teetered on and off the edge of “friend” and “acquaintance.” The overall conversation went very well, however, even if it was still almost exclusively about art and she was still hesitant around Gillian. She and you hug again when you depart, and she suggests catching a movie sometime. There’s a new animated film coming soon with a gorgeous style. You make plans without really making plans, and then it’s on the train, over the bridge, back to Brooklyn. As you and Gill exit the station, you gear up to start a Talk.

Point 1: Moodiness. It happens to all of us, but me and your mother were just trying to help. Also, I know Chrissy isn’t the best friend, but you seemed—No, no. I’m worried that you’re not feeling well and starting to take it out on others.

Point 2: Binder. You say you’re okay, but you were constantly tugging at your shirt throughout lunch, crossing your arms and hunching over, and scratching at your arms and neck. From my angle, it looks like extreme discomfort. It’s fine if you want to explore your gender expression a bit, I’ll support you a hundred percent of the way, but please don’t force yourself—No, how about—I don’t like to see you putting so much pressure on yourself all at once.

Perfect. Now to find an opening—

“Have you ever thought about how prevalent magic was way back when?”

Every thought in your head swirls off into the breeze. Gill motions for you to sit at one of the public tables near the station entrance. You sit.

“Have you?” he asks, toying with his quartz necklace.

“I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

“Well, hundreds of years ago, humans used to believe in all sorts of things, not the least of which was our ability to do magic. It used to be you had priests and shamans and wizards all over the place putting up wards and doing spells. But now, humans just don’t do magic anymore. We can’t do magic anymore.”

“I mean… Some of them were probably lying,” you reply. Gill believes in some superstitions, like crystals, but he’s never been overly philosophical about it before. You tread carefully. “Some were probably convinced they could do things they couldn’t. And a lot of things that were called ‘magic’ at one point we ended up explaining through science, and they weren’t unknowable. Isn’t that part of what makes up magic?”

Hm… Good question to ask Bunny when I see him again, actually.

“No,” he says, “you can still have magic with science. They might interact weirdly because they’re on different levels of materiality, but the theory of gravity doesn’t stop being true just because you found a flying spell. Does this make sense so far?”

No, but you just shrug in reply.

“So, I think humans have innate abilities, or can access a means to use abilities. Even outside of magic, the power of Belief allows us to use placebos and to push ourselves ‘just a little more’ while exercising so we can attain a new goal and then set another one right after. And somewhere within that is the ability to utilize our own Belief for magic. But more often than not, especially after the Enlightenment, we started giving it away other other things. Or told ourselves there was nothing to believe in and repressed it.

“You’ve got talents you may not even know about because our global society has largely forsaken the ability to Believe. But I think we can change that. Baby steps. We just… start putting our Belief in ourselves and let the magic coalesce from there. Imagine what humans could with that.”

You nod and wait, but he’s done. He gets up, starts walking home, and you tail him, trying to parse what he’s just said while also wondering if you can still initiate the other conversation. You reach the Live Oak before you find the right opportunity, however, and walk away trying to think on what he could possibly mean.

After a humble dinner of beans and rice, you sit down at the canvas and try to decide how to represent the last two days. There’s the sketch you did in the park you could paste on, give it a sense of scratchiness, of imperfection, of practice. It finds a home in one corner, but something else needs to go on there. The canvas still feels incomplete.

Bunny.

Naturally, he needs to go in there. His inexplicable appearance is the most distinct thing that has happened to you in some time. You ease yourself into the motions of painting: prepping the palette, mixing colors, experimenting with consistency and paint thinner. When the fumes sting your nose, you remember ventilation. Five steps to the window, nudge the flower out of the way. You unlatch it and start to raise it up.

And then there he is. A little weary, it seems, like he’s been racing around. He catches sight of you and starts talking.

You can’t understand the words. It’s English—you know it’s English. Kind of like how in a dream you know what the setting is. It starts over. You catch a few words this time, but nothing substantial. He’s on your fire escape, he’s starting to talk again. This time, you look out, up to the starry night sky, and you realize.

“Saturday night,” you mutter. Blinking, you realize you’re still halfway in opening the window. No one is on the fire escape. It’s sunset, not nighttime.

But you still know when he’ll be back. Solid surety of that settles in you, cozy and snug.

“Why do I know when he’ll be back?”

Just to be sure it’s not the fumes talking—and it can’t be, you just cracked open the bottle of thinner—but just to be sure-sure, you crawl onto the fire escape, sit still, and take a few deep breaths.

He is here—will be here—Saturday night during his run, sometime around twelve-thirty in the morning. This knowledge, the excitement of seeing him again, and the uncanny sensation of realizing you saw the future claw at each other in the pit of your stomach.

Something is happening.

Chapter Text

He wishes he’d had asked what their absolute favorite artist is. That would make this so much easier.

Bunny stares at the blank egg in front of him. It lays on its side, as if sleeping, its foot twitching every so often. Beside it are piles of paper filled with thumbnails inspired by twentieth-century modern artists. Unfortunately, there are so many to choose from, and if he hadn’t been so enamored in the moment, maybe he’d have a solid direction to take this egg. This special, customized egg just for them.

A terrible thought wanders over him, Do they even celebrate Easter? Do they want an egg? Given the country they’re from, it’s unlikely they’re unaware of the holiday. But does that mean they care?

He wants to get this right. Frankly, he almost has a need to get this right. Love at first sight is more common than cynical humans want it to be, but it’s not like having a soulmate. He dares not admit it too loudly to himself, but it could be that their apparent interest in him is just fascination for his inhumanness. After years of presuming he and his ilk don’t exist, why wouldn’t someone just want the opportunity to ask a few question, do a bit of informal research with no other motivations or wants?

There’s a nudge at his hand. The egg kicks his finger, hard enough that it looks like the aim is to hurt him, but its legs are too squishy and the poor thing doesn’t have any muscles anyway.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, giving it a scritch. “This has to be perfect.”

“What has to be perfect?”

North tromps into the room. Jack sits on his shoulder, hunching over far to fit under the ceiling, but once in the room, he flies off to perch on a nearby stool. North helps himself to a chair and loudly scoots it close to the work table, which he then plops his elbows on. The force rattles the table enough to make the egg fall and roll for the edge.

“Hey!” Bunny catches it before it can drop and break. When he sits back up, North has the thumbnails and flicks through them, humming.

“Going through abstract phase, are you?” he asks. “You are a few decades late for trend.”

“Haha, no, That’s for a related project… one that’s due Easter night…”

“Ooh, is it for that human?” Jack asks. “They talked a lot about modern and contemporary art last night as you walked them home.”

“Human?” North raises an eyebrow. “‘Walked them home?’”

Jack grins and takes a deep breath, so Bunny jumps in.

“We met a human last night while I was on the practice run. Well, first, I ran into Jack—”

“Who helped you not fall in the Hudson from a poorly-executed jump—”

“And we came across an adult human who could see us.”

“Bunny’s into them,” Jack helpfully supplies. North’s eyes light up and his mouth forms a tiny “O.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. And he walked them home like the gentlebunny he is, and along the way they talked about how much they like abstract art from a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Wait, were you spying on them?”

“No!” Jack sputters. “I was being a good wingman and creating proper ambiance!”

“Yes, he was spying,” Bunny answers North. “That’s why he got a boomerang to the face.”

North laughs as Jack sulks. Then he asks, “And are they into Bunny, as well?”

“Shush!” Bunny orders Jack, who’s already opened his mouth. “I… don’t know.”

“Of course they are!” Jack throws a line of ice ferns up the wall with his wild gesture. It melts almost instantly. “They clearly like you!”

“Adults are not as easy to read as kids, and this sort of thing is complicated.”

“They took a longer route home than they needed to!”

Bunny pauses. “What?”

“The human led you down a longer, less-navigable route to their building, meaning they probably wanted to spend as much time with you as they could.”

Bunny tries not to give him the satisfaction of a smile, but he can feel one side of his mouth twitch up until it scrunches his nose awkwardly. Jack preens. It’s a good sign, for sure, but Bunny intends not to assume anything, as easy as it is to picture himself sliding into their life. Besides, there’s still the holiday, and if his current non-existent piece is anything to go by, he can’t afford too many distractions right now.

“So,” he says, changing subjects. “Have you found any leads on the theft?”

After being alerted to the robbery, Bunny realized he could either investigate himself or finish Easter prep by himself, but not both at the same time. Since there were no immediate leads to be found in the Warren itself, he (reluctantly) asked the others to keep an eye and ear out. Jack and North practically fell over themselves to do so—Jack being easily bored during southern hemisphere winter, as there are many fewer areas to bring snow to; North due to it being the middle of his slow season, and leaving him unoccupied too long results in intrusive construction projects suddenly blighting the Pole.

They make their reports. Jack flew around with Nightlight, seeing if they could spot anything off and stopped by a few immortals and semi-immortals to see if they had heard anything. North alerted Ombric, Katherine, and the rest of Santoff Claussen, and several people offered up their skills and time to try and divine the object’s location. Neither have anything concrete, however. Given this is less than twenty-four hours after, Bunny isn’t surprised, though he is frustrated. The artifact is too powerful to lose track of for long, and he himself is trying to keep enough of his attention free in case someone decides to start using it to jump through time. Still, laying a foundation of eyes across the world this quickly is of some comfort.

“Ombric says his mirror is safe, if that could be of any use.” North rubs his eyes. “Let me translate: he really wants to use the mirror.”

“Always does,” Bunny replies. “Tell him no for right now.”

“That is practically ‘Yes’ to him.”

“It’ll do for now.” Bunny looks up from the still-blank egg. “Anything else?”

“Nothing too relevant.”

“No.”

Bunny sighs, and they sit in companionable silence for a bit. It must get too warm for Jack, as he takes off his hoodie and stretches out on the floor, eyes closed. Bunny summons an egg and instructs it to bring some ice and cooling pads. Once they do, Jack recovers a bit, placing the ice chips in his mouth and chewing them. North flips through the thumbnails again and taps one design.

“I assume this egg is for human, then? This one is a nice pattern, very colorful. Very complicated though, for such small canvas…”

“Does Pollock seems kind of cliché? He’s one of the first you think of when you think of ‘abstract art,’” Bunny replies.

“Oh, I think of Picasso.”

“They seem more of a fan of the Minimalist and Abstract Expressionism movements above anything else,” Jack suddenly says. “They mentioned Rothko loads of times, though I heard Kandinsky and Mondrian in there. But their mention of Isabel Leclerc-Phillippe makes me think they have a bias toward 1950s to 1980s art.”

Bunny and North slowly turn toward him. After a second, Jack realizes they’re staring. “What?”

“You know about all this?” Bunny asks.

“Not really. I’ve just taken a few university courses over the years, mostly survey classes that go through hundreds of years at once.”

“University?!”

“I’d like to see you two last three hundred years of invisibility without getting bored!” he says. “Besides, lecture halls are nice and cold when not a whole lot of people are in them.”

“How many degrees do you theoretically have?” Bunny asks.

“Thirty-two!” Jack laughs. “Or, zero in metric.”

Bunny groans at the joke, but North chuckles. A second later, Jack shoves his phone into Bunny’s face. He blinks at the high brightness radiating off the screen, but eventually he sees the grid of surreal city streets from the search results.

“Start here. Maybe incorporate some other things, but Leclerc-Phillippe was most known for her takes on suburban life. At least, that’s what I remember from that class… egads, fifty years ago?” He slips his hoodie back on. “I’ll come back for the phone later, but I gotta get out of here for now.”

“Uh, okay.” Bunny is still a little off-kilter at all this information. “Do you take science classes, too?”

“Duh,” Jack replies. “I gotta stay up to date on things.”

And he leaves, both the Warren physically, but also his two friends bewildered.

“Should we enroll in university?” North asks.

“I’m all right,” Bunny says. “If I’m desperate for an update to my knowledge base that much, I’ll hang around SC for a week. The wizard will make sure I get a few lectures in whether I want them or not.”

“Speaking of, I have some projects I want to start this year,” North says. “It’s it’s not too burdensome, I would appreciate help.”

“Yeah, sure. Whaddya have in mind?”

“I am thinking of moving evacuation route. It has been in same place since I first arrived centuries before. Normally, Ombric renews enchantments and wards on route, but I think it is time to put it elsewhere. Village has been invaded several times, but we have not moved it. It’s beginning to seem unwise.”

“I bet Ombric loved hearing that.”

“He is a very proud man, yes, and did insist everything works as promised. Then, Katherine said she saw huge wolf lurking near path.”

Bunny hums and nods, but a second later, he pauses his scroll through the pictures.

“Wolves are pretty big. How big was this one?”

“Gigantic, according to her. Half the length of her goose.”

Bunny shivered. “Didn’t know they made ‘em that big.”

“She was confused, too. But unfortunately, when she swooped down to see better, it growled and ran away. She followed on goose-back until it disappeared into copse of trees.”

“And an animal of unusual size was what finally made the old man see reason?”

“No, no, his pride was hurt and he tried to save face by suggesting fading enchantments had diminishing returns at current spot.”

Bunny lets out one loud bark of a laugh. At the same time, he sees a painting that strikes him—a garden that’s simultaneously dull, framed by a reddish-yellow lawn, yet with a bold contrast of flowers and vines (all invasives to the average American suburb). Despite the obvious satire, it resonates, and he starts sketching with his dry pastels.

“She and I will go out later and search for any other wolves,” North continues. “I do not think they—or it, if it is alone—will be dangerous to the village, but is probably a good idea to keep an eye on predators that big so close to home. I—”

He cuts himself off with a vague noise. It takes Bunny another minute to register that his friend isn’t just coughing. He has a few good thumbnails going, but he looks up to see that North is gazing into the distance and rubbing his beard.

“What’s up?” Bunny asks.

“Oh, nothing.” But his expression doesn’t change except to get one more degree distressed. A few seconds later, North notices Bunny frowning at him, and he sighs. “Is truly nothing, just… strange though that won’t leave me.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I keep picturing Santoff Claussen full of these wolves. Maybe thirty or forty, growling and surrounding us. I have no idea where it comes from.”

“Nightmare during a nap?”

“Have not slept since right after Christmas. It’s as if I’m… remembering it all.” He shakes his head. “Cannot be, though.”

“I guess you could ask Tooth if it’s really bothering you.”

North nods and sighs again, and then he scoots closer again to watch Bunny, who does his best to ignore him as he finally gets a rough color palette and pattern figured out. At some point, North grabs the phone and carefully taps something out with one finger. He blinks rapidly once or twice, moves the phone away from his face and then close up, but eventually he accomplishes it.

“Hm, this Abstract Expressionism thing Jack describes is interesting. If your human likes it, then maybe paint egg by feeling rather than planned pattern.” He squints. “I think that is what this is saying, anyway. Maybe I should take a university course…”

“I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime—” Bunny gets up, stretches, and heads into the wider Warren. “Let’s check up on production.”

He spends the next few hours doing some Easter housekeeping, organizing some help from the yetis, catching up on the latest gossip from said yetis, and just comparing notes with North. It’s something they do every few years. They’re the only Guardians who are tied to one specific holiday out of the entire year, and while it keeps them busy almost all year long, the others don’t quite understand that sort of different pressure. They can shift plans really far into production if need be, as the only thing that matters is the deadline. All their work over the year goes into making sure that deadline is reached, and reached successfully. Their friends sometimes not-so-subtly gripe about how they “get to rest” once the delivery is over, but is death by a thousand cuts any worse than getting gutted in one fell swoop? It’s just different is all. Besides all of the Guardians can agree on one thing: these duties are often exhausting, mostly thankless, yet they wouldn’t want anything else.

Eventually, North makes his goodbyes and Bunny heads back to that one egg, still blank. He finds it, however, dashed with all sorts of pigment dust all over it, having rubbed itself all over the dry pastels.

“Oh no, no!” He drags it away and starts trying to wipe off the pigment. Unfortunately, some of it has already set. “Oh, that’s gonna show through the layers…”

He drops his head to his hands and breathes out his frustration. He didn’t have a solid plan, but a plan was forming. And then North’s words return to him: “Paint egg by feeling.” Well, he feels a whole awful lot, but he doesn’t want to make those too easy for the human to see right away. Another saying comes to him, “Don’t let perfect become the enemy of good.” Some French guy said that a couple hundred years ago, if he remembers correctly. Or maybe that’s just a variation of the phrase. He’s also heard, “Don’t let perfect become the enemy of done.”

Bunny looks over the leftover smears of pigment on the egg’s shell. They’re not too far off from one of the color pallets he’d scribbled down. And this patch here… it kind of resembles grass. A few other blotches could be something floral or just up for interpretation. A new picture forms in Bunny’s mind. It’s frustratingly amorphous, but he powers through that, prepares his paints, and starts working.

Chapter Text

The analogue clock on your wall ticks, inching its way around the face. Midnight approaches, and with every fraction of a degree the hands move, your pulse gets louder. He’s coming back tonight, sometime just past twelve am.

This week has been a rollercoaster. From Gill’s odd behavior to the visions popping up every so often, usually regarding Bunny’s return. Maybe because from the moment you realized he was real, anticipation to see him built and built. There was something magnetic between you the moment you saw him, if you’re going to be really honest. He’s a good listener. You hope he’ll still be one when he gets here.

Five minutes to midnight.

You start pacing. Chances are, he’ll appear after the top of the hour, that’s what the visions always imply. A lurch of your stomach at the thought: “the visions.” That’s what they are what you know they are. Your ability to fall into denial has eroded since meeting Jack and Bunny, though a scrap remains, tethering you to the rational world you’ve always known.

You glance at your latest drying canvas, that specter still haunting it. You amend that last thought: Tethering me to the rational world I always tried to pretend it was.

Midnight arrives. You clench and relax your hands by your sides and breathe in, hold, release. There’s an impulse to disappear into a new painting, but your mind is too focused on listening for… anything. You blink, realizing you’d widened your eyes til they verged on bugging out of your skull for trying to see things that don’t exist.

Water.

You break from your pacing track and retrieve a glass from the cabinet. The cool water traces a path down your body, causing you to shiver. It’s like you reset, breaching from an ocean of anxiety.

Refill the water, gulp it down, shiver, experience further clarity. Just in time for your awareness to land on the curtain hiding the window. It’s almost time. Your feet move, one in front of the other, and you have to force them to step at a measured pace so you don’t trip over yourself. Halfway there, you pause.

The flower.

You pick it up from where it’s been sat for a week, and the knock on the window comes, just as foreseen. Holding the flower, you sweep the curtain aside. The weight in your stomach lifts as you reveal Bunny. He looks a bit harried, a bit stressed, but considering what tonight is to him and the scope of the entire operation, he looks well put-together. You return the wave, then slip the flower stem into you mouth to open the window and step out to meet him. He watches you intensely, eyes falling to the flower between your lips before darting back up.

“Nice to see you still have that,” he says.

You quickly take it out of your mouth and then flail for a moment, deciding where to set it down. After a second, you tuck it behind an ear. Bunny starts to reach for it, but he pauses and changes it to a thumbs-up. His other hand, you notice, is behind his back.

“It’s good to see you,” you reply. “How’s the holiday going?”

“Pretty good, actually. Got a little held up in Germany a few hours ago, but nothing dire.”

“How do you manage all this in one night?”

“Years of practice,” he says. “And also some help here and there. I got a few friends to help distribute some eggs in some outlying areas. It also helps that…”

He reveals his hand, presenting a painted egg to you. It’s a little hard to tell in the low light emanating from your apartment, but it looks like it’s painted in vibrant impressionism. More strikingly, however, it has feet.

“Oh, how adorable!” you cry.

“What I don’t hand-deliver, I direct to where they’re supposed to go. Here, look this way.”

He shuffles to the side, and you grip the railing, leaning quite far to see where he motions to. You can barely see the street from your angle, but there’s movement. Lots of it. You lean a little farther out, and the tide of tiny, colorful eggs—and occasional giant egg—comes into focus.

“Look at them,” you breathe.

Just then, the iron railing creaks loudly and shifts in your grasp. It’s not breaking, but the suddenness of it spooks you, and you make the mistake of looking straight down. Several years of being in the same apartment, you’d think, would inure you to the height. Your sense of balance disagrees, and vertigo rushes through you. A hand grasps around your arm.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

The vertigo passes, as does the surprise, and you lean back into safety. Bunny’s hand lingers on your arm until you’re stable, and then he struggles to figure out what to do with it, like a school-age actor in their first public performance. He ends up hooking his thumb into his bandolier and holding out the egg again.

“This is for you.”

You cup your hands and hold them out. The egg struts from Bunny to you, twirling and dancing. It even moonwalks a few steps before bowing. You laugh, and from the corner of your eye, you see Bunny’s ears perk up. However, just as you start to ask about it, the egg’s legs shrivel up. It falls down into your hands. You give it a small shake, but it’s lifeless.

“Oh no,” you say. “It died?”

“Whoa, wait—”

You stare at it in horror. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened—”

It’s all right!”

Bunny cups his hands around yours, then gently closes them, encasing the egg. He looks at you.

“You didn’t do anything. It’s not dead,” he says softly. “It was never really alive, just enchanted to help with mass decoration and distribution.” He rubs his thumbs reassuringly against your akin. “Sorry, I shoulda warned you.”

It’s now that you clock how close you and he are. You chalk it up to the fire escape landing barely being big enough for one person, but it is very distracting. Not unpleasant, though. It’s reminiscent of when you met Gillian, clicking so thoroughly so quickly that you left that first meeting having told him two of your deepest secrets and given him a tight hug. And then you compare that Gillian to the one from last week, and your heart breaks.

“I know they’re really cute when they’re mobile,” Bunny stammers, eyes on your hands sandwiched between his. “B-but they really aren’t—here, look at the—I painted it. For you.”

He gently pries your hands open so you can see the egg. Upon closer examination it is very nice—lovely contrast, interesting brushstrokes, great use of the 3D-2D canvas in its composition. You tell him as much, and then ask if he’s all right. He seems jumpy.

“Oh, I… You seemed distressed by the egg un-enchanting, so I. I panicked,” he says. You smile.

“That’s very sweet of you, and yes, it was a little off-putting at first, but I was actually… I need to talk to you about something

“Mm-hm?”

“I…” It seems so odd to say out loud, but if anyone is equipped to explain it, it’s him. “I knew you were coming back tonight.”

“You did seem less surprised I was here than I thought you’d be. How?”

“So, this has never happened before. My life has been ninety-nine percent normal and average and I tend to like it that way. But I have been having visions. Of the future. This entire last week.”

He squeezes you hands. “About me?”

There’s a flicker of recognition you have at the dawning expression on his face. Admittedly, it’s not entirely unwelcome, but you have to pretend not to see it for now. You need help with this and you need to finish saying it out loud before you lose the nerve.

“Yes, and some other small things. But as I said—this has never happened before. And it’s so vivid, and it keeps happening in the middle of my workday, and I have a therapy appointment tomorrow but what do I tell him? If I say I’m clairvoyant, best case scenario is I might start getting treated for a disorder I don’t have! And—and—”

“You’re a little scared, aren’t you?”

You nod. “I was wondering if maybe you knew a guy who can cure this.”

A strange expression flits across his face at the word “cure.” He rubs his thumbs against your hands again, and you strive to keep your attention on his face for the time being, mentally urging him to answer the question.

“I don’t know anyone who can… ‘cure’ innate powers. Don’t know how possible that is, really. But, I do know a few people—who can help you get it under control. Got one in particular in mind, actually.” His face then screws up as he tries to stifle a yawn. He turns to look out into the city, ears turning like he hears something. When he returns his focus to you, he looks regretful and exhausted. “Unfortunately, my night’s not over yet. And I’ll be laid out tomorrow recovering, so the earliest I can try to organize this is two, maybe three days from now. Is that all right?”

“It’ll do. I’ll survive.”

He cocks his head at that and flicks his gaze up to the flower in your hair. He reaches for it again, and the skin of your uncovered hand feels suddenly cold in the absence. This time, Bunny lightly touches the flower, and as he does, a small zing of the magic shivers through you like static electricity.

“I’ll do my best to get this set up as quick as possible. But, if something happens—if you get a vision that’s really overwhelming or graphic or it just really starts to get to you—you can always hold one of the petals and call for me.”

His hand lowers, incidentally tracing the outline of your face as it passes. It doesn’t touch, but you swear you can feel him, like the millimeters of air between are just solid enough to transfer the sensation. His other hand finally removes from yours, and empty air pushes against your skin, cold despite the spring air. He backs up a pace, as much is possible on the small landing.

“Call if you need me,” he repeats. “Happy Easter.”

“Happy Easter.”

He leaps from the fire escape and up to the neighboring roof. He runs to the edge, looks back, and waves. You wave back, and watch him disappear into the night, and then for another few minutes, staring at the spot you lost track of him. Then, you tuck yourself back into the apartment and get ready for bed. Sleep does not find you easily, however, as you spend another hour racing your thoughts in circles.

You consider canceling the therapy appointment at the last minute due to how tired you are when you wake up. However, an hour after breakfast and medication, you still have a knot of uncertainty, so you go. Along the way, Chrissy texts to ask if she can have Nirupama’s contact info. You agree to met up with her after the appointment, suggesting a coffee shop to hear her pitch. At therapy, you run through the routine check-in questions, talk a little bit, and then get to anything new.

“So, I met a guy a week ago,” you start.

“Is this the same person from work?” Brian asks.

“Who?”

He blinks and shuffles through his notes. “You told me last time about someone from work. You two really hit it off? What was their name…?”

You shake your head. “I meet all sorts of people at work, but not recently. None I’d report to you like this.”

“Okay then.” He mutters something and double checks the notes. “Yeah, nothing here. I must be remembering someone else. Sorry. So, who’s your guy?”

“His name is Bunny.”

“Cute.”

“Mm-hm. I think he likes me.”

“Likes you as in…?”

“Romantically.”

“Oh!” Brian leans forward, small smile on his face. “Is that good?”

“Yes!” you say instantly, surprising yourself with certainty. “Yes, that’d be fine. He’s unusual, for sure, but if he does like me… that’s more than fine.”

“Do you feel the same way?”

This time, you hesitate. Then, “I think I might.”

Brian looks confused. “Can you please expand on that a bit?”

“I’m attracted to him, but I’m not sure if it’s a passing fascination or if I can see myself with him. Romantically.”

“Why not?”

You sigh. “Well, gosh, Brian! I’ve only told you how much I’m afraid of ever new, big change that enters my life over the last decade! I’ve lived in this city near a third of my life and it still throws me off being here sometimes!”

He nods, undeterred despite your tone. “That’s true. How many of those fears were validated?”

You think for a moment. There are a few things that didn’t work out, and in fact made things worse, but they didn’t ruin you. Disappointed you, maybe, devastated you emotionally, yeah. Nothing irreparable.

“Maybe one percent of them. Maybe,” you finally answer.

“So, what is keeping you from exploring this new, potential relationship?”

“Well…” Oh, admitting this is going to be interesting. “For some reason, I feel if I enter a relationship too quickly, I’ll get kidnapped.”

Brian is good at schooling his expressions. About a decade of seeing him, and only once have you seen him with unbridled emotion. Luckily, he caught himself, apologized, and ended the session and asked you come back a few days later. You did, and he was feeling much better, actually able to focus on your needs. Today, his neutral mask slips into horror.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second!” he cries out, New York accent thickening. He then closes his eyes and clears his throat, returning to his professional voice, “I’m sorry. What I meant was, could you please explain why you feel he’ll do this?”

“I don’t think he will kidnap me. Both times I’ve met him, I was alone with him and nothing untoward happened. He’s very sweet so far. I just… for some reason, my brain has linked ‘entering a relationship too fast’ with ‘getting kidnapped.’”

He continues to wrestle with his outward emotions, but he says. “Okay. I will urge you to take care of yourself and keep safe, regardless of who you’re with. But, if you trust him, then just remember that there’s no time limit. Even if he’s saying ‘I love you’ every five seconds, you don’t have to say it in return if you don’t want to. Whether you’re good friends, romantic partners, or something else, it’s okay if you’re not at the same point in the relationship as you figure it out. If he’s a keeper, he’ll understand and be patient.”

You smile. “You should be a relationship counselor.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Thank you, but no. I used to do that years ago, but after a while I got too stressed listening to all that while trying to navigate three partners and seven kids.”

“That’s fair.”

You finish up some other housekeeping and wrap up the appointment. A quick train ride later, you meet up with Chrissy. She gives you some papers about an interesting proposal for your gallery, then you discuss art for a bit and she once again floats the idea of seeing a movie together. Still no concrete plan, but a very engaging meeting. Perhaps, after knowing her for so long, you’re finally becoming friends.

It makes your heart ache to think about the current state of Gillian. So much that you stop by the Live Oak on the way home and hang out for a bit. His father switches positions so he’s in the kitchen and Gill’s at the bar. It’s still a lot of work, but you manage to chat between customers. It helps that it’s only the early afternoon, so the nighttime crowds aren’t in yet. As he pours someone’s drink, you notice something around his neck.

“Is that a new necklace?” you ask.

“Yeah!” He holds it out to you. It seems to be some sort of swirly symbol carved into a smooth stone. As it sits in your hand, you feel a now-familiar zing. It’s magical. Honest to god magical. Does he know?

“It looks awesome,” you say. “Where’d you get it?”

“I made a new friend recently and it made this for me. It’s supposed to keep… evil spirits away. Here!” He slides the cord off his neck and hands it to you. “Take it, it’s yours!”

“Oh! Thanks, but I don’t need that.” You push it back to him. “You keep it.”

“I can get another one. Go on!”

He sets it down on the bar in front of you to deliver the drink. You rub your finger over it, but besides the magic, it doesn’t feel wrong. And if it makes Gillian feel better… You slip it into your pocket and nod to him. He beams. You chat for a while longer, until the dinner rush comes in and it gets to be a little too full for your comfort. You give him a big hug and tell him to text so you can work out the movie day and then head home.

Once in the apartment, you set the necklace on your bedside table, just for the time being, and after a quick meal, you round out the day with painting. It’s a bit of a slow go, as a vision interrupts you an hour into the session. Something about Gillian, but it’s like you have to cross your eyes to see him properly. He talks with someone—something?—and at first seems sure of himself. But he hunches more and more as the other person speaks until he’s practically bowing in submission. The vision finally releases you, and you take a break to gulp down some water. You attempt to paint longer, but between the lack of sleep and what just happened, you call it an early night.

Another thing to ask about. These lessons can’t get here fast enough.

Chapter Text

As predicted, Bunny is comatose the day after Easter. He sleeps for the first time in months and awakens to eerie yet rewarding silence in the Warren. He actually cooks himself a meal with more than three steps in the recipe and takes it out to the fields where the stone eggs are plucking any un-ripened eggs. They’ll become fertilizer for next year’s crop, though a few will make their ways to his greenhouses for research purposes. Always room to tweak the process.

He enjoys a record four hours of uninterrupted post-holiday-coma quiet time before Jack wanders in, giving a report on how he still has no leads on the theft. Bunny slides right back into Guardianship, brainstorming new questions to ask their contacts and further people to speak with, and later on he travels to Santoff Claussen to speak with Ombric. The old man plies Bunny with compliments to try and persuade him to use the mirror, but Bunny distracts him with the news of the new oracle and their late magic manifestation. It half works, and Ombric agrees to meet them in a few days.

After that, Bunny starts getting pulled into cleanup, but before he gets too deep, he drops by the human’s apartment, Unfortunately, they’re out—at work or visiting someone. He sulks at not being able to see them, but he leaves a note on the window telling them about the deal and that he’ll be by at the end of the week.

It’s an agonizing five days for him, between keeping half his awareness open in case the human calls on a petal, making formal visits and requests to several fae and yokai enclaves for their help at least keeping eyes out for the artifact. More than once, they ask him what’s so dangerous or powerful about an egg that the Guardians are going outside of themselves to beg for assistance, but Bunny resists telling them the exact nature of it. If too many know it can travel through time, then they risk of being betrayed or purposefully uninformed when it’s found goes up. However, it does make it harder to convince those who have reservations against the Guardians that their request is, in fact, urgent and meaningful.

“Well, on the bright side, once your oracle is trained up, they should be able to help, theoretically,” Ombric says, and Bunny has to shove his hand into his bag to keep from backhanding the wizard.

“His” oracle? He certainly hopes so, but the presumption to their power makes him grind his teeth. He doesn’t want them because they might be helpful to him. He also doesn’t merely want them—he wants their reciprocation. After a second of silence, he wrangles himself under control to reply as politely as he can.

“There’s no reason to involve them in this. They’re already spooked from the sudden powers, they don’t need to be drafted.”

Ombric gives his a wry look, but doesn’t reply to that. They just continue to alternate between prep for the meet and greet as well as helping North map out the new evacuation route.

Finally, though, the time comes to pick up the oracle. Bunny leaves the Warren in the good hands—well, under the care of the stone eggs—and pops onto their fire escape at the specified time. He raises his hand to knock only for the curtain to sweep aside. He beams upon seeing them. They return it and unlock the window for him.

“Give me just a second, I need to put on my shoes,” they say.

“Ya might also want to grab a thick coat,” Bunny replies. “The village is in Siberia.”

They double-take at that, but then recover and rummage through their closet. He starts for the open floor to make a tunnel, and along the way he catches sight of the new canvas on the art horse. Geometric shapes along the edge, a large egg shape in the center, and within that, a stylized rabbit. A warm feeling runs through him, especially as he notices that it wears a bandolier and smaller eggs are falling out of its side pouch.

“I made sure to get your good side.” The human hugs their coat to their chest and watches him.

He replies sincerely, “It’s lovely.”

They lock gazes with him for a beat, and then they drop their eye contact and move a blotting paper to the side with their toe. “It’s different than what I usually do. Experimental, but I guess that’s kind of the point of my ongoing series. Anyway…”

He opens the tunnel and hops in. The human stares in open-mouthed horror and fascination.

“There’s a hole in my floor!” they cry. He can’t help but laugh. They crouch and run their fingertips around the rim. “There’s a damn hole in my floor!”

“It’ll—heh—it’ll patch itself back up once we’re on our way. You got everything you need?”

“Yeah—oh, wait!”

They spring up, head over to their dresser, and shove something into their pocket. Then, they sit on the edge of the tunnel, preparing to slide in. They look around, a little concerned. To be fair, it is a little deep; he made the diameter that large to accommodate them both as they walked, but he may have overdone it. Then, they start reaching out their hands to him, open their mouth to ask something, before hesitating.

“Of course,” he says.

He grabs their coat and gently sets it on the smooth moss on the floor of the tunnel, and then his hands find their waist. His pulse thunders in his ears, and he swallows around a nervous knot in his throat as they grab his shoulders and hold tight. They swoop into the tunnel, trusting that he’ll carefully lower them until their feet touch the ground. When they do, the human’s hands slide down to his elbows and linger.

The hole above closes, casting them in semi-darkness. Gold, pink, and green lichens glow along the walls, illuminating the path. The light caresses the edges of their face and highlights their hair until the different colors flow into each other, continuously guiding his focus from feature to feature.

The Warren looks good on them, he thinks. I hope it looks just as good on me after all this time.

The moment ends as said lichen diverts their attention. They gasp and remove themself from his arms to run their fingers over the walls.

“Is this where you live?” they ask. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Thanks, but this is just a tunnel to get places,” he replies, picking up their coat. They won’t need it til they get to the village, so he folds it up and carries the bundle as they continue to inspect the walls and floors. He swallows. “Would… you like to see the Warren proper? Just a quick stopover.”

“Well, I mean you’ve already seen mine. ‘Bout time you showed me yours.”

The reply makes him stop, mind having to hard reset at that. They smile to themself and turn their back to him, to examine the tunnel more or to hide after such a remark, he’s unsure. It sure sounds flirtatious to him. So, he opens a new tunnel to the left and motions for them to follow. The short path opens out to the fields. They gasp again and clutch at his arm.

“It’s not much to look at right now,” he says. He should have brought them to one of the greenhouses or the legacy garden, what was he thinking. “You should see it two months out from Easter—plants blooming far as the eye can see, all sorts of googies scampering around, pigment everywhere!”

“May I?”

He’s confused. “May you what?”

“See it before next Easter?”

They’re standing quite close to him. Plenty of space elsewhere, but here they remain. The heat from their hand seeps into his arm.

He’s not crazy. There’s something there, he knows it, and all it might take is a small leap. He makes to hold their arm in reply when they blink rapidly and list to one side. They catch themself before tilting too far and rub their eyes as they say, “That damn dog again…”

“What dog?” Bunny asks.

They shake their head. The way they shift from amused to quiet makes him want to fix whatever’s wrong, by any means necessary. The best he can do in the moment is give their shoulder a comforting squeeze and say, “Let’s get you started on those lessons.”

Santoff Claussen buzzes with people. It doesn’t take long to figure out North is making an appearance, here to start surveying areas for the new evac route. It’s always lively when he’s around, partly because he cannot stand to go too long without attention and always spends the first hour visiting somewhere being a social butterfly. Thankfully, that means the human should be able to walk to the wizard’s house in peace, because if there’s anything the villagers enjoy more than their local celebrities, it’s a new face.

“Welcome, Bunny!” Ombric says once they’re inside Big Root. “And welcome, new student of the arcane arts!”

“Um, hello,” they say, scooting closer to Bunny.

He places a hand on their shoulder. Ombric takes notice but keeps his opinion to himself and ushers them into one of his many, many workshops. He draws up some chairs and uses one of his whimsical gadgets—some da Vinci-esque helicopter widget—to order a kettle of water and a selection of teas brought in. Finally, the man claps his hands together.

“So, I hear you’ve a newfound ability? Tell me about it.”

The human describes their visions and the effects its been having on them. Bunny’s horrified to hear that they’ve popped up while the human was cooking, causing them to burn whatever they were cooking and themself a few times. Thankfully, they have no lasting injuries, nor any scars. In answer to his question he had in the Warren, they say that “that damn dog” is a recurring vision they’ve been having wherein a large wolf-like dog paces in the alley behind their best friend’s restaurant. They know from the vision it waits for him, their friend, but it doesn’t seem hostile.

“Might just be a stray he’s started feeding,” they say. “He does that sometimes. The whole family can’t say no to strays. Me, included.”

“Do you have any idea why you would fixate on this in particular?” Ombric asks. They shake their head. “I know it hasn’t been long since these powers manifested, but have there been any other reoccurring visions?”

They flick their gaze over to Bunny, who watches them. He’d inferred as much from their conversation Easter night, but to have it confirmed makes his mouth go dry. They flick their eyes away.

“Yes,” they answer without elaboration.

“Interesting,” Ombric says. “You’re certain this manifested only two weeks ago?”

“I have never been able to tell the future before meeting Bunny.” They look thoughtful. “Could that be why?”

“Oh, anything’s possible, but it’s far more likely something else was negating or disrupting an ability you’ve had since youth.” Ombric pauses. “Are you on any medications? Holistic or pharmaceutical.”

“Yes, anti-anxiety medication. I’ve been taking it most of my life.”

“Really?!”

Ombric has that look in his eye, the one where he suddenly sees a new project before him. The human tenses up as they nod, also sensing the change.

“Is there something special about that?” Bunny asks, drawing the wizard’s laser focus away.

“Indeed there is, Bunnymund. Many psychiatric medications, in successfully treating psychiatric problems, end up dampening magical psychic reception. It’s often a struggle when one of our citizens has to balance both, but there are methods around it. In terms of you, however, this is probably why the power is only manifesting now. It’s only now that it’s been able to balance with your medication’s side effect.

“And to start right off with not only multiple reoccurring visions, but visions not involving yourself? Correct? The dog vision is not from your perspective, nor involves you in any way?” They shake their head again. He laughs and claps his hands giddily, apparently ignoring their increasingly worried expression. “Fantastic! Despite everything, you’ve managed a prodigy-level accomplishment! Your power must be quite strong.”

“Thank you,” they says slowly, training a stern gaze on him. “I would still prefer lessons, however innately talented I happen to be. It’s one thing to be able to do something, but it’s another to be able to do it on purpose and with technique.”

They speak a little more formally, as if lecturing an audience or a problem client. Bunny sees they still carry too much tension for this to be their typical confidence, though; they’ve had to fight for this ability to put their foot down over the years, and given what he’s seen, it’s not their natural tactic. He cheers them on silently, cheers harder when the wizard deflates upon realizing his over-enthusiasm is not shared.

“Of course,” Ombric replies. He reaches for a bag the flying contraption holds out and nudges the tea tray aside. “Let’s start with some basic exercises: breathing and shifting focus.”

The next two hours are interesting to watch, and that’s mostly all he can do, alongside the handful of students Ombric invites in to observe “sudden manifesting powers in an average adult human.” He doesn’t like the way they gawk at them, but if the human, this oracle, is discomfited by their presence, they don’t make it known. Ombric runs them through breathing exercises and instructs them to try and call upon visions regarding specific people or things. They succeed in one regarding the flying machine, ducking as it nearly grazes their head. Bunny knows Ombric won’t do anything to intentionally hurt them, but it seems like such a near-miss.

At one point, Bunny hears soft giggling. He glances over at two of the students, who quickly turn to face the demonstration instead of him, and he grows warm. He’s not that obvious, is he? He turns his gaze around and waits. Soon enough, more whispering and giggles resume, and this time he catches his name and the word “crush.” He keeps a mask on as much as possible… even if the truth is too obvious not to see.

Eventually, however, the oracle tires, and Ombric decides he’s seen enough. He dismisses his students and then them with a, “We can meet once a week to get you up to speed. Thank you so much for agreeing to come today.”

“W-wait!” the oracle says. They fish a necklace out of their pocket. “Can you take a look at this? It’s magical, but I’m not exactly sure what it is.”

“And you can sense the magic radiating from this?” Ombric asks. “Or were you merely told?”

“I can feel it. My friend gave it to me, the one from the dog vision. Said it would ward evil spirits away. He’s into a lot of New Age things—tarot, crystals, astrology—and he regularly finds old, weird things in antique stores. This one, though, has the same sort of… zing? Same as the flower he gave me.” They gesture to Bunny.

Ombric strokes his bead. “One of his flowers, eh? Hmm…”

They place the necklace on the table, and Bunny leans in to look at the carving on it: a series of interlocking circles with symbols in certain overlaps. His eyes start stinging like they’re dry from staring, and he closes them to relive the sensation. Ombric does the same, squinting and blinking rapidly. The oracle’s hand lands on Bunny’s elbow.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “That’s just… That’s a rune, isn’t it, Ombric? I think I’ve seen it before.”

“Indeed it is. One that I haven’t seen nor heard of in a while. If you don’t mind, could you put it on for a moment,” he asks the oracle.

“It’s not gonna make my head explode, is it?”

“Yours? No.”

They hesitate and then slip the cord over their head. As soon as it settles into place, they vanish. Bunny’s heartbeat flies into action, waking him up and putting him on alert. He calls their name and reaches for them. His hand makes contact with something in the spot where their arm was, but some magic flares up and tosses him backwards like it’s struck him.

“What’s happening?” he cries. Ombric helps him up and then holds him in place before he can rush headlong toward the spot again.

“Here, look.”

Ombric produces a mirror from somewhere in his robe and holds it to that it reflects the spot where the oracle was. For a second, Bunny can’t see anything. Then, he squints. He has to shift to the right angle and almost squint his eyes shut, but they reappear. He glances over his shoulder where they should be, according to the reflection. Still nothing. Turn back, there they are. With purpose, Bunny once again reaches to them, this time slowly, with one finger. The closer he gets, the more he can feel a coalescing energy, and his claw finally makes the lightest contact. The recoil throws his arm back at an awkward angle, and he has to stretch it over his head to loosen it back up.

“I think I’ve seen enough. Dear oracle, could you please remove the necklace so we can talk to you properly?”

The human reappears and lets the cord dangle from their fingertip.

“What is this?”

“Exactly as your friend said, to an extent: it’s a rune that repels immortal spirits, such as Bunny and I, by imitating the invisibility that we have around non-Believers.”

“You couldn’t hear me?”

“Not at all.”

Ombric uses a nearby dowel to take the necklace, and he calls for one of his students in the next room. They happily take the charm, rushing off when Ombric instructs them to find its origin.

“Gillian said he could get another,” the oracle says. “If it’s that powerful, where is he getting them?”

“Are you sure he even knew it was actual magic?” Bunny asks. “I mean, crystals and junk are real magic, but not like that.”

“No idea. Maybe. He’s been acting weird these last couple of weeks, so I hope he hasn’t stumbled into anything terrible.”

“Well, if he hands you another one, please don’t hesitate to ask where he got it. We might want to visit his supplier.”

A horrified look crosses them. “Would this kill you?”

Bunny laughs and starts guiding them outside as Ombric shoos them away. “We’re a little tougher than that. Might hurt a lot, though. So, are you ready to go, or did you want to explore the village—”

“Of course they want to explore village!”

North appears, trailing a crowd of villagers, all of whom start whispering when they see the oracle. North walks up to them.

“Come, I will show you around!”

“Um…”

The oracle looks unsure. Normally, even despite his need for constant spotlight, North can read people very well and is attentive to their needs. However, today, he places an arm around them, ignoring how they tense up.

“You don’t want to pass up exclusive tour given by Santa Claus!”

Bunny scowls at that, wondering what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at, when he hears. “Sant—Oh!” from the oracle. He whips his head over to them, ears falling back. They look up at North, thoughtful—no, intrigued.

No, Bunny starts screaming internally. No, no, no, no!

He glares at North, who smiles, winks, and then leads the oracle toward a row of shops and studios. They glance at Bunny over their shoulder, stumbling over their feet until they catch up to North’s stride. The crowd follows, calling suggestions on where to go and what to do.

The next hour or so is an infuriating dance where North and the villagers twirl the oracle from sight to sight and bombard them with chatter and questions. At first, the oracle seems to be doing well, but it wears on them. Constantly, they lock eyes with him; constantly, he tries to catch up only to be rebuffed by innocently excited townsfolk. Though, after a while, more start looking at him, then ducking to whisper to their neighbors. Bunny spots the students from earlier on the outskirts, snickering and talking to even more people. A downside to being a frequent visitor to a village who can all see him: they have no predisposition of awe toward him as a Guardian or the Easter Bunny. He’s just another person to be gossiped about.

The oracle once again puts on an air of professionalism, deflecting personal questions and meeting every new sight with a polite but restrained interest. Even against North’s infectious jolliness, they keep composed—kind and genuine, but with every glance his way, they seem the least bit wearier. Meanwhile, North catches his eye several times, too, though his expression is more inscrutable. Eventually, the oracle excuses themself to the restroom. The tour has been shedding people the whole time as shifts change or they have their fill of the newcomer. Bunny starts storming over to confront North when something tugs at his chest.

“Bunny, can you hear me?” The oracle’s voice resonates in his head.

He stands for a second, bewildered, and then the tug comes again. Now, he recognizes it, and before he can think, he follows the sound. When he pops out of the ground, he finds himself in a toilet stall. Not too far away—because there is almost no spare room—the oracle perches haphazardly on the toilet seat, very much not using it as intended. Which is a relief to him, as he doesn’t know if he could have survived such an awkward moment. As they look at each other, stunned, a sprinkle of motes flies away from their palm.

“Oh,” they say. “I didn’t realize—I thought I was calling, like on the ph—You know what, it doesn’t matter.” They lean over and whisper, “Can you please get me the fuck out of here?”

He resets the tunnel, straddling the hole in the ground for lack of room. He gestures for them to come over, and they lunge into his arms.

“Okay, this might be a little disorienting,” he says. “One, two, three!”

They drop in. Gravity turns a few times, and they reappear safe and sound in their apartment.

“Her we are,” he says. They open their eyes. “You feelin’ all right? Any dizziness?”

“Yeah, I’m f—oourgh…”

He chuckles as they buckle slightly, and then does his best to keep cool when they lay their head on his chest. He knows it’s just from the fast travel—it’s why he avoids it with non-immortals, especially those who’ve never really traveled like this before—but the weight of them is right there, over his heart, which is thumping too loud to be discreet. They take a moment to re-orient themself back to normal gravity, and then pull away.

“Thank you,” they say. “That was a lovely tour but he was… overwhelming.”

“He knew what he was doing, and I’m gonna have a word with him.”

“It’s all right, Bunny.”

“Well… You’re home safe. I guess I’ve gotta get going.” He prepares to leave. “I’ll pick you next week for the lesson?”

“Sounds like a plan. And, thank you again. Really.”

An elf and a letter await him once he returns to the Warren. He opens it and has to read it a few times before the Cyrillic characters make themselves apparent. North was only half-literate when he became immortal, and while he’s become quite learned since then, his handwriting remains nigh-indecipherable if you have no idea what to look for.

Did it work? Did the dashing hero rescue the poor oracle? Did he win favor??

The last two question marks have a curve drawn underneath them to make a smiley face. Bunny sighs and rubs his eyes before composing his reply:

If you ever "help" me like that again, I’m going to start a rumor that you have a hoard of "tinsel" somewhere in the Pole and set the yetis loose on you for not sharing.

He sends it off with the elf, surprised when it returns only twenty minute later with another note.

Naughty list!!

is all it says, a frown underneath the exclamation marks.

Chapter Text

There’s a knock at the door, and you carefully toss the knife in your hand down on the cutting board to let Chrissy into your apartment. She scoots in, giggling madly.

“Oh, it’s been so long since I did this!” She actually twirls in excitement. “I mean you and I do need to discuss some things vis-à-vis the collaboration, but it’s not that intense.”

It’s been a weird turnaround for you and Chrissy these short yet unending weeks. You’ve put in a few extra hours at the gallery to help organize this haphazard art showcase. It’s more of a pilot, something Chrissy is pushing for to drum up support for an initiative through GreenWitch, but it requires planning nonetheless. It’s allowed you and her to get to know each other better, but even without it, there’s been a shift between you two. She’s becoming the friend you always hoped you could be with her. Never as close as you and Gill, but close enough that you’ve invited her over for the monthly art jam you and Gillian have.

“Art jam.” Really, it’s just another excuse to hang out, just under the pretense of working on current projects. Most of the time, you chat, then drink or pop a cannabis gummy, and then relax until you fall asleep or Gill has to go home. Today, however, you think will be different. For one thing, Chrissy is already making herself comfortable on a pile of pillows, spreading out her sketchbook and pencils. For another, Gillian is late. Rather, he’s about to be just on time, which is odd. No messages from him alerting you, either. You shoot him a text and return to the cheese board you’re making. Ten minutes later, as you and Chrissy start in on the snacks, he finally arrives.

“Hey!”

Y’all share a big hug, and then he holds up a pack of beer. He spots Chrissy and gives her a polite nod, which she returns. They’re still weird with each other, and refuse to elaborate on why, but they’re not snarking or being rude. Just some momentary cold awkwardness before they warm up a bit. So now they sit… not next to each other, but facing into the circle you complete. Not casually, but not tense like strange cats meeting for the first time. It’ll have to do.

Gillian glances around and then jumps when he sees your latest Ana-Vlog. He makes a surprised noise. Chrissy follows his gaze and then turns back to you.

“I saw that when I came in! It’s so cool. What style are you working in?” she asks.

Gillian stares at it, jaw tight. “The rabbit is carrying eggs in a bag.”

Chrissy laughs. “So, it’s the Easter Bunny!” She looks at it again, and then regards it thoughtfully. “Y’know, I’ve never seen that character designed that way, but it… strangely makes sense? No frills, just business. Hm…”

“Yeah,” you say. “With the holiday, it’s been on my mind, and I was kind of inspired by cave paintings, like at Lascaux.”

“The linework is simple, yet expressive. Almost like the minimalistic nature of of sumi-e. Also kind of funny, imagining cave people getting Easter eggs long before the holiday existed.”

She laughs. You thank her and smile, privately laughing at the truth of the matter. Gillian stares at it a bit longer and then turns back to you.

“It’s interesting,” he says. The clear disinterest shivs you through the gut.

“Oh. It’s.. just part of the Ana-Vlogs, which are about… journal-like experimentation…” you say. “I spend so much time in twentieth century Modernism and Post-Modernism I thought I’d try something—”

“That’s what I mean!” he says quickly, looking panicked. “It’s not bad! Or boring! I just think it’s interesting and nice that you’re trying new things and time periods.”

You know him well enough to see that he is sorry for saying it that way. That doesn’t erase the sting, but you two have had worse interactions. If this hadn’t been the latest in a recent string of unusual happenings for him, you’d be less content to sit back and leave it there. However, with Chrissy there, you’re not going to put him on the spot.

So, you put a pin in the conversation and fall into busy companionship. You and Chrissy chat about work for about an hour, brainstorming things to do and artists to consider for a potential, more formal opening, and then you jump on the art horse as Chrissy opens her sketchbook. Gillian has mostly been adding outsider commentary (very welcome, so you could see what interests the casual visitor) and eventually, he finds one of his obtusely themed playlists and puts it on for accompaniment. As you set up your paints, you glance over Chrissy’s shoulder and exclaim in delight.

“What are those cute things?!”

Chrissy flips over onto her back and beams as she hold up her sketchbook so you can see them closer.

“Listen, it’s been… oh since college that I just messed around with character design. That’s what I originally went for, and then I fell down the Fine Arts rabbit hole. But these cuties? Like they came to me in a dream, suddenly they were in my head.”

What you see are several hummingbird-esque humanoids. Big eyes, fluttery wings, bright, iridescent colors. Weirdly, you feel like you’ve seen something like this before, but you suppose no idea is new under the sun. Gillian stirs, curious, as you flip through the sketchbook.

“So, they’re hummingbird... harpies?” you ask.

“No, not harpies, exactly. I thought of them that way at first but they’re more like… Okay… Okay this might sound weird, but the concept in my mind for them is…” She holds up her hands as if she can’t believe it, either. “They’re fairies, and they’re made out of teeth.”

You peer at the sketches again. All of them seem to be covered in feathers.

“Teeth?” you ask.

“Teeth!”

You look at the sketches again. “They look feathery.”

At that Gillian perks up and leans over, laying his chin on your shoulder. In that instant, all the weirdness becomes a stale bad dream. You wrap your arm around him as Chrissy continues.

“It’s a little weird to explain, but the idea is that teeth are magical and if you get enough of them together, poof! A little fairy is born.”

“So, they’re tooth fairies!” you laugh.

You consider taking a picture to she Bunny later. After all, it stands to reason the tooth Fairy is real after meeting him and the others. Perhaps they’d enjoy seeing fanart, especially this interesting interpretation. As you decide, though, Gillian recoils. He backs up so fast that he trips over your paint palette and falls to the floor. You rush to help him up, but he’s already crawling away, wincing.

“Gill—Gill stop for a second!”

“I’m fine!” he yells. “I just. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

He pulls himself to his feet. No visible bleeding, but he’ll probably have a nasty bruise on his shoulder or tailbone. He takes a step and leaves a footprint.

“Shit, sorry.”

You direct him to lean on the bed, and you grab a washcloth. He gets the paint off his foot while you work on the flooring. Once finished, he quickly gets his shoes on and scoops up his bag.

“Where are you—” you ask.

“Gotta go,” he says.

“Why?!”

“Restaurant.”

He dashes out the door. You take one look at Chrissy, who’s determinedly buried in her sketchbook, though her ears glow pink. She’ll be fine, so you chase down Gill. You manage to find him in the stairwell and grab him, your momentum carrying you until you have him shoved against the landing wall.

“What the fuck is going on with you!” you yell.

The outburst feels right, considering your best fucking friend won’t even tell you half of what’s going on with him. Still, you regret the tone before the last echo fades, as tears well up in his eyes. You let up on your grip and take a breath.

“Please,” you beg. “You’re not doing a good job hiding what’s going on, and I’d’ve hoped you’d think better about trying to lie about being anxious to me. If you don’t want to detail whatever this is, fine. But please—please—don’t try to tell me nothing’s wrong.”

He opens his mouth. It stays there for several seconds until he closes it again. He shifts uncomfortably. Thankfully, he chose to wear his binder, so he hasn’t been fidgeting with his shirt all day but he does strangle the strap of his bag. It hurts to see him like this, and the back of your mind starts whispering that something you did must have caused him not to trust you. You halt the process, declare it a non-useful thought for now, and file it away to examine (and hopefully discard) later. Gillian, meanwhile, finds his voice.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He rubs his arm. “I’ve been working on something important the last few weeks. I want to share it with you but… you reacted badly last time.”

The non-useful thought un-files itself and returns to the forefront of your worry. Especially since you have no idea what he’s referring to. The confusion must show on your because he starts reassuring you.

“It’s nothing bad—actually, now that I think about it, I meant to tell you but got distracted and never did. Just got my wires crossed.”

“But you want to tell me about it eventually.”

“Next Thursday, if you’re free.” He pulls out a paper from his bag. It reads like a flier, but is very strange. Despite the full size of paper, the text is the default point size and goes line to line from the top left corner. It could have been a card. At first you think that’s it, but then you notice an illustration at the bottom: the rune from the necklace.

“You still have the charm, right?” he asks.

“Um…” You think fast—what’s plausible and unfortunate? “N-no, I... was petting a dog at Times Square, and it—”

“Look, it’s okay, accidents happen.” He looks so disappointed, though. “I can get you another. You’ll need it to get in.”

“Is this a New Age-y thing?”

“Ssssort of. Yes.”

Going could help Gillian, show him you’ll support him. If you understand what’s been going on, what he’s gotten into, then maybe you can work on helping bulwark against it. See if you can guide him back to better stability, or at least let his parents know how to support him. Moreover, that symbol is of interest to Bunny. Two birds, one stone.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” you say. “It means a lot to you, so sure.”

Relief comes over him so thoroughly you can see every one of his muscles relax.

“Great!” he says. “Come over beforehand and we’ll go together.”

“Okay.”

It’s awkward, but you hug and walk him out the door. Watching him go, you notice that he has a familiar spring in his step as he disappears down Ocean Ave. He always walked so assuredly… up until recently. An uneasy feeling settles in your gut, less about the meeting itself and more of a cynical hope that this all clears up with as few hiccups and casualties as possible.

You return to the apartment and apologize to Chrissy for the outburst and for taking so long. Then, you spend another hour drawing and painting until she also has to go. A mixed success of a day overall.

Three days later, it’s back to Santoff Claussen for the first real lesson. There’s a small buzz of excitement when you appear—heads turning, people whispering to each other, small kids and teens unsubtly pointing. Ahead of you, Bunny’s demeanor changes. He says nothing, just strides forth, seemingly unbothered by the attention you draw, but you can’t help but notice that, when he picked you up, he was much more animated. Now, he acts like a guard on duty: silent, alert, stride so focused that citizens practically leap out his path. You speed up to walk beside him and lay your hand on his arm, possibly to stop him and ask what’s wrong. As soon as your fingers touch his fur, though, you hear a loud gasp behind you, then a shushing hiss.

Oh, you realize. Oh, they’re watching us. Together.

It takes every ounce of your resolve not to remove your hand, but you end up matching Bunny’s deportment: silent, alert, focused stride. Thankfully, the wizard’s house isn’t too many steps away, and as soon as the door closes, the both of you let out harsh exhales of relief.

“Any chance we can just teleport in here directly next time?” you ask.

“You noticed them, huh?” Bunny gives a weak smile. “They don’t mean any harm, I promise, they just… make assumptions. But, I was gonna ask Ombric the same thing once saw him.”

Ombric is amenable to the idea, which resolves that, though he has a pointed chuckle about it. He’s weirdly surprised right after when you ask to have no onlookers at these lessons, just him, you, and Bunny present, but he agrees.

“I try not to wrap myself to tightly in the enclave of academic pursuit,” he says. “Sometimes I fail, but I do try to be attentive. I think my daughter would have run away if I was not discerning enough.”

“Probably. She’s stubborn enough,” Bunny replies.

Ombric nods and claps him on the shoulder. “I do have a tendency to surround myself with that type, don’t I?”

You can’t help the snort that comes out, and immediately focus your attention on Ombric, even as you sense Bunny turning to face you, a betrayed gurgle emanating from his throat. The wizard’s long beard fails to obscure his amused smirk, and he invites you to start the lesson.

It’s different than you thought it would be. The first visit was mostly breathing exercises and conjuring up a vision or two. Those exercises are still part of the lesson, but this time, Ombric asks to hypnotize you to see if he can better guide you through a controlled vision. You’re skeptical—not in his ability to hypnotize, though you think most human hypnotists are still, at best, hucksters, but the idea of being enthralled like that is disquieting.

“It’s perfectly safe,” he assures you. “I think it could allow you to bypass some of the chaos in your mind, especially with your medication in the mix. Lowering your dose or temporarily stopping altogether would be vastly more effective and quicker to gain results, but—”

“No,” you answer.

“—I had a feeling that would be the case. However, since you’ve already managed so much despite the side effects, this may be all you need to help put you in the correct mindset.” That’s reassuring, but you still hesitate, long enough that Ombric waves to Bunny. “You know what, you first.”

“What?” Bunny’s fur stands on end. “Whaddya mean?”

“I shall put you under hypnosis to demonstrate the extent of such a state.”

He shrugs. “Just don’t make me say anything foolish while I’m under.”

“Hmm… Anything I have in mind would likely not make a difference if said aloud.”

Using a crystal and chanting a few words, Ombric lulls Bunny into a stupor. He looks intoxicated or tired, and his posture relaxes as he stares into the now-glowing rock.

“Please state your name for us,” Ombric begins.

“E. Aster Bunnymund.”

“What is your primary occupation?”

“The Guardian of Hope, caretaker of children’s futures.”

That’s a lovely way of putting it, you think to yourself. I suppose that is what hope is at the end of the day; looking to the future, despite everything.

That’s a sentiment you could use more of. Perhaps because of your lifelong anxiety, the future has always been a tenuous thing. It doesn’t matter that it comes anew every second of every day, you wish it would slow down and give you time to savor the ever-growing past. That’s why you had asked Bunny if he knew someone who could cure this magical nature. The last thing you need is another internal alarm trying to convince you that the future is imminent. At least it isn’t always trying to churn your stomach and make you believe the world is ending. At least, it isn’t yet.

But, the demonstration works. Bunny sits there, answering questions you assume to be some sort of calibration assessment for Ombric, and after a bit, Ombric guides Bunny into growing a flower right there from the table wood. It’s a pretty though asymmetrical hibiscus. On one side are long, thin pink petals that eventually hang like hair. On the other side are two orange and purple petals that more resemble the short, round ones of a cherry blossom.

“Hm…” Bunny says, twirling it around, though still under the hypnosis.

“Does this seem all right?” Ombric asks you. When you don’t answer, he nods and says, “Very well, let me show you the limits of this.

“Bunnymund, tell us what the ‘E’ in your name stands for.”

“Would rather not,” Bunny replies. A degree of the glazed look falls away, but he remains relaxed.

“It’s not mind control,” Ombric says to you. “That’s a different spell, one I prefer not to use, as the end results, though to the letter of the command, are not well-earned. This merely is a way to tap into your subconscious a little better. It makes you open to suggestion a bit, yes, but I cannot make you do anything you do not wish to do. And it is easy enough to break out of. For example:

“Bunnymund, you will allow me the use of the mirror with zero restrictions from now until the end of time.”

“Absolutely…” Bunny says. Ombric clearly doesn’t expect that, as he looks horrified yet delighted for a second. Then Bunny finishes his statement: “the fuck not.”

The stupor disappears. Bunny stretches and yawns. The wizard, a good enough sport, nods at the statement and hands Bunny some tea from his whirligig butler. Then, he motions to you. Behind him, Bunny just nods once, and you settle in.

As you, too, stare into the crystal, the magic words wash over you and bring you to a state very much like you’re running on three hours of sleep. However, there’s no exhaustion, just a dulling of your senses. Ombric’s calibration questions sound like they come from across a large room, though you understand them clearly. You state your name, you state your occupation. When he asks you to sink deeper into the sensation and try to conjure up the dog vision yet again, at first, nothing happens. You start to get nervous, but the sensation is slow and gradual. It fades before it can stack up too much, and you concentrate. Again, nothing happens, but you let it fade—a little quicker this time—and after a few more ebbs and floods, you can see it clearly.

It’s a very large dog, larger than you’ve ever seen before except in a fantasy show. Not quite as tall as a horse at the shoulder, but possibly large enough to ride on. It paces just outside the restaurant’s back door, stopping to sniff the doorjamb and… and deliberately place its ear on the door to listen. Footsteps grow louder, and the large dog (you’re beginning to suspect it’s a little more than that) scurries back. The door starts to open, and it bolts down the alley. Your field of view sticks to it, so you can’t see who exactly comes out of the door, but you hear Gillian’s voice though you can’t discern his words.

“When you’re done, slowly come back,” comes Ombric’s voice. “Don’t rush or you may feel sick and dizzy.”

Unlike Bunny’s hypnosis, which took around twenty minutes all told, your session finishes in just under an hour. And it feels like it did. You may have rushed the last bit of return, as your mind swims with the new information and a hasty readjustment to looking through your own eyes again rather than like a camera peering down from the sky. You gladly take some tea and a small cake he offers, the physical smells helping to ground you back into yourself. Despite everything, however, a feeling of victory settles within you.

“That worked,” you say. “I wasn’t forced into the vision.”

“Is that how they’ve been manifesting?” Ombric asks.

“Yeah, they’ve just been happening without any input.”

“Have you been trying to stop them somehow? Maybe by focusing on something else?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I know there are times when you need to focus on other things—work, cooking, travel…” He not-so-surreptitiously glances to Bunny. “… honored guests—but if you have the ability, try to replicate the focus you experienced. Do not let panic overwhelm you, just allow the vision to play out.”

“Thank you.”

With a promise to continue the hypnosis-aided control next week, you head back home. Bunny helps you into the apartment, but doesn’t get out of the tunnel himself. He doesn’t mean to stay longer than it takes to see you back safe. At first, you worry you read him all wrong, but the way he looks up at you, you don’t think so. He’s just trying to be polite, to wait for you. And you may not be quite on the same page as you suspect he is, but… you’d like to be. He turns, promising to come by for the next lesson, and you stop him.

“You know, you don’t have be a stranger around here,” you say. “I like talking to you. Also I have so many questions about all of… this. So, drop by sometime outside of transportation. “In fact, there’s going to be a pop up night market next Friday night. Lots of great local artists and crafters if you… want to… come?”

His ears perk up at that. No, you have not read him wrong at all. Then, however, they sink back.

“Will there be a lot of people there?” he asks.

You nod. “It always get a great crowd. The whole community comes together for it.”

“Mm… I, uh… I don’t do so well with crowds,” he says. He must see your confusion, as you’ve just come from a place where he easily melds with the crowd, and he clarifies, “With mostly non-Believer crowds. I like people, honestly. But, I’m not exactly… real? In a physical sense, anyway.”

“You seem real to me,” you say.

“To you. To the villagers. But if you didn’t have your powers and Belief, you’d literally walk right through me. And that’s… not a great feeling when that happens.”

“What’s that feel like?”

Bunny thinks for a moment, a grimace curling his face.

“Empty,” he finally says. “Anyway, it sounds great but—”

“Oh, no problem,” you reply, thinking quickly. “It’s monthly, so I can catch the one in May. We can just sit on the fire escape and shoot the shit. Crack open a cold one, or two.”

“I’d like that,” he says.

“Then, around six my time?”

He nods. “I’ll see you then. G’night.”

The hole in the floor disappears, a flower blooming and withering in the space of a second. Once it finishes disintegrating, you faceplant on your bed and do your best to hide from the fact you’ve more or less asked him out, in all but exact wording. All you have to do is get through Gillian’s meeting the night before.

Chapter Text

It’s an intense week of acting out your usual routine, worthy of every pretentious award since neither Nirupama nor Chrissy pick up on your distress. Earlier in the planning stage, Nirupama had entertained the idea of using staff art for the opening, but despite Chrissy being on board, the Collective decided that a single artist would be better, and a member of the Collective would increase turnout even more. That was kind of a blow to Chrissy, who had spearheaded the collaboration with your gallery, but nothing gets her down for long. Even with a hint of disillusionment, she persists and keeps on top of the logistics. Silently, you were reluctantly thankful of the exclusion. You want nothing more than to have your share of spotlight, but with everything going on—Gillian, oracle lessons, that nonsensical dog vision—you don’t need that stress.

At least you’ll get to see Bunny this week, and not just when he takes you to the village.

The night of the meeting finally arrives. You stare at the flower for a minute, deciding whether or not to bring a petal. With one already missing, it looks so sad, and plucking another seems like it would aesthetically put it out of its misery. In the end, however, taking that petal to Santoff Claussen last time had been the right call. The bubbly magic travels through your finger and down your hand as you stroke it. And you pluck. You feel safer with it on you, and you get the feeling that might make all the difference in your anxiety tonight.

The bar is starting to ramp up when you arrive. It’s a smaller crowd due to the market siphoning off some of the regulars, but these nights are always steady regardless. You and Gill chat in the back hallway for about twenty minutes, and he’s fired up more than he has been this entire last month. It’s a little bizarre to see the old Gillian breaking through in the context of now, but it’s… a relief? Then, you start heading out into the back alley.

As you do, an intense vertigo threatens to topple you over. You catch the doorjamb and stare at the ground to let it pass. Somewhere to your side, Gillian calls your name and lays a hand on your shoulder to stabilize you. There’s a clatter from down the alley. You turn your head to the noise, regret it immediately, but even with your spinning vision, you see something scramble out of the alley. Something with a bushy tail.

Cat? Raccoon? No, way too big. A second later, the vertigo transmutes into… Déjà vu. But I’ve never—the dog!

“You okay?”

Gillian watches you closely, and you glance after the animal one more time. There had been an overlap of future and present. That’s the only explanation you can think of, if that is the same dog you’ve been seeing. And for what? You sigh, wondering if you just weren’t paying attention—that although the dog being the focal point, the vision was actually portending you heading to this meeting.

“Can you walk?”

You nod. He hesitates one more time and then leads the way. You take the downtown train a few stops and then hike at least two kilometers. Block after block passes by until you’re in an area made up of independent theaters and warehouses. It’s disturbingly quiet by New York standards. All you hear is the burble of a stream of water falling into a drain, the creak of an old door, and your footsteps. The smell of rusty iron pervades your senses. You’re reluctant to ask Gillian if you’re close, just to make sure you don’t break some sort of spell keeping you hidden from lurking monsters, and at that thought, you rub the petal in your pocket.

“Here.”

You jump at his voice. Gillian holds open a weathered door and gestures for you to enter.

“Also, wear this,” he says, handing you another charm. It takes an extra second to convince your legs, but you follow and throw the cord around your neck.

It’s warm and humid inside. Gillian keeps his hand on your shoulder and leads you through a backstage area. Two turns later, an endless amount of people rush to and fro across every conceivable path. They murmur to each other and fiddle with wires and microphones—techs. Just theater techs, doing their job. At first, nothing seems off, but as your eyes adjust to the lighting, you notice that most of them have masks on. Wolf masks, like the old Universal monster. You wonder what they could possibly gain from wearing them—most look like they’re struggling to adjust their equipment, poring over papers of instructions as they speak in what you can only describe as a Slavic-tinged Romance language. Several watch you pass by, Gillian calling out and waving to them, and a sense of the uncanny creeps in as you peer at their faces. Before you get a good look, Gillian leads you to a door.

“I need to talk to my Friend for a second. I’m gonna be onstage with it for this presentation, so just hang out for a second.”

“A second” turns into sixty and then into ten minutes. Pressing your your ear against the door does no good. Their voices are low and muffled, and you can’t suss out so much as a tone of his friend’s voice let alone its cadence. You press your ear harder into the cold wood and close your eyes to concentrate.

Three seconds, door slams open. Tech behind you. Trip over them unless—

Two seconds, door slams open. Tech behind you. Knock chin on door if move left unless—

One second, door slams open. Tech behind you. Just enough space to stumble right—

The door slams open, surprising you so that you jump backwards with the momentum. You tread on a toe, and its owner yelps in your ear. Gillian appears and catches you, allowing you to look up at the tech you trod on. Yet another mask—you squint up at their face, watching the muzzle twitch and quiver. Before you can really check if you’re seeing correctly, they move along and you’re led to the side.

“So, we go on in a few minutes. I just wanted to let my Friend know I’m here and, well, maybe introduce y’all after the presentation. Here, let me get you to a seat.”

This isn’t a proper theater building. The curtains hang on drooping twine strung from wall to wall, cutting the room in half. But nothing contains or directs the acoustics, and the clatter backstage becomes the backing track for the audience. Likewise, the lines of folding chairs squeak with every adjustment someone makes as they sit. As you follow Gill, you notice more than a few of the wooden chairs have moth-eaten cloth in the seat.

The audience consists of a lot of young adults, some thirtysomethings and fortysomethings, and a few older folks who look like they’d prefer to stand all night than sit on these things. About a third of them you’d describe as “crunchy,” and indeed, various essential oil scents battle for dominance in the musty air.

“Here.” Gillian indicates a seat at the end of a row a few back from the “stage.” “We’re gonna start in about ten minutes. Enjoy!”

You spend those ten minutes worrying the petal between your fingers. It takes five for you to realize that the usual sensation of magic is dull, almost gone. At first, you think you’ve simply rubbed it away, but then you notice the banners lining the walls with the rune on them, the charms glittering on every neck. All at once, you feel isolated. Bunny can’t reach you here, no matter how loud you scream.

I’m still safe. Gillian is here. He’s been working with them all this time and is alive and wel—he’s alive, you rush to remind yourself. The thought placates you long enough for the show to start. Gillian emerges from behind the curtain, and the audience quiets.

“Thank you so much for coming. We’ve been working hard these last few weeks to ensure that we know what we’re doing and can convince you of the truth we bring to you.”

A few audience members titter. Gillian’s solemnity does come off a tad absurd, but you sit patiently and nod to him when he glances your direction.

“Our new Friend is here to unveil the world that exists just under humans’ noses. Beings and creatures that are invisible to us yet rely on our ignorance and complacency to power their livelihoods.

“Humans used to have control over our own powers. Not just soft maybes, mere whispers of abilities, but legitimate control over the elements, the weather, and…” He looks at you for a moment. “Foresight.”

A sick feeling builds in your stomach. He can’t know. You have not told him about that, you know you haven’t. Planning to, in the near future, once you get a hold on these powers, but… But then you remember his odd comments at lunch a few weeks ago—your painting and its contents; the man who supposedly accosted you at the station; a lunch bill owed.

Maybe we both manifested the same power at the same time? There’s a relief in that thought: you might not be so alone after all, and it could explain his squirrely behavior. But as you watch his continued speech, you get the idea that there’s something else afoot.

“Our abilities, however, have been stolen from us. Our ancestors struck a bargain with immortals—fae, spirits, djinn, whatever you want to call them. In exchange for our devotion to power these beings, they said we would be rewarded. They said they would protect the sources of magic that power the world. They said we would be able to live better, more enlightened lives.

“They lied, of course.

“Since then, humanity has only become more narrow-minded, more prone to our worst impulses, less creative, less able to dream on our own. The so-called guardians of our magic take what they need to keep them alive and healthy and powerful and let us breed like cattle to leech from. And they have tried similarly with beings who are not human, but mortal all the same. In fact, our Friend is one such being, and it, for one, is tired of capitulating to the overbearing presence of those who think they’re too good for mortals—and who have gotten away with it this long only because they have made themselves invisible to our eyes so long as we cannot see properly.

“But, I know some of you are restless. You’re skeptical. Fae, immortals, magic—this goes beyond the crystals and tarot and manifestation we’ve let ourselves be complacent with. Perhaps, you’re even thinking, this is some sort of death cult. Therefore, allow me and my companions to show you the barest edges of the truth that’s been completely hidden from humans all this time.”

At that, several masked techs stream out from behind the curtain. The audience perks up, murmuring excitement. The techs spread out, entering the rows at various points and standing there. Their ears flick back. You barely catch it in the dim light, but at least one ear on every one flick’s back like a real dog’s ear. The vertigo returns; the déjà vu returns.

“See now what we have had taken away from us!” Gillian cries out.

At that signal, the techs howl in unison and—twist, bend, fold over in ways people aren’t meant to. They… melt? Parts of them merge into others. The audience immediately shrieks, and a few people scramble out of their chairs. You, however, are frozen to your seat, staring in horror and awe at the nearest contorting tech. When its body stops bulging and shifting, you blink, hoping to see some sort of odd costume, an interesting quick-change feat.

There’s the damn dog, however. And another, and several more.

Shapeshifters, you realize. Honest to goodness shapeshifters.

There’s a moment of calm as the audience catches up to you when curiosity is the emotion du jour. Then the screams erupt again, more chairs get tossed, and about three-quarters of the audience dash for the door. You hadn’t gotten a good look at the size of the audience, but there has to be at least at least a hundred people present. And even a hundred panicked humans can make for a deadly stampede. They pile up against it, pressing so hard against each other that the one at the doorknob can’t get it open. You start losing track of their heads as some duck or trip and you’re not sure if they’re getting back up again. Two of the dogs—no, wolves. Werewolves?—go over to check, but one of the panicked twentysomethings on the edge kicks its muzzle instinctively. The wolf yips and recoils. Then it growls, causing the poor person to burst into tears. Finally, though, the door is unlatched, and the bottleneck bursts out onto the street, screams and the pounding of feet bouncing over metal siding and brick and broken glass.

Once the door finally closes, the remainder of the audience is silent. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be the sound of anything besides the muffled, disappearing screams outside, and a huffing laugh coming from the various techs and wolves. Only now, do your hands un-tense enough for you to open them. They shake. You flex them a few times, trying to remind your body about movement and joints. Meanwhile, you look around for Gillian. He’s still onstage, but there’s someone else with him. A nondescript person who wears a black suit with a white, priest-like collar at the neck and a wide-brimmed hat like you’ve seen on a preacher in a Western. Your breath catches in your throat as you look at this person, ice forming around your insides.

“It seems they were not true Believers,” it says in a strange voice that breaks and jumps octaves every other syllable. It clears its throat, and this time, the voice that comes out is smooth, warm, consistent, and terrifyingly familiar. “But I am glad to see that there are a few left among us. Welcome, new friends.”

It gestures for the remaining people to consolidate into the middle first few rows. Whether due to fear of reprisal from the werewolves or genuinely entranced, they do, and you as well. The speaker—Gillian’s “Friend,” you know now—smiles such a genuine smile that you even calm slightly. But as it continues to speak, a creeping feeling so fully encompasses you that you go into a full-blown silent panic attack.

“I’m sure tonight has been quite educational for you all,” it says. “Now, I’m afraid I do not have a name like you do, but if you find yourself in need of calling me something other than ‘friend,’ Jesús works just fine.”

Eons later, you find yourself on the train with Gillian. He looks somewhat distressed, and just keeps an arm around you. You blink, and try to remember what happened. Most of it is a blur, but you remember some points—the rune is key, Belief, meetings ongoing, requests for recruitment.

“You okay?” Gillian asks.

“Yeah,” you manage to answer. “Yeah I’m…”

“I… I’m sorry, I should have warned you about the transformation part.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’ve been shaking for minutes.”

“I will be fine.”

Gillian sighs. “This is what I’ve been up to. And I mean every word of it. It’s a little scary, but we plan on doing good. We’re going to fix society.”

There’s a part of you thankful for being unable to speak much at the moment. Your first instinct is to warn Gillian away from Jesús, and away from those werewolves. Yell at him, plead at him, cry and make him feel bad for ever having joined in the first place. But multiple health classes throughout school taught you that if you suspect someone is in a cult or another high-control group, those reactions are the worst you can have. The best thing you can do is to keep an open line of support to him. Thankfully, that doesn’t mean participating in the group yourself.

“Yeah, it’s startling. The werewolves,” you reply. “Would have loved a head-up on the weird imagery. But I totally get why you didn’t.”

“Who would have believed me, right?”

“Right…”

“I do still think you and my Fr—Jesus should talk,” he suggests cautiously. “I think you’ll find you have more in common than you think.”

“Um.” You search for the right way to say this. “I think I would rather you explain it more to me first. One on one. I’ve already seen the proof, so I just need more information. Also… please never take me to a half-abandoned warehouse like that again.”

“See, I told them all the venue was sketchy. Did they listen? Nooo.”

You laugh to be polite. Gillian laughs, too. His is more natural-sounding than yours, and you try to keep to wordless reactions in case your inability to lie makes him more suspicious By the time it’s your stop, you’re able to move on your own, albeit slowly. Gill walks you all the way to your apartment, apologizing once again as you counter apologize.

“So, when do you want to do the first one-on-one?” he asks.

“Um…” you go over the next few days in your head. You work the weekend this week, and you promised Chrissy a planning lunch on Monday at a tapas place you enjoyed a week or two ago. Tomorrow seems promising… until you remember your dinner plans. And what has to happen alongside them now in light of all this. You’ll still be recovering from the shock, no doubt, and you need yourself as sane and calm as possible. Then there’ll be an oracle lesson in there somewhere. And between all of that, you still need to work on the art series. “Next Friday? May 1st?”

“Works for me.” He smile and hugs you tight. “I know it was weird, but thank you so much for coming. I think we’ll make a great team.”

You struggle to say, “When have we not?”

Chapter Text

Bunny runs a hand down the Yggsbark’s trunk. He presses into it a certain points, testing its firmness, and he carefully digs away some of the soil around a root. A healthy blue-violet, as it should be, and a fuzzy mycorrhizal system woven around it. He replaces the soil and silently begs the tree to bloom again soon. He really misses that second boomerang.

On his way back through the experimental garden, he stops to prod a few patches of dirt and to check some large blossoms. While reaching into a living tree stump’s hollow to check for internal splintering, something wet wraps around his leg. A shiver runs up his body to the tips of his whiskers, but before he can look and see what it is, the cold, slimy appendage tightens and drags him back.

“Ah, shit—The Jelly Pitcher is awake again!” he yells, scrambling to slow his movement.

In the distance, he hears the stone eggs rushing toward him. In the meantime, he grabs his boomerang and starts hacking away at the tendril. In no time, they manage to preoccupy and subdue the Jelly Pitcher with some PB pollen, but it takes long enough that Bunny emerges from the scuffle drenched head to toe in purple gelatinous sludge.

“Euruuughghh…”

He enters his house, teetering from leg to leg in a futile attempt to feel the substance’s slick yet sticky texture as little as possible. Moreover, to keep it from smearing into his undercoat where it’ll take days to dry and comb out. He turns on the shower—one of the few remaining mechanical remnants of the Pookas in the Warren. One of these days, he’s going to replace it with newer Earthling plumbing, but for now, it works well enough to get the gunk off him.

Why today of all days? he asks himself.

He keeps leaning to see one of the clocks on the far wall to keep track of the time and then does the math to check the proper time zone. An hour and a half. An hour and twenty minutes. An hour and fifteen minutes. An hour and thirteen minutes.

The closer it ticks to his dinner dat—meetin—hangout, the more frantic he becomes. He has to restrain himself, however, as Jelly Pitcher goo is so stubborn he has to use a burnt-smelling oil to get most of it out before going back in with soap, and then a third round with a comb in hand for good measure, followed by a scented oil to make sure the tart smell of goo is suppressed completely. By the time he gets done with that, even having rushed a bit at the end, one of the stone eggs comes in to inform him of his appointment.

He scrambles out of the shower room, still a bit damp, but drying fast with air or fast-ish with a towel will mess up his fur. He knows it’s not a serious, it’s not a real… He really wants to look nice for them, though. It’s been several weeks since they met, and for him to be so deep, so down bad still after few signs of reciprocation… This is either going to be very satisfying, or a long bumpy ride.

They’re new to the idea of magic really existing, he keeps telling himself. Give them time to adjust. They want to hang out, though. They asked to see the Warren, and nearer Easter!

When he can no longer put off heading out for fear of being late and looking like an ass, he makes a quick tunnel to the fire escape. It opens to a sky of gold and pink—as well as a cube of some sort that tips into the hole.

“No!”

A hand appears and barely stops the fall. Glass clinks together and Bunny sees that a caddy of beer had nearly bonked him in the head. Then, the oracle’s face appears over the lip of the hole.

“That’s still so weird…” they say, but they move to give him room.

Bunny carefully exits the tunnel and sits when they pat the ground next to him. Right next to them. The landing is no bigger than it was Easter night, meaning that, sitting with their legs through the railing bars, the oracle’s arm rests behind him as they prop themself up, barely close enough to brush his fur. He turns to them, and then smells something… burnt.

“What—” He sniffs a few more times and looks into the apartment. “Ya got something on the stove?”

They sigh, “Not anymore.” Sheepishness overtakes their expression and they avoid eye contact. “I, uh… I tried to make us some dinner. I’m not that great at cooking, so it’s mostly rice, beans, pasta, potatoes, simple stuff until I give in and eat out. When I do try and act my age, I try a meal kit and even then…”

They look back into the apartment, grimace, and take a huge swig from their beer. Too big, as they end up coughing into their elbow. Bunny grabs their bottle so they don’t spill, and a strong scent of chocolate and raspberry makes him sneeze. When he looks back, he sees they’re drinking a local craft stout.

“Crikey, that’s a high ABV,” he says. “You sure you should be drinkin’ his before eating? Or on your meds for that matter?”

“It’s my monthly indulgence. I get one or two occasionally. Here help yourself.”

They hold the caddy out to him. He considers for a second before taking one and popping the cap off with the offered opener. After a sniff and a taste, he commits to a full sip. It’s rich, thick, and overwhelmingly tastes of said chocolate and raspberry, but, he decides as the aftertaste hits, not altogether terrible. He takes another sip and looks out to the view. Their building sits north-south, so it’s not a true sunset, but a reflection of one in the sky and returning to them from many windows. He takes a deep, calm breath, and sighs at the exact time they do. They look at each other and laugh.

“Long week?” they ask.

“Yeah, but more on the boring end of long for me.”

“What does the Easter Bunny do in his off-season that’s so boring?”

“Usually get started on prep for the next year,” he admits. “Designs, colorways, tilling the egg plant fields, run experiments in the greenhouses. Although this year it’s been… a little different.”

“How so?”

He hesitates for a second, not wanting to drag them into this part of the mess of his life. Truth be told, it’s starting to wear on him that there are still no leads to the damn artifact. Every moment that passes without it only makes him more anxious, unsure if the fluctuations of magic he feels are just business as usual, or if he’s missing miniature marks of time travel. At this rate, he might actually have to allow the use of the mirror. His ear twitches at the thought, but if he didn’t trust Ombric to some extent, he would have tried to take custody of the mirror a long time ago. And a dark part of him is, in fact, curious what the wizard would do if he simply unclipped the leash altogether.

The oracle shifts beside him, pulling his focus back as their arm tickles against his fur. They watch him, bottle almost touching their lips, waiting for his answer. At that moment, his teeth squeak against each other and he realizes just how tense he is. He takes a breath, relaxes his jaw and spine, and leans back, crossing their arm with his. It won’t be the end of the world if he tells them about the theft, he decides.

“Had a magical artifact stolen a few weeks ago,” he says. “I’ve been trying to track it down, but so far I have no leads.”

“Is it a powerful artifact?”

He takes a sip of the beer. “Most are, in the wrong hands.”

“Is the world currently in danger?” they ask.

He considers for a second. It’s been a month since the theft. He figures if someone means to harm the timeline, then they’re slacking. Or, it could mean they actually know what they have in their possession, how to use it, and are biding their time. Probably best not to admit that. One look at the oracle’s face, however, and he can’t lie.

“I don’t know. So far, it’s been quiet, and we have contacts all over the world we’ve asked to alert us if they see anything. Also, us Guardians have got a pretty good record of pinching a victory from the jaws of defeat.” He winks. “We’ve got it covered.”

They look relieved and smile. Then their eyes glaze over as a vision overcomes them. At first, they start to lock up, start to be afraid, but then they breathe and relax. At some point, they turn—a little too fast—to look into the apartment, and the hand propping them up catches his elbow. They continue to lean a bit too far, so he holds their arm to in turn keep them steady. After a second, they close their eyes. Ten breaths later, they open them and shake their head.

“Not now. Ten minutes,” they say. “Sorry, food’s on its way.”

“Aces.”

There’s a double-take at the word, then amusement, though a hint of the glazed look remains. The drink finally hitting them, probably harder than it is him. They have been a little more open the whole time, especially compared to the acted professionalism in front of the village. A fascinating person is revealing themself layer by layer in front of him, granted right now via mild intoxication. But he’ll consider that a sort of preview of who they are once all the walls come down. And he wants to be around for that.

Their eyes slide to where their hand rests on his arm. Carefully, they turn it and run their thumb over the chevron markings there. Bunny fights against his buzz to not tremble visibly.

“Is this natural?” they ask. They move to the petals higher up on his arm. “Surely you don’t dye this every other week.”

“Oh, these old things?” He laughs. “No, I got them from the Pooka.”

“The what?”

He’s not used to people not knowing his history anymore. All the other Guardians and many other immortals and semi-immortals know, if not the scope of the Pookas and their time on Earth, then that that is what he is. Far, far fewer humans know for various reasons; ninety percent of them live in Santoff Claussen. Regardless, usually he himself does not have to remember nor name nor explain it, but now finding himself the only qualified candidate present, he realizes how easy that externalization has been on him.

“The Pooka.” The words stick in his throat. He coughs. “That’s… that’s what I am. We’re a race of, well—” He gestures to himself. “Rabbit people.”

“There’s more of you?” They’re excited at the prospect. Humans always love uncovering a secret. “I thought you were just a very magically infused rabbit. Sorry, it never occurred to me that—”

“It’s all right. Sometimes I forget, too, since I’ve been the last on this planet for hundreds of… years.”

It’s been a long time since he’s made this rookie mistake. As soon as he says the words “this planet,” a whole set of questions unlock. He can see it in the awe on their face. Hours of “Whats” and “Hows” and “Whens” are on their way, but the first clarification he has to make is—

“Alien?” He’s too late. They absently trace the marking. “You’re saying you’re a literal alien?”

“Well, personally, I think ‘extraterrestrial’ is a little more dignified,” he mutters. “B-but yeah. I’m from a different planet. Different galaxy, even. I’ve been here on Earth for…” He pauses to think. “Six or eight hundred years? I’ve lost track.”

“The… The better part of a millennium?”

Well, when they say it like that, it does sound like a while. A long while, and a few more before that point. Existentially irrelevant to modern life.

“Bunny?” the oracle asks.

“Sorry,” he says. “I think I just realized how old I am.”

“I bet you have a lot of stories about the world from way back then. But where did you get these?”

“The chevrons?” How does he even begin to explain the Pooka hierarchies? “They indicate my station as an Observer. I was assigned here to, well, observe the planet. Ideally, I’d be there for a decade or so and then be able to move up the ranks.”

“Like a military?”

He shakes his head. “Most everyone was taught combat, but the Pookas valued—maybe still do—the acquisition of knowledge above all else.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“It is when you run out of ‘new’ knowledge to acquire and ‘new’ ways to apply it. Then there’s no way you can move up in the world, despite the many ways you can move down.”

Naturally, the highest echelons were multi-generational “Keepers of Knowledge” who graciously allowed others to use said kept knowledge when it suited their own needs. If you were not born into a family of Keepers, then there was almost no hope to do better for yourself or your loved ones. Most people settled after a while, ignoring the glamour promised by the echelons if—and only if—one found knowledge that was truly new. Knowledge that required a new Keeper.

The oracle shifts beside him, positioning themself so that one knee touches his side. They lean closer, just a bit, and trace over the flower marking.

“What do these signify then?”

Their eyes flick up, landing somewhere around his mouth. It’s for the best probably; he might combust on the spot if they lock gazes.

“The flower was my mentor’s idea. It became clear after a while that there were no promotions in either of our futures, so he… he decided we should give ourselves one.” He laughs. “He had this hyperfixation on eggs. Just loved the shape and what they could do. He designed and built lot of things in the Warren, which is why they’re everywhere in the decorations. His markings were more oval than mine.”

They nod and skirt their eyes up to his head. Tentatively, they lift their hand away from his arm and hover over his forehead, just above the same marking there. They wait.

What if I just lean forward? he wonders. There isn’t much room on the fire escape, only a trickle of a gulf between them. He dips his head, and they touch the flower, hand a comforting weight.

“Same with this one?”

He watches their lips form the words. He clenches his jaw for a second to keep from doing something rash and stupid.

“Same as that one,” he says.

The urge to look wins out. He raises his gaze, and they both freeze as they meet in the middle. Bunny doesn’t burst into flame, but he forgets to breathe. He swears they’re closer than before. What might they do if he leans in just a little farther? What might he do? Does he even have the desire to stop anything once it starts?

Well, he certainly has desire to speak of.

The hand on his head pets backward. They run fingernails against his scalp, and he’s ready for when it stops, ready for a push at the back of his head, a signal to cross that line and enter a new phase.

Except their hand continues past his head and curls around his ear. The sensation is sudden, unexpected, unprecedented. Bunny pulls himself back up to a rigid posture, tugging his ears behind his head and out of their soft grasp. Regret follows immediately as they recoil in surprise, then horror as they realize the wrong line has been crossed.

Has it, though? he begs himself to answer in a way that’ll fix this. Hundreds of years and I’m still doing this?

The shattered remains of the moment gust away, however, as they both open their mouths to say something, and then jump as five, loud knocks come at the front door. The oracle closes their eyes.

“There he is…” They scoot into the window. “Food.”

Another round of five knocks thunders through the apartment, and the oracle races to the door. Bunny crosses his arms and berates himself for overreacting, his ear now twitchy. Eventually, the phantom itch crawling over it becomes too much. He checks over his shoulder; they’re more than preoccupied with a talkative, rough-and-tumble man apparently named “Barnold” who seems to be delivering their food. As their back is turned, he grabs his ear and brushes the fur down. Theoretically, he’s been craving this touch for a while. Theoretically, he doesn’t mind they did that. Why, then, is this old habit overtaking his rationality? He thought the “good posture” imposed on him in the past was long-forgotten; now, it straightens his spine again, lifts his chin, and once his ear feels normal, both of them tense and straighten behind, falling down the line of his neck and crossing at the tips.

“Barnold, you’re too kind. Thank you and take care of yourself out there.” The door squeaks as they attempt to close it.

“You too! Let me know if you need—your window ain’t broke, is it?”

“No, it’s fine. Just open right now.”

“Oh, I see, you got a little picnic going on the escape! Tried a true tradition for New Yorkers—”

“Good-bye, Barnold.”

“—gonna have me a toke on mine, actually. Y’know, I just got a new variety to graft onto—”

“Good-bye, Barnold!”

“—Yeah, that sounds like a plan. Maybe I’ll take your cue and order in some Tibetan.”

“Goodideathankyougoodnight!”

The door finally clicks closed, and a paper bag rustles. The oracle slides it onto the escape before climbing out. Bunny’s nose wrinkles at a harsh scent of marijuana that billows out with them.

“He grows and smokes his own weed,” they explain, not looking at him. “You can always tell when he’s coming or when he’s been in a hallway, but he’s a crackshot maintenance man. Here.”

They hand him a tingmo bun, still warm in its wrapping. It smells delicious, and it’s a welcome distraction from the awkwardness he’s created. He keys in to try and figure out how to re-fill the space between them without leaping too far too fast. Eggs in, eggs out.

“So, this mentor,” the oracle says, they finally look at him again. “What’s he like? I don’t think you’ve mentioned him before.”

There’s a moment of silence as Bunny chews and swallows. “He, um… A long time ago, he… He’s not. Here. Anymore.”

“Not here as in… not on the planet?” Their voice cracks on the question.

He shakes his head. “No. As in… dead.”

They hum in acknowledgment of the statement, and then take a huge bite of their own tingmo, to the point it’s difficult for them to chew. He understands; he’d shove his own foot in his mouth sometimes if he were able. Still, he tries to think of a way to assure them that there’s no way they could have known, that he’s long moved beyond it, that it doesn’t (shouldn’t) bother him anymore, that it’s fine. What happens is that the silence elongates as they choke down the buns and start in on the tsel-baklap. So, he tries a different tack.

“This is delicious, thanks. Sorry about your kitchen, though.”

They shrug and turn to look at it. Most of the burnt smell has disappeared with the sun. “One day, I’ll get good enough to make tasty food.”

“If—” He clears his throat. “If you ever want help, I’m not too bad. Better at baking and chocolate, but I know one or two things about cooking.”

“Good luck,” they laugh, but it’s good-natured. “My friend Gillian, the one with the restaurant, keeps trying to teach me and five years later, I’m just as helpless.”

“This the same friend from the vision about the dog?”

And at that, they sigh, take another huge swig of their beer, and look at him with an unconvincing smile and tears welling up in their eyes.

“So, about that,” they say. “It seems my friend is in a cult.”

“Oh.”

“A cult that uses that rune as their logo.”

“Oh no…”

“A cult that uses that rune as their logo and employs a lot of people who can literally transform into giant dogs—wolves.”

“Fuck.”

They take another large sip and detail the meeting they went to the previous night. Werewolves; the rune all around; a stampede; the disconcerting yet warm leader. It definitely sounds like trouble, even if they’re unsure whether it technically counts as a cult (yet). They even show him the petal they took to reassure themself and ask what would have happened if they tried to call him there. He answers exactly as they thought: he wouldn’t’ve gotten in and may have slammed into the barrier hard enough to get a real injury.

“So, what now?” they ask, a desperate edge to their question.

He can hear what they’re leaving unasked: “How do I rescue my friend?” Despite the awkwardness earlier, he reaches over and squeezes their hand.

“I can’t promise a big cavalry swooping in, but that rune is definitely something we’ll be able to justify looking into. Do you remember the exact location?”

They give him a general area. After that, they eat, knees touching. The sun eventually disappears, and they both move inside where the oracle starts cleaning up the sad, burnt remains of their cooking. He does what he can to help, perhaps “accidentally” brushing their knuckles a few times. It’s still frustrating to have lost a promising moment, but it’s not a rejection, just a misstep. By the time he feels he’s on the edge of overstaying his welcome, they’re back to laughing and vibrant conversations about nothing.

“By the way, do you want me to take the other necklace ya got?” he asks. They glance at the table where it sits atop a pile of mail and shake their head.

“Losing one happens. Losing two so close to the meeting is probably suspicious.”

He nods, wishing there was a way to resolve this tonight, but, as he told them, they need to organize with some of their liaisons in Santoff Claussen. There’s no way the Guardians will be able to go in and spy on their own with the symbol so prevalent, as worrying as that amount of shapeshifters or werewolves intentionally scaring the public is. He opens a tunnel and starts to say goodbye, when the oracle throws their arms around his neck in a hug.

“Thank you,” they say. “For helping me and… for showing up tonight for this.”

“Of course,” he replies, returning the gesture.

His ears relax and accidentally brush their knuckles, causing them to move their hands down to this arms instead, once again right over his markings. They pull back, much too soon for his liking, though their hands linger there, tracing a chevron on each side. Their eyes meet. Then, they step away.

“I guess I’ll see you in two days for the lesson,” they say.

“Yeah.” He drops into the hole.

“I still mean it,” they say, “don’t become a stranger ‘round here.”

“I’ve got no plans to become one.”

He smiles, yet as much as he wants to linger and see how much less of a stranger he can become, a call comes from his stone eggs: guests, friends. With a final nod, he dashes through the tunnel, heart pounding, hoping its North or Jack with a lead. Bunny skids into the Warren and homes in on his dwelling.

“North?” He bursts through the door. “Jack? Either of you got good news?”

No one answers. Bunny wonders if they’re messing with things they shouldn’t be, then wonders if the guest is Ombric who is taking the opportunity to “examine” his greenhouses again. He rushes through a few more doorways and is nearly out of the lounge room when he sees someone. He halts.

Bunny feels he should recognize the person sitting on his sofa, despite having never seen him before. The man is covered in a thick peach fuzz all over his face and arms, like they’ve been shaved recently and haven’t quite filled back in. A thicker patch of, not hair, but fur peeks out from the collar of his shirt. His face is doglike, practically a muzzle and snout, and although his ears are positioned on the sides of his head like a human, they turn and swivel. The oracle’s description of wolf shapeshifters comes to mind.

“Who are you?” he demands. The wolfman flinches. “How’d you get in here?”

The wolfman holds his hands up like he’s trying to calm Bunny. “Greetings, Guardian. My name is Skreeklavic Shadowbent, and I am here to…” He sighs and looks irritated. “I am here to beg your help.”

“Who let you in?” There are a few permanent entrances to the Warren, but only a select few know their precise whereabouts. The wolfman stammers.

“Easy now, Aster! I let him in,” comes another voice.

Not a new voice, though. Not to Bunny. Skreeklavic turns to the doorway, relaxing in relief. Bunny, however, freezes.

A dark shape moves into his line of sight. A svelte body. Large black wings that shake out on approach. Sure enough, those familiar, red compound eyes stare Bunny down. The man lifts his claw to cup Bunny’s face and then reaches past until he softly grabs an ear. He rubs it between his fingers. Bunny doesn’t flinch at the touch.

“Hey, Aster,” says his ex, known to most of the world as the Mothman.

Chapter Text

“Arreedra.” Bunny manages to get the name out of his mouth.

The mothman smiles at his given name and continues to rub Bunny’s ear. Bunny tries to pull away like he did barely two hours ago with the oracle, but this gesture by this person is uncannily familiar. Not comforting, per se, but too mundane even after so many years apart.

Why him and not them?

Arreedra gives the ear a friendly tug before stepping behind Skreeklavic. He lays all four of his arms on the wolfman in a forward manner.

“Y’never closed that Potomac tunnel,” Arreedra says, his warbling Appalachian accent lighting up his syllables. “Thank goodness, ‘cause this poor werewolf needs your help.”

“Werewolf…” Bunny looks at his other guest. “As in, you can transform into a wolf?”

“Yes, I can, Guardian Aster—”

“Just ‘Bunny,’ please,” he says quickly, trying to gain some control over this situation. He looks at his ex. “That goes for you, too.”

Arreedra’s antennae twirl, his version of rolling his eyes, which glitter in polite glee. He’s irritated, Bunny sees. Irritated, but only barely showing it.

Why can I still clock all this? he asks himself. It’s been decades, he shouldn’t be able to recognize these mood micro-indicators.

Arreedra sighs and rubs the werewolf’s shoulders. “If you insist, Bunny, but hear the man out. He says it’s a matter of global importance, and I know your little club likes to handle those things.”

“Is it now?” Bunny directs his attention to the werewolf, who gallantly attempts to look dignified in the middle of so much tension. Poor thing has been swept up into one of Arreedra’s schemes, no doubt. Might as well hear him out and then inform him what sort of person he’s fallen in with. “All right. Skreeklvic, was it? What do you need?”

“Have you ever heard of the entity known as the Stranger?” he asks. Bunny shakes his head.

What follows is a fascinating, yet mildly terrifying description of something that is straight out of children’s bedtime stories. The sort of creature that serves as a warning not to trust people who claim to have the solution to any problem—namely, that “they” have been conspiring against you the entire time, but instead of waiting for complete, compelling, empirical evidence, it’d be easier and better to dispose of “them” as quick as possible, so please, pretty please put your new Friend in a position to do so. It is your Friend, after all, unlike the pretenders who were ruining your life before. And then Skreeklavic talks about how it infiltrated his pack and usurped him.

“Goodness only knows what that creature is doing with the strength of the Werewolfian Hordes…”

Arreedra wraps his arms around Skreeklavic, who pats one of them. An odd lurch makes Bunny’s stomach clench and the phantom weight of those limbs settles over him. He suppresses a shudder and focuses. Werewolfian hordes… who can all transform into large wolves like Skreeklavic… and who are technically mortal, so humans can see them without Belief. His stomach churns at the possible connection; the Stranger doesn’t sound pleasant to deal with.

“What does this Stranger look like?” he asks.

“Much like a normal human, but it can shapeshift into more appealing persons, even impersonating actual people.” Skreeklavic scowls. “When it’s not trying to hold a different body, however, its features become vague, especially its face. What it looks like is hardly as important as how… how convincing it is. I myself nearly fell for its lies, and I’m ashamed to say that if it hadn’t moved to discredit and exile me personally… I like to think I have a level head and fair judgment, but…”

“There, there, darlin’.” Arreedra moves two arms up to card through the werewolf’s hair. “It ain’t your fault.”

“I was sworn to protect my pack, but look at me.” He hold up his fur-less arms and rubs over his face. “Forced to shave and hide myself in order to move through human transportation systems. Humiliated and alone.” Arreedra clears his throat, making Skreeklavic chuckle and pat his arm again. “Less alone, thanks to this one’s generosity.”

Is that his game? Bunny glares at his ex. Using this guy to insert himself in my life again, or did he just want another sycophant?

“I don’t mean any judgment, but how come you didn’t come straight to us?” Bunny asks. “The Guardians aren’t that hard to contact.”

At this, the werewolf stiffens into an elegant posture, one that tells of the years of diplomacy and leadership he’s attained. He admits, “I started to. Nearly a month ago, I was running across the Siberian taiga toward a point where the Santoff Claussen enclave is rumored to be. I spent days looking, but eventually gave up when it occurred to me my meager problems may not appeal to you all.”

“Hang on.” Bunny realizes something. “Did you see a large goose with a rider on it?”

“I did!” He’s stunned. “Well, I saw the goose—horrific thing; too large for my liking. Anyway, I don’t remember a rider, but I was so frustrated at that point that I decided to get help from my own kind.”

“Other werewolves?”

“Semi-immortals,” he replies carefully. An ear flicks back to Arreedra. “And otherwise unaffiliated immortals.”

“He stumbled across me desperate and scared,” Arreedra jumps in. “Took a solid week of convincing, but I told him you could help, despite…”

“Despite what? The Guardians are all about protecting this planet! We—”

“Are known for being preoccupied with the Boogeyman and his shadows.” The werewolf watches Bunny, and when he doesn’t react in anyway, he continues. “But since the defeat of your nemesis (though I have heard conflicting rumors as to his ultimate fate), the rest of the world has not seen much of you, certainly not in terms of ‘protection.’ There are a lot of forces out there besides the most blatant existential horrors, although I personally would count the Stranger as one of those.”

Bunny wants to yell. He wants to disagree, to insist that things are complicated. Because they are! Over the years, the Guardians have been called out for being too involved in things that didn’t concern them, and, hell, when Jack was onboarding, he rightly pointed out that they had all withdrawn into comfortable routines in the long years of quiet between the Dark Ages and then. It’s a delicate balance. But are they once again leaving too much alone? Well, regardless, there is a reason for them to investigate this, especially with the possible connection to the cult-thing and the rune. He can be diplomatic long enough to reassure this man whose help they’ll absolutely need in the near-future—and to get his ex out of his home.

“Well, Skreeklavic, on behalf of the Guardians, I would like to thank you for coming forward with this information. I’m sorry we seemed unapproachable, and I hope we can earn your trust moving forward. I’d like to formally invite you to brief the rest of them on everything you’ve told me just now, and we can get started on fixing your issue, especially if it means the integrity of the world—and our main charges, the world’s children—is at stake.”

Yeah, that sounds good, he thinks to himself. Lots of important-sounding words in that statement. Ombric and Katherine always manage to sound impressive like that.

He continues aloud, “I can getcha set up in one of my spare rooms, and you—”

He turns to Arreedra. Should he go for a neutral statement? Snipe a quip at him? Bunny doesn’t put on a good act of unwavering kindness if it isn’t in him to begin with; it’s taken a decade to be able to exist in the same room as the former boogeyman for a few minutes without an intense desire to strangle the man where he stands. Arreedra waits, antennae flicking back and forth, all four arms crossed over his fluffy chest, glimmers sweeping over his eyes as the multitude of lenses focus independently.

“I recognize your role in bringing this to our attention. We will take the matter from here. We’ll contact you if we have any follow-up questions.”

Arreedra cocks his head, then snorts, then lays a hand on Skreeklavic’s shoulder.

“Come on, darlin’, he’s kicking us out.”

“No, I’m kicking you out. Skreeklavic is a welcome guest, and I’ll make sure he’s taken care of—”

But the werewolf silently gets up and follows Arreedra out to the tunnels. He gives Bunny a hard look and then turns away. Bunny stands there, stunned yet again, until his ear twitches and he has to drop to all fours to catch up.

“Hang on, hang on!”

He swoops in front of Skreeklavic as he and Arreedra hike through the Potomac tunnel. Skreeklavic’s ears press back and he tenses into a defensive stance. Bunny holds his hands up to reassure him he means no harm.

“No offense, mate, but it might be safer for you here. The Warren is… practically impregnable, though obviously I’m gonna have to re-examine my permanent entrances. But I have an idea of what this Stranger might be doing right now, and it’s worrying to me. You’re one of the best leads we’ve got so far, and I’d rather you stay safe in the process—”

“You know damn well my nest is safe, As—ass.” Arreedra slides between Bunny and Skreeklavic. The werewolf relaxes. Arreedra motions for him to go around, saying, “It’s just up through the tunnel. Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

Once he’s out of earshot, Bunny leans in and hisses, “What are you doing with him?”

Arreedra snorts. “Don’t be jealous, I’ve long since moved on. It’s a thing people usually do.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar. S’why I asked what the hell you were doing my house when you haven’t belonged there in decades.”

“Delivering a matter the Guardians, you busybodies you, might appreciate to look into, as well as tryin’ to ensure a wayward pup gets some peace of mind.”

“Don’t do this to him,” Bunny says. “If you’ve got somethin’ to say, just say it and then onya bike. Easy.”

“Ooh, I was hoping you’d have something to say to me, actually.”

“Rack. Off.”

“Mmm, not quite what I had in mind. But I’m not sure what I thought was gonna happen by coming here, ‘sides throwing your career a bone. Maybe I figured you wouldn’t run away again if I cornered you.”

“So you admit to an ulterior motive.”

“I plead the fifth.”

Bunny could just force him out. Renege permission for any outsiders for a while, just long enough to close the Potomac tunnel. Much like North’s new evac route project, un-enchanting permanent magic is a bit more involved than a simple tap of the foot. Which means… no, he can’t do that, not when he’s helping the oracle to their lessons. Not when he needs to keep in contact with North and Jack and others in the search for the artifact. Not when he now needs to keep track of a semi-immortal consultant.

Arreedra must pick up on his realization—hard not to, being in breathing distance with him. His eyes glitter in ripples; he’s self-satisfied, but what’s new? Only person he’s ever been truly satisfied with.

“You can’t just lock everyone out when you feel inconvenienced by them,” he says softly.

One of his hands makes for Bunny’s ear again, but this time Bunny pulls completely out of arm’s reach. There’s a moment where neither of them move. Bunny doesn’t trust himself to get any closer again. He might finally slap Arreedra or—

Arreedra’s antennae droop slightly, confusing Bunny. The outstretched hand curls into a loose fist and joins its sibling at his side.

“When can we expect to meet with the other Guardians?” he says, drawl as firm as it can be. “And yes, I said ‘we.’ I think you can guess how well a single invitation will go over for Skreeklavic. He was quite restrained earlier in his criticism of your little club, but a lot of that goodwill I talked up is… evaporating.”

Arreedra is probably right, but like hell Bunny’s about to admit that out loud. So much for the diplomatic approach. He chokes on some pride as he swallows the barrage of swears he wants to unleash. There’s a lot more at stake at the moment. No doubt the overgrown gnat knows that.

Bunny says, “Two days. I’ll contact you with the details soon.”

“Through the usual method?”

“Is that hollow stump still there?” At Arreedra’s nod, Bunny sighs. “Yes. The usual method.”

“And if we need to contact you?”

No way I’m givin’ you a flower. Not one petal. Out loud, Bunny replies, “I can have one of my eggs do a mail run every few hours. And in case of emergency… you know where the tunnel is.”

“Of course.”

Arreedra turns and saunters down the tunnel. His wings flutter wide, but the man doesn’t take off. Instead, he holds them at such an angle that they create arrow-like lines right to a focal point of his—

Bunny closes his eyes and tilts his head to the ceiling. He counts to ten and levels out, bristling when he sees his ex looking back at him from down the way, antennae curling smugly as a smirk makes its home on his face. Now, he flaps his wings and darts away. Bunny watches the tunnel until Arreedra’s presence fully fades away, and then he grabs both of his ears, pulls them over his shoulder and twists them under his chin. He squeezes them until they start ringing and a pins and needles sensation bubbles at the tips. The itch for touch is satisfied enough. For the moment.

Couldn’t’ve made a ruckus earlier? he chides himself again.

He releases his ears, settles them back into proper Pookan posture, and searches for something to do. Pots, dirt, cuttings. Grafts, PH levels, water levels. Hydroponics checks. Suddenly so much to preoccupy himself with that he loses track of time and the next thing he knows, it’s well into the next day. Dazed, he uncurls himself from the hunched position he’s been in for the last few hours, pruning clusters of tiny flowers that, by all rights, should take care of themselves. He looks down and sees the stone egg he designated as the mail carrier nudging against his side, a fresh folded paper balanced on its head.

“Aster <3,” it reads on the front. His ear twitches.

Bunny wanders back into his home, shaking the garden off of him. The poor egg toddles after him and dances from foot to foot as it tries to deliver its charge again and again and again. It’s only after Bunny gets his some bread dough kneaded—thoroughly—and tucked away to rise that he writes his own notes to the other Guardians about the incoming situation and sends the egg off on a different run. Then, he dares to open the letter from Arreedra.

“I managed to convince Skreeklavic that you were simply having a bad day. He doesn’t need to know that’s most days for you.”

Bunny barely restrains himself from tearing the note to shreds.

“I don’t know why it’s so hard to believe I have honest intentions with this. Isn’t that the motto of your little group? Believing? You think I’d march right in there just to try and win someone like you back after you disappeared like that?

“But that’s not the focus now. What’s done is done. No point in looking back when the only way through is forward, as you so often say. Skreeklavic trusts me, which means you have to trust me enough until this matter is taken care of.

“I await the details of the meeting. And despite everything, I am pleased to be working with you again.

“Love, Arreedra.”

He stares at the words, not quite comprehending them, and then they hit all at once. Bunny lowers himself into one of his chairs and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“For once,” he whispers to the universe. “Can this please take less than a week to fix?”

Chapter Text

Cobalt into phthalo green into cadmium yellow. The fan brush glides from the top of the canvas to the bottom, passing through globules of each paint. Each color streaks into the next before fading away. It creates a simple gradient line, slightly curved, a slash of vibrancy across the half-ground primer.

Now what?

The point of the Ana-vlogs isn’t really to think, but your impulses die after that one stroke. You wrack your mind to see about inspiration from your favorites, but none are hitting upon anything. Too organic for Mondrian. Might be able to pull off Kandinsky if you work in thinner strokes and flatter composition. A close-up of grass à la Leclerc-Phillippe? You choose a square brush, borrow paint that built up on the fan brush, and make another slash on the canvas, almost a mirror to the first, if a bit muddier in color. Now, there’s the better part of a leaf. Or a feather. Or…

Or, maybe a rabbit’s ear.

You sigh and paint an X over the shape before it can lodge into your psyche—again. That’s only happened a dozen times over the intervening three days. It was only the main topic of your recent therapy appointment. Fifteen minutes describing the incident (as best you could while omitting the parts about him being an anthro rabbit alien) followed by forty-five minutes of Brian coaxing you back to reality and working out a specific anxiety-terminating phrase to use: “He stayed. He promised to come back. You left on good terms.”

“If he’s still dropping by and offering hugs and all that,” Brian said. “I think it’s safe to say you haven’t blown your chances. However, I think you know what the most effective way to sort this out is, and it’s…”

You sighed and rolled your eyes. Petulant teenager-isms always returned when the answer is that simple. “Asking him directly about the ear thing.”

“Yes.”

“But what if—”

Brian crossed one knee over the other and folded his hands around it. You recite his stock answer together, “And what if the world was made of pudding?”

“We can’t know what’s in store for us, so there’s no use making imaginary mountains out of imaginary molehills. So, I recommend finding a phrase to kick yourself out of the spiral before you get too far. Might not make you feel better right away, but the goal is to not get worse. Unsatisfying, I know, but—”

“Lay a solid foundation before building the house, and you’ll have fewer leaks,” you say.

Standard-issue stuff at this point. It’s embarrassing how often you have to be reminded of these basics. After almost ten years, it must be so annoying to hand out the same lines over and over, and you wouldn’t be surprised of one day he bumped you from his care roster to make room for someone easier to deal with—

No. You stop yourself. No, that’s not fair to Brian, nor to myself.

However, in his efforts to be comforting, he may have stumbled upon the key. He can’t know what’s in store, but you can.

You balance the paint-filled brushes on the edge of your knee. This should only take a second, so no use putting them down just to pick them up. Settling back on your art horse, you close your eyes and attempt to call up a specific, yet entirely unknown vision. It can’t be that much different in technique than letting one come over you, right? Or chasing one you’ve already had before. Breathing like Ombric taught—in and out through the nose, holding until almost choking at either extreme—you focus on Bunny. He sits in your mind’s eye for a moment, and then that floating sensation that accompanies your visions turns all imagery to liquid and swirls around. It roils for a long time, but eventually, you hear his voice.

“Hey. Hey, are ya asleep?”

The sound is crisp, but far away. Oddly, there doesn’t seem to be a visual component of this vision, but the fresh scent of flowers and soil fills your nose. You’ve smelled that a lot over the last month, and it’s getting to be a comfort.

“Hello?”

A tap comes to your shoulder—a real one, in the physical world. Your eyes fly open. Bright green eyes loom above you, and before you can register who they belong to, you swipe at the person’s body. Your brushes are still in your hand, so their ends stab into his stomach. Bunny grunts and hunches over, wincing.

“Sorry!” You scramble to your feet, nearly capsizing the art horse. Paint flings across the both of you, and you juggle your pallet, grasping into the paint with your fingertips.

“’S’alright,” he says. He steadies you and rubs the place your hit him. “Good to know your first instinct when threatened is to attack.”

“Eh… sometimes.” You get yourselves cleaned up and you put your paints away. Once everything seems to be in order, you finally say, “So, we’ve got about an hour before the lesson. What’s up?”

You expect him to relax, and maybe you’ll break out a snack as you chat. However, Bunny takes in a deep breath and looks serious.

“We’re not going to the lesson today.”

“Oh?” They’ve barely begun. Ombric said you had a lot of talent for your level, so it probably isn’t him just refusing to teach you in particular anymore. “Why not?”

“There’s been…” Bunny gestures around. “There’s been a development in a few things. Including, I think, this group your friend has found himself in.”

“Oh.” Your blood runs cold for a second, but you try to keep optimistic. “Isn’t that good? You know more about what it is and can stop it?”

“There are a few more dots that need to be connected, but I’m decently sure I’m onto something. But, I’ll need you to share your testimony with the rest of the Guardians at a meeting today.”

“Today? When?”

“As soon as possible. Our meetin’ place is at the Pole.”

“The North Pole?”

He nods. “We got a few minutes if you need to prep.”

The way he looks, he understands you’ll be some level of unprepared regardless of how much time you take. You do what you can and try to focus on the excitement about seeing the North Pole. How many (regular, non-Santoff Claussen) humans can say they’ve been? It works enough that when you’re ready to go, you approach the tunnel entrance with what you hope is a calm outward appearance. Bunny reaches out to you.

“I’m gonna do the instant teleport,” he says. “Hold tight. Deep breaths.”

You wrap your arms around him. As he steps into the hole, you close your eyes and concentrate on the softness of his fur, the firm muscles holding you carefully. Gravity turns a few times, pulling your mind into a dizzying vertigo, but in no time, there’s solid ground back under your feet. There’s a second of relief before the harsh nausea kicks in. You groan and rest you head against Bunny’s chest, waiting for it to pass. His hand rubs circles on your back, and his chest vibrates as he murmurs, “It’s okay… s’okay.”

The nausea subsides, and you look up at him. His hand stops moving and comes to rest on your shoulder, but the other, you notice, hasn’t moved from where it sits at your waist. You tilt your head up a little more, registering a small hitch in his breathing, when movement over his shoulder catches your eye. A sharp, long, warm-gray face looks curiously on the scene in front of him.

“Hello?!” you say.

Bunny looks over his shoulder, then turns and places himself between you and the onlooker. The man startles, holds up his hands, and starts backing away.

“Is that a human?” he asks.

As you peek around Bunny, the man looks at you, confused. You return it. Something about his stature and silhouette is familiar, but you can’t quite out your finger on it. Bunny’s fur stands on end.

“Guardians have a meeting today. You need to leave,” he growls.

“In my defense, I was here first,” the man scoffs. “But I suppose with you here, that does mean sparring is canceled.”

“Excuse me.” They both look at you. Despite Bunny’s attempt to keep you behind him, you slip out of his grasp and step beside him. “Who are you?”

“Kozmotis,” the man answers and the same time Bunny says, “The Boogeyman.”

Kozmotis rolls his eyes with a huff and mods. “Formerly known as the Boogeyman. I no longer have control of the shadows or nightmares.”

But, you recognize that other name, and it hits you. “Kozmotis? Like the meme?”

For a second, there’s silence, then Bunny sighs and Kozmotis chuckles.

About a decade prior, the internet was suddenly flooded with a young girl’s plea to an airline to get her imaginary friend safely to the North Pole. It went international, as a sweet human interest piece does, doubly so when, barely two days later, an unaccompanied minor was rescued from a kidnapping-in-progress and attributed it to the same imaginary friend. From there, adults made their own memes, and a year on, parents started reporting their kids were using him as their own imaginary friends. As a twentysomething at the time, you found it adorable, of course, but now you’re speechless at how true it is. And of course—you glance at Bunny, his raised fur, his stance—you’re curious about the story behind his character turnaround. Another time, perhaps.

“I’d forgotten about that,” he says. “Ah, I’ll have to tell Rina about this the next time I see her. But, yes, those ‘memes’ were about me.” He then senses the tension and composes himself. Don’t worry, I’ll be on my way, however…” He looks at you again. “Are you a human? Mortal?”

An odd question, but easy enough to answer with a nod.

“Then, nevermind. I thought—but that was far too long ago. I might have hallucinated—” Bunny clears his throat and Kozmotis’ chest glows silver. “I’m leaving! Apologies for interrupting your private time together.”

He vanishes with a flash. Bunny hesitates a few seconds before relaxing and crossing his arms. “Sorry about that,” he says.

“You don’t like him,” you say, not as an accusation, just acknowledging the baseline. “Why?”

“Long story,” he answers. “Short answer, he did a lot of fucked up things as the Boogeyman that losing his powers and helping a few kids doesn’t erase. Technically, we’ve still got a tracker on him and he’s technically doing reparation-type things, but it’s… It just—” He shakes his head and rubs a hand over his chevron markings. “Very long story.”

“Not now,” is what he really means. You understand, and much like the ear thing, you’re close to overstepping something you’re not privileged to know about. Perhaps they’re even related. So, you tuck the information away for later and follow him down the hallway.

All of the Guardians of Childhood are present, and they’re just about the exact figures you assumed they were. Jack, North, and Ombric, as well as the wizard’s daughter, Katherine or Mother Goose, and her partner, a slightly unnervingly silent spirit named Nightlight. He examines you closely on arrival, as in, invades your personal space to an uncomfortable degree until Katherine calls him to her side. The scrutiny doesn’t end when the Sandman shows up. He greets you politely, but occasionally sends an odd look your way. It’s not unlike the curious glance Kozmotis gave you, but you swear there’s another layer to his. It’s not a scowl or disapproving, but it’s not as warm as when he greets his friends.

The most startling Guardian by far is Toothiana. She sweeps in, chattering and greeting everyone, and occasionally interrupting herself to give orders to the miniature fairy entourage surrounding her—fairies that look exactly like the ones Chrissy drew, down to the colors, iridescence, and hummingbird-like bodies.

“My friend drew these,” you say to Bunny. You fish out your phone and show him a picture of the sketches.

“Huh,” he replies. “Ya think she met Tooth at some point?”

“I don’t think so. She described it as ‘like a dream,’ the idea popped into her head.”

One of the fairies notices you and flies over. It lands on the edge of your phone and bows in greeting. Then, it glances at the screen, and gasps. At the same moment, you notice that this one has identical coloring and plumage as the drawing, including some bright yellow eyelashes and a more magenta hue to its purple feathers than the others. The tiny thing recognizes itself and taps the phone screen, chirping excitedly. A few others buzz over and land on your hands to look as well. You freeze, barely breathing to make sure you don’t scare them from where they sit. Beside you, Bunny chuckles, and when you look over, he’s got his chin resting on his hand, a smile on his face. The fairy who’s in the drawing flies up to your face and starts gesturing and chirping, so fast that even if you understood what they were saying, you don’t think you could keep up.

“Sweetie, what’s going on over here?”

Toothiana hovers above you. The mini fairy darts in circles around her head, continuing to chirp before it finally lands on Toothiana’s shoulder to catch its breath.

“You drew one of my fairies?” she asks. You shake your head. But then notice that her eyes don’t follow the motion.

Ah, she’s blind. You clear your throat and speak up, “No, but my friend did a few weeks ago.”

“And it’s a perfect likeness?” Her head crest flicks up and down.

“Just about. I was surprised, too.”

It’s then that you remember Gillian’s reaction to the drawing, and to your painting for that matter. He can’t know, right? Maybe suspects? You start to get lost in the possibilities and Bunny nudges you to pay attention when a yeti (which had been overwhelming to see en masse) approaches the large table in the meeting loft, steps aside, and reveals two more people. One is a dark-colored, fluffy, bug-person with four arms, huge red compound eyes, and velvety wings—odd, but it’s the other one who makes you recoil in your seat.

Before you can stop yourself, you say too loudly, “Werewolf!”

Said wolfman stops where he’s about to sink into the chair the bug-person pulls out for him. His piercing gaze shoots up to yours, and his ears press back.

“No, no, no!” Bunny holds out his hands between you. “He’s helpin’ us. This is Skreeklavic. He came to us with an issue that I think you have some answers to, so, if one you want to start—”

“Ahem.”

The bug-person clears his throat. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts. Half the Guardians stare at him, frowning, while the other half watches Bunny. Bunny stares at the center of the table, mouth tense, one ear down, the other pointed toward the interrupter. Only Jack seems to be neutral, though he watches the rest of the table in bewilderment, a friendly wave frozen at his side. Across the table, you and Skreeklavic make eye contact and share wincing smiles in unprompted solidarity through the awkwardness. Finally, Bunny clears his throat.

“And this is Arreedra,” he says simply. Arreedra makes a scoffing noise and steps up.

“You probably know me as the Mothman, sweetie.” His eyes glitter. “Pleasure to meetcha.”

You had an inkling as soon as you’d seen him, but to have it confirmed is still incredible. Were it not for the seething tensions on all sides, you’d launch into a cavalcade of questions. However, much like with Kozmotis earlier, you sense a capital-H History between them, one that you suspect is an equally long story to the one before. So, for the moment, you nod politely. The Mothman sits at the table, and the meeting begins.

Skreeklavic tells his story first. He speaks the same language as the werewolves from the meeting, solidifying the connection in your mind. Bunny translates for you quietly so you can keep up, and as the speech goes on, there’s something familiar about this Stranger. Faceless unless it needs one; charismatic over groups of people; a Stranger only to those who stand against it, but a Friend to those it has influence over. A knot forms in your throat, matching the weight in your guts.

Coincidence. You send the wish out to the universe, hoping it’s not too late. Let it be a horrible coincidence.

At one point, Skreeklavic starts speaking so fast and passionately that Bunny has to match his pace, and you lean in close, putting your hand on his arm to catch everything. That marks the end of his piece, however. He sits, and when you pull back to sit properly, you swear Arreedra is looking directly at you. But, it’s probably just your anxiety; he’s probably taking in everything around him with those eyes. Skreeklavic takes a few breaths. Arreedra rubs one of his hands on the werewolf’s back, nearly pressing his mouth to the man’s ear in what seems a very familiar manner. On the table, Bunny’s paw twitches, his claws scratching at the carved wood.

History indeed.

“And you, hon?”

Everyone is waiting for your testimony, dozens of eyes locked on you. You start to lock up. Throat starts to close.

It’s just like the speeches you give as a docent, you try to convince yourself. Just like at work. Just like the galas where you have to impress the important bigwigs.

There’s a light touch on your leg. Bunny lays his hand there, and you follow his arm up to his face.

“You’ll be fine. Tell them just like you told me.”

A breath finally moves through you. You nod at Bunny and manage to lift yourself out of the chair and start speaking. It’s inelegant: you have to backtrack a few times at the beginning to make sure they receive all the proper context, but eventually you find a steady delivery. Once or twice, you dare to glance around at those gathered. The Guardians listen intently, as do the scant few yeti who stand around the edges of the loft taking notes. Much like how Bunny did for you, Arreedra translates for Skreeklavic. Him, you watch most. His face grows more and more concerned, furrows deepening on his brow, ears twitching.

Tell me there’s nothing there. Tell me there’s two monsters.

Finished, you return to your seat, preparing to allow yourself to zone out a bit to get the nerves back under control. However, Arreedra speaks up again.

“Can you describe this friend of yours?” he asks. “Skreeklavic wants to know.”

“Little taller than me, short hair brown, round face, always smells like grits and maple syrup,” you reply.

Skreeklavic perks up at that. He speaks and Arreedra says, “A bit on the heavyset side? Top-heavy, even?”

“Yes.”

The wolfman gestures around until someone brings him a piece of paper. He scribbles on it and hold it up. You clap your hand over your mouth. He’s drawn a sketchy but clear replica of the Live Oak’s logo.

“‘A man appeared about two weeks before they chased me out,’” comes the translation. “‘He was as you described. He marched right into our home and straight over to the Stranger to pledge his loyalty.’”

You slip your phone out of your pocket and sift through your pictures. Rising, you carry it over to Skreeklavic, but despite every nerve in your body telling you to hesitate, you turn the screen to him, revealing a recent selfie you and Gill took. Skreeklavic looks over it, seemingly confused. Confusion morphs into fury, though, as his hackles raise. He bares his teeth and barks something in Romanian that you do not need an interpreter to understand. He lunges, stopped only by being in his seat, Arreedra holding him back, and the others pulling you away.

“‘That’s him,’” Skreeklavic growls. “‘He waltzed in with that egg of his—’ Wait, darlin’, what egg?” Arreedra breaks from the translation to ask.

You scurry back to your seat, hoping to find calm in Bunny’s glance, but Bunny is intent on Skreeklavic. The wolfman gestures with his hands like he’s holding an invisible ball, then his fingers dazzle out. Bunny’s breathing picks up, and you see that his eyes are wide and his claws dig grooves into the table. Skreeklavic points to you and starts speaking, only for everyone to hush him, including Arreedra, though the Mothman is much more soothing about it.

“Bunny?” you whisper. His stirs and looks at you. “What did he say? What did Gillian do?”

He licks his lips and blinks a few times. “He—” He clears the break from his voice. “He says your friend had a glowing egg with him. One that matches the description of that artifact I’ve been looking for. Apparently, it’s been down the street from you this whole time.”

Another hour blurs around you, mostly filled with the Guardians going back and forth about how to handle the situation. Bunny tries to keep you abreast of the conversation until he gets absorbed into the discourse. Then you’re left alone with your thoughts, uncomfortable company as they are. Eventually, the meeting breaks up, and Bunny opens a tunnel to take you home.

Your footsteps swish through the grass and dirt. The glowing lichen pulses in waves, reminiscent of the gaudy LED desktop setups the early streamers used to build. These, however, radiate pleasant, pastel light and run in craggy lines like veins of magical ore. As you delve deeper, stalks of lavender start appearing, thicker and thicker until you have to move toward the center of the path. And then come ylang ylang saplings that are inexplicably in bloom. You take a deep breath and allow the thick, velvety scent fill your head and lungs. It overwhelms the despair that’s been growing in you since you found out what was up with Gillian.

“Is that helping?” Bunny gestures at the flowers.

“Are you making them grow right now?” You glance around. “As we’re walking?”

“Yeah, figured we could both use a walk to clear our heads after all that. S’why I took the long way.”

“I couldn’t’ve done another fast travel anyhow. But yes, the flowers are relaxing.”

His hand alights on your shoulder. You both stop walking.

“Can you and me chat?” he asks. There’s a tired, grave look about him.

“About what?” you reply.

“About what we’re going to do about your friend.”

A surge of loyalty rises through you. Before you can remember to be unsure about everything, you snap, “Don’t you dare hurt him!”

Bunny’s mouth clicks shut. He blinks in surprise.

“I… We don’t want to hurt him, I promise. Listen, I got caught up in all that and stopped translating at some point, but never did we discuss hurting anyone. That’s not how we handle humans and mortals. Wait no—”

You bristle at the word “handle,” apparently so hard that Bunny has to start over.

“That’s not what the Guardians are about. We’re not quite real in the same sense as you or Skreeklavic—we literally cannot force humans to do anything they don’t want to. Hard to take advantage people when most of them can’t see or be touched by you.” He grimaces. “Especially hard in this case since us immortals literally can’t get near him if he’s kitted himself out with that rune. So, what we discussed was asking for some of our skilled, mortal contacts to try and infiltrate the group, first just to take stock of what the Stranger is doing, and then—if all goes well—to get the artifact out of their hands.”

“Then capture the Stranger so everyone can go home and be happy again?”

But Bunny lets out a deep breath. “Actually, step after that is gonna be one of two things:

“Either we capture the Stranger and do our best to make sure it doesn’t get out of custody ever again—which, none of us have a long-term prison at our disposal, so we’d have to build it, and then its followers will no doubt attempt to break it out.

“Or, we start a long-term subterfuge game. A large enough group splinters on its own after a while, especially if volatile forces make individuals butt ideological heads. Even in Skreeklavic’s folktale, it took time to split the factions to the point of a fall. That is, of course, supposing it doesn’t fully reach a high-control state, which, given what we know about it, is likely.”

“It has charisma powers, correct? It can make people believe it when it says things?”

“We don’t know for sure, but at some point, it wouldn’t need mind control to sweep people in.”

“How long could the subterfuge take?”

He shrugs. “Ideally weeks. Possibly months. A year or more if things go poorly.”

You take that in. Weeks, months, or a year of Gill potentially being under the sway of this being. Even if it wasn’t malicious, it’s clearly creating an environment where Gill isn’t wholly welcome unless he betrays a part of himself. And considering how difficult it is to drag him down, that’s intense. It’s barely been a month! You shudder to think how much worse it could be in another, let alone a year from now. He’s influential in this group, the secondary ringleader, so trying to extract him will probably disrupt a lot of the foundation, even if it doesn’t make the house of cards fall completely, but at this point you think he’ll fight to stay in due to feeling obligated. That’s when something dawns on you.

Despite Gillian’s extrovertedness, despite him knowing a lot of people and having all sorts of connections, he doesn’t have that many friends. At least, he’s only mentioned a handful over the years, and you’ve met most of them. However, if he’s hanging out with someone, chances are likely, it’s with you. You tell each other your deepest fears, your worst secrets. He’s one of only a handful of people you’ve told about the beast from your hometown, and you think that even if he wasn’t ready to believe in that sort of thing, he’d still have listened without judgment. And that’s not getting into the times where you’ve had to have real talks with each other, get firm or mad to bring each other back down to Earth. You swallow and look up at Bunny.

“Send me in,” you say.

“What?” His ears fall. “No!”

“I’m his best friend. If you want this done as fast as possible, it has to be me to sway him.”

“No, that’s not—” He brings his other hand to your shoulder so you face each other. “You’re barely getting your visions under control, all this is new—”

“He and I are ride or die. Gill would never knowingly bring me into a situation where I would get hurt.”

“But he might unknowingly do it.”

“Gill isn’t going to leave me alone about this group now that I’ve gone to one meeting, and the more I learn, the more you learn. Send in your other contacts behind me to work the rest of everyone but I have a straight shot to the top.”

“Please don’t.” His eyes are wide and his voice is soft, nearly breaking on itself. “You’re not thinkin’ of the danger.”

“Gillian. Won’t. Hurt. Me.”

“I can’t—” Never have you seen him so distressed. The whole day—from Kozmotis to the Mothman, the meeting and this—must weigh on him to crack this much. It’s fascinating. “I can’t let you do this.”

“Why not?”

One of his hands slowly moves from your shoulder until it hovers around your cheek like he’s straining from cupping it. Bunny looks you over and says, “Because I’d never forgive myself if you walked behind that rune where I can’t help and then disappeared forever.”

It’s the closest either of you have gotten to saying the obvious out loud. On the one hand, you want to agree, want to let go and revel. On the other hand, you won’t abandon Gillian. He would do the same for you.

“Listen, Bunny,” you say. And then you lean your cheek into his touch. He inhales sharply and looks at you in awe. “There have been a few instances in my life where I jumped into a new relationship during emotionally volatile times. They weren’t long and they didn’t end pretty. We’ve been dancing around each other for weeks now, but I am stressed at the moment, and so are you. Way I see it…” You reach up and run your hands up and down his upper arms over his markings. “The sooner that gets resolved, the sooner we can start this.

“But I am going to do this.” Tears well up in your eyes. “I’m not abandoning him.”

The day has gotten to you, too. As a sob escapes you, you throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his fur. He pulls you in close, the hand on your cheek moving to hold the back of your head. His other arm wraps around you, and you’re encompassed. Up til now, the touches, the hugs, the closeness has all felt like there’s a thin barrier keeping the most genuine of it out. The barrier is gone, now, and all sensation is magnified as you condense your ugly sobs into gasps and bury your face into the warm fur of his neck. The two of you stay there for a few minutes—you carding your fingers through his back fur, he lightly scratching his claws over your scalp.

“Okay,” he keeps whispering. “Okay. Okay.”

One day, it will be. So, you have to hold out for that day.

Chapter Text

It’s as if he’s on a rollercoaster, scrambling to prepare himself before the cars crest the first hill and drop. On the one hand, it’s nice to have a major goal to focus on in the off-season. On the other hand, it takes him and the oracle away from calm and flings them so close yet so far. He’ll wait as long as he needs to for them, even if his agreement on their situation is begrudging. In a sense, have they not already started? At least he has confirmation that they reciprocate.

Though, maybe that extra impatience is just a side-effect of Arreedra’s presence. That sounds about right. That’s in line with what Bunny remembers, and here it is on full display each and every time they assemble.

The first time is barely a day after the big meeting. The Guardians were ready to break into task forces right then and there, but were sorely reminded that two key players are mortal. Skreeklavic has a bit more go in him, given that this is the only thing occupying his time and obsession. One of two things. In between yawns, he pats one of Arreedra’s arms, and the Mothman stands so close that he looks like he’s trying to herd Skreeklavic into a corner to… to…

He doesn’t need to think about that. Adults, consent, whatever. But Bunny does watch the two’s interactions closely, searching for evidence of the dynamics he’d fallen into. Scrutinizing every glance, touch, twitch of an antenna, ruffle of fur or scales, every—

“Aster, pay attention, boy!” Arreedra shakes his head. “‘Pologies—Bunny, pay attention. Your people are speaking.”

Bunny glances around. The other Guardians watch him, most of them with half-annoyed looks they keep directing toward Arreedra. Skreeklavic, however, watches him silently, tense.

“Sorry,” Bunny says, looking at the wolfman specifically while Arreedra huffs lightly in annoyance. He nods to his friends. “Continue. I’m paying attention.”

They take another three hours to discuss the different ways they can help disrupt the growing threat, regain control of the artifact, and divide the Stranger from the werewolves.

“I found Gillian’s teeth,” Toothiana says, depositing the golden box on the table. “Had a glance through his memories. They’re all pretty happy, very content. He always seems to have been superstitious and enjoyed fantasy stories from a young age, but was also very independent. Sometimes argumentative with his parents, but no more than your average feisty kid. Generally played well with others.”

“So, something happened recently to change that,” North remarks.

Bunny follows that up with, “The oracle says he’s been strange only since right before Easter.”

Skreeklavic clears his throat. “But it must be longer, as he appeared in my village weeks before that.”

“With the time artifact, which didn’t go missing until right before Easter. He can’t have met the Stranger before then.”

“Why not?” Arreedra places two fists on his hips and gestures with the other, nearly hitting Jack next to him. “Who’s to say that Stranger didn’t pull up to his house and get ‘im, not the other way around?”

“Why would it know or care about a random human in the entirety of New York City?”

“Why would a random human know or care about some being halfway around the world?”

“We do not need to argue chicken and egg,” North calls out. “What is important is we have human in danger and aiding a threat while under impression it is not a threat. A threat that has been years in making.”

Everyone settles down and listens.

North continues, “I asked yeti if they have stories or news about Stranger. The ones here say no, but Phil’s second cousin’s mother’s friend back in Himalayas says that two years ago a, well, a stranger with a moving face stopped through. Did not take over anything, but that is probably due to being asked to leave after a month of hospitality.” He chuckles once. “Apparently, Stranger spent a lot of time ‘just asking questions’ about way things were happening and suggesting every tragedy was due to loss of tradition. There was small ruckus among older children and elders after it left. This divided community for months, though it has mostly recovered.”

Skreeklavic nods solemnly. “That sounds like the tack it took with us as well, though perhaps less forward in its meddling. It was with us for just over a year before it showed its hand.”

“Yetis also received word from distant sasquatch clan we have not heard from in five years. It seems there was infighting that occupied them for long time, caused them to isolate themselves and expel many non-sasquatch. I am sensing connection.”

“Indeed, and there may be more pockets we hear about in the coming times.” Skreeklavic heaves a shaky breath. “And now that it’s had practice sowing doubt and ruin, as well as gained many hands to help it reap, it’s moving on to humans.”

That is one of the worrisome parts. From the oracle’s description, the story behind the movement is that They (immortals) are stealing the humans’ ability to do magic because They are using that magic for Themselves via Belief. Like vampires. Bunny can see the frayed threads connecting the concepts together, but to a human who feels like something is “wrong” with the world (usually for good reason; there’s often something wrong with the world), it probably looks like a sturdy bridge. After briefing some candidates for the infiltration job, trying to create a timeline of the Stranger’s recent movement, and deciding to send in waves of mini-fairies to survey the werewolf pack’s village, they’re forced to take a break when Skreeklavic’s stomach growls loud enough for them to hear.

“Actually, honey, let’s get on home for the day,” Arreedra says. Skreeklavic starts to object, but is met with, “Mm-mnh! You’ve have a month of a week already, and you don’t have the same stamina we do.”

“Maybe that’s for him to decide,” Bunny says. “He’s grown. Doesn’t need anyone making decisions for him.”

Arreedra chuckles darkly. “I hope you’re not treating that cute human of yours so dismissively. Sometimes mortals are a little too hardheaded and need to be reminded their stubbornness has limits. Unlike yours.”

Bunny starts a retort, but North clears his throat loudly. He glares at his friend, then barely suppresses a smug look when he sees North’s hard look at Arreedra. The mothman squares his shoulders, but North slips over to Skreeklavic, softening.

“We can end things here and pick up one or two days from now, once we have all digested our current tasks,” he says.

Skreeklavic looks around at each of them, at the yetis, and finally to Arreedra.

“An early lunch wouldn’t hurt.” His stomach growls again, and his shoulders slump. “Nor, I suppose, some downtime.”

Jack escorts them out, and the Guardians move to a comfier space to hang out. As soon as the door shuts on North’s office, Bunny cries out, “Can you believe him!”

“He has not changed at all. Tooth, Sandy, will you be drinking with us?” North digs through his liquor cabinet. “Katherine? Ombric?”

“Yes please!”

“I would like some.”

Sandy gives a thumbs up, leaving Ombric as the only one abstaining. North grabs the rocks glasses as well as a slightly dusty bottle of barley vodka and pours double shots for everyone, returning to pour once again for Katherine. She learned a lot from him, including how to drink everyone under the table. Bunny sips his drink and shakes his head.

“Presumptuous ass. Not even letting Skreeklavic talk or make his own… And what the hell does he think he’s doing, getting’ with him like that? Fawning all over him, touchin’ him. It’s—”

“Don’t let him get back in your head,” North says. “Make him prove he’s actually moved on like he claims, or at least that he has changed. Which I do not believe he has.”

“And now he’s roped in this guy who’s at a low point and needs support,” Tooth adds. “How do we get him out of this?”

“By being hospitable and demonstrating our values.” Katherine swirls her glass, pursing her lips in her version of a scowl, toying with a slip of hair with her other hand. “Then again, seeing as how he sought other counsel, I doubt he’ll be overly moved by generic kindness.”

“It’s not your fault he ran,” North assures her with a soft pat to her shoulder. “But you are not wrong. He had sudden change of heart before the mothman’s influence.”

“Why d’you think that is?” Bunny asks. “It happened too early for word to get out about me lookin’ for the artifact. I know there are people out there who are… ambivalent about us as a group, but it’s never been hostile.” He snorts. “I think the harshest blowback we’ve received in years was when Jack was joining. That or that one thing with the groundhog—”

A snowglobe portal opens and Jack tumbles to the floor. His cheeks are flushed and he looks woozy. Bunny helps him lean against a wall and open a window as Ombric conjures a glass with chipped ice. Jack chews on some and holds the glass to his neck.

“Thanks,” he says. “Did I hear my name? It was a little muffled in the portal. Wait! First off, Aree asked me to give you this.”

Jack holds out a small parcel to Bunny, who stares at it, hardly believing his ears.

“‘Aree?’” he repeats. “‘Aree?!’”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“You know who he is, right?”

“Duh, the mothman. Lives in West Virginia, making him one of my closest neighbors. Keeps an eye on Burgess for me during spring and summer sometimes.”

“He’s an arsehole!”

Jack chews loudly and pointedly on his ice, raising a single eyebrow. He looks Bunny up and down. “Sounds like someone I know. Look—” He shoves the parcel into Bunny’s hands. “Look, I know something went down between the two of you decades ago, but that was before I was a Guardian. I get that it wasn’t amicable, but that doesn’t mean he’s literally the worst person to have ever existed.”

“No, Jack, you don’t understand,” Tooth says. “Arreedra was so demanding that Bunny became a whole new person during his relationship.”

Jack shuts his mouth and looks around. The rest of them all nod. He looks back at Bunny, who’s straining not to shatter the glass in his grip.

“It was pretty bad,” Bunny manages.

“Well…” Jack looks like he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “Well… I’ll keep that in mind. So, how d’you plan on dealing with your issues now that it’s here to stay? ‘Cause based on what I saw in his nest, Skreeklavic does not consider him to be the bad guy you say he is.”

A silence stretches out for a while. Every time someone tries to break it, they stop themselves and wait for Bunny. But the truth is, he has no idea how this is going to shake out. He swirls his glass and watches the vodka refract over itself a few times as it passes behind the crystal glass facets. His foot starts to bounce, but he stops it, aware that the movement has attracted every eye in the room. Instead, he down the rest of his drink in one gulp, suppressing the cough and hiccup that bursts in his throat.

“By the way,” Tooth’s voice pops up. She grins warmly. “Was anyone going to tell me about this human you’ve got your eye on? They sound lovely, and apparently their friend knows about my fairies.”

“Oh, uh…” The change in subject is so sudden that it bludgeons his attitude back into shape, and he can’t help the expression crossing his face. “Yeah, they’re neat. I like ‘em.”

“That’s underselling it!” Jack says. Tooth flits over and pinches Bunny’s cheeks.

“Please tell me he’s making that stupid face he does when he’s cooing at his eggs.”

“The very same!”

“Hey, hey!” Bunny tries to pull away, but her grip is iron, and the attending fairies tickle his whiskers. “C’mon, lemme go!”

For the moment, everything is normal. Everything is fine. Everything is right. He’s with his friends, and they’re taking turns ribbing him. It’s enough to pretend, for the moment, that things will be okay for another century.

A few days later, Bunny pokes his head out of a tunnel into the oracle’s apartment. The studio looks empty, but he hears the faucet turn off in the bathroom.

“Hey!” he calls. He starts climbing out.

A clatter comes from around the corner, then running footsteps. He pauses, half out, as the oracle round the corner and skids to a stop.

“Don’t stand,” they say, neither looking at him nor moving their lips much. “Get back in there for a second.”

Alarm bells go off in his head, but he does as they ask. They cross the room at a casual pace, squinting as they get near the window. The curtains are open, he sees, and they peer out for a moment before closing them, making sure no outside light gets in. Finally, they relax.

“Sorry about that,” they say. They offer their hand and he uses it to hop out.

“What’s going on?” He goes to move one of the curtains aside just a slit, but the oracle grabs his wrist.

They whisper, “I think I’m being watched.”

Now, he notices the dark circles under their eyes, the furtive glances all around the place, but especially toward the window.

“Okay.” He squeezes their hand. “Who exactly is—”

“I’m not sure, and I don’t know if they’re doing it yet… Hang on, let me explain.” They rub their eyes and open their mouth, then change their mind. “Actually, no, I’ll tell you when we get to the lesson.”

After a fast travel and a moment of recovery, they meet with Ombric. The oracle taps their mug of tea and begins.

“So, I’ve been trying to induce more visions since the meeting. I think it’ll—” They hold out a hand to interrupt Bunny, who tries to object. “I think it’ll help more than hurt.”

“You’re not obligated to strain yourself like this,” he says.

“I agreed to help y’all.”

“You are not obligated to make life worse for yourself in doing this.”

Ombric clears his throat, bringing both their attentions around. “You’ve been inducing the visions on your own. And how is that going?”

“Well…” They scrape their nail across the rim of their mug, a light scratchy ring emitting from the porcelain. “Confusing, mostly. I get a vision over and over, like the wolf from before, but this time it’s slightly different angles of my window. I keep trying to search for anything else to look at, but it always ends up there.”

“Have you tried looking at Gillian?”

The oracle’s head snaps up, and they realize a bit too late that they’re glaring at him. Ombric doesn’t flinch, though Bunny’s ear twitches. The oracle lowers their gaze and shrugs.

“No. Not yet. I mean to! I always think about it!” they insist. “But there’s just…”

“Guilt?” Bunny asks. “For violating his privacy?”

“A little, but more often it’s just worry. What if I see him doing something wrong, like, really wrong? What if I see him commit a crime? What if he gets in way, way over his head, and no matter how far out I manage to see it, I can’t stop anything?”

They tremble. Bunny starts to lay his hand over their arm, the only thing he can think of to alleviate some of the anxiety for now. Ombric nods.

“That makes sense, though if it’s of any comfort, please know that future visions are more malleable the further out they’re seen. Seeing something that will take place ten years or even a single year out from the current moment could yield drastically different visions.”

“And what if I see something horrible happen, think I have time, but then it happens in a minute?”

“With all due respect,” Ombric says firmly. Bunny watches him carefully; he can be a bit too matter-of-fact sometimes. “It sounds as if you’ve not quite paid attention to your current visions. I can understand: they’re new and overwhelming, and all these other circumstances certainly don’t help. But if you please…” He lays a crystal on the table, the one he uses for the hypnosis. “I would advise paying attention to the clarity of your visions. Let’s try to induce one for thirty minutes from now, then an hour, and then a day.”

The oracle goes under the hypnosis and after a few minutes, they report that Gillian will have a stubborn, difficult customer as soon as the restaurant opens. Nothing revealing, but proof they can hone in on a tight timeframe. By the time said customer is being an ass three continents away, the oracle sees an hour from the present. Gillian’s mother will pull him aside and give him a talking-to. Something about diplomacy with the customers. Unfortunately, the oracle can’t fully recall the words. They don’t voice a reason why, but from the deep, calculated breaths they start taking, clearly their stress is rising.

“Maybe you should take a break before looking ahead a day,” Bunny says.

Through the haze of hypnosis, the oracle turns to look at him. The intensity is diminished, but he still understands how firmly they mean to shake their head. So, he looks at Ombric for backup.

The wizard nods and says, “It might be best.”

“You’ve brought me here,” they reply. “You’ve brought me this far. I’m not leaving until I get to where I need to be.”

“But you can take a break if—”

With a final inhale, the sink—deeply and quickly—into the trance. So quick that Ombric has to scramble to keep control and start guiding them again. They’re under for about forty-five minutes this time, and when they emerge, trembling and gasping for air, Bunny is already there with a glass of water and concern.

“Come all the way out, please,” Ombric says. “That’s all for today.”

The glaze in their eyes falls away. “I think I skipped tomorrow,” they croak. “It was… Wow that was weird, um…”

It takes a few minutes for them to calm down enough to recount what they saw. Indeed, their vision has nothing to do with the next twenty-four hours, though is still horrifying.

“Cold and teeth and a wild rush,” they say, staring into the middle distance. “There were a whole bunch of werewolves hiding in the glaciers and ice of the North Pole, and they just… jumped out. Started making a break for the workshop.” They lick their lips as if they’re chapped.

“When?” Bunny asks. He’s already making plans in his head about how to quickly set up a defense. Obviously, the further out they have, the better it’ll be.

But the oracle rubs their eyes and sips at their tea. “I don’t know. It feels… soonish, but I’m not sure if that’s on my timescale, the werewolves’ timescale, or y’all’s timescale. Dawn, though.” They nod firmly. “It happens at dawn, whenever it does happen.”

As the oracle recovers from the visions, Bunny sends off messages to the others and helps Ombric scrambles to start some spells that could help when the time comes. Finally, they all reconvene, exhausted with yet more to do. First off, though, they turn their attentions to the next few days.

“So, you’re going over to Gillian’s on Friday?” Bunny asks.

“Yeah. He wanted to have me meet with his group, but I whittled it down to a one-on-one. Just friends talking about a lot of things. I’ll be at his place the entire time.”

“And for the rest of the week?”

They give him a confused look. “My job? Or doing art. Or hanging out with people I usually hang out with. Mostly my job, though. We have a small show coming up, but event planning is event planning, you know? Lots to do. Getting sweet overtime for it, too. Almost makes up for March.”

“Just don’t overdo it.”

“Relax, I always have a reduced schedule after an event. Speaking of, though…” They tap their mug again. “Would you like to come to that?”

There’s a moment of silence as Bunny processes the change in subject. In the corner of his awareness, he notices Ombric slowly rise and leave the room as quietly as possible.

“To the show?”

“Y-yeah. I know you said you don’t do well in crowds, but it’s not going to be one of our bigger events, and the crowds will be centered around the showroom. Also, Gillian always comes to these things. He’s great at showing support for these things, and I go to any special events the restaurant puts on. But my point really is that if you want to send in your liaisons to talk him up, the show might be a good place. It’s public, it’ll be full of mingling, it won’t be suspicious if someone randomly starts talking to him, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Can I get a private tour?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course,” they reply, complete with a smile of heir own. Then they grow serious. “That’s not a euphemism, by the way, I am very proud of this humble little gallery and I will let you know about all our pieces.”

“Can’t wait,” he says. “When is it?”

“Oh, two weeks? I have a flier at home I can give you.”

“Excellent!” Ombric says as he comes back in. He holds a hinged box out from his body by his fingertips. “However, since you are heading into the fray, I suggest taking this.”

Inside the box is the rune necklace the oracle had given to him. Bunny’s eyes water, but it doesn’t quite sting as much to look at it. He peers closer to it, and the repellent aura around it, while still there, is significantly diminished.

“My students and I managed to muffle some of the enchantment on this. It’s still very much there, but it’s not immediately detectable as inert. Here, test it out. Bunny, give them a petal to call you with.”

Hesitantly, he does as requested, and then, just as hesitantly, the oracle throws the cord over their head once the petal is in their hand. They vanish, and Bunny’s eyes get itchy, but if he stares just off to the side, he can perceive their presence without having to use a mirror. Then, a faint call. He might’ve missed it if he didn’t know it was coming, but he can barely, just barely, feel the compulsion to head to the source. Given that said source is seated within arm’s reach, it drops almost as soon as it comes on, but he nods. The oracle takes the necklace off.

“I felt that,” he says. “If you’re in a spot where you need to have that on and you need help, I’ll know.”

“Will it work if I’m inside a space surrounded by the symbol?”

Ombric shrugs. “Theoretically, yes, though it might be even more diminished. We should use this in tandem with our human team so that you’re not completely beyond our reach.”

It’s settled, then. Bunny takes the oracle back to their home. They hand him the flier with the information, and before heading out, they once again bury themselves in his arms. Tuck their head right under his chin. His nose fills with the scent of their shampoo, and he has to hold himself back from pressing his lips to their temple. Soon, he reminds himself, once all of this settles down. For now, they’re on the same page, and that’s enough. He’ll grow the patience he’s never had for this.

Soon.

Chapter Text

There’s a rune carved into the bricks next to the back door of the restaurant. You didn’t notice it last week when you were here before the awful meeting, and you certainly didn’t notice its sibling a few meters down the alley. A silent hum fills the air as you peer closer at it, and it makes your hand tingle when you touch the wall. Your other hand reaches for the half-enchanted necklace. It has a similar hum, though not a strong.

Door opens in three, two, one—

You step back in time as the door swings out. Gillian stops, surprised to see you already there. He looks so normal as his wide smile crosses his face, not fake or forced like some customer service workers. Even on his bad days, where one too many entitled customers waltz into the restaurant and make a scene, the smile reaches his eyes. Eyes that, you now notice, have something flesh-colored caked under them.

“Do you have makeup on?” you ask.

“Oh!” He stammers. “Yeah. Just some concealer. Been having an insomnia attack, you know how it is.”

You do—for yourself. For other people with certain mental health issues. Diagnosable shit, even if there isn’t a formal diagnosis. As far as you’ve known for years, Gillian is one of the most stable people you’ve ever met. Logically, you know that doesn’t mean a person will always remain so, but as a mess yourself, you kind of always hoped. You opt for a lighthearted route to try and keep the day afloat.

“Running a lot of extra hours for—what’d you say they’re called?—the Friends of Humanity Mov—“

“Shh!” Gillian hisses and waves his hands at you. He peers up and down the alley, up to the rune over his door, and then at your necklace. “Come inside.”

You follow him upstairs, concentrating on not letting your breath hitch as the exit clicks shut and several more doors close between you and the outside. Dissonance curdles in your belly—simultaneous fear of and fear for your friend. Your fingertips brush the petal in your pocket, a new rush of magic working its way across your skin. Maybe it’s just your imagination, but the feeling settles in your heart, replacing the nausea with determination. You have to try. Things can and will go back to how they were.

You settle onto the mid-century-style chaise lounge in the living room, the one that allows you to see all exits at once. Gill takes the sofa. Half a minute of silence wanders between you until Gill jumps right back up.

“What d’you want to drink?”

Cyanide, is the first thing your brain offers in reply. You make it pick again and say, “Just some water, thanks.”

“So, what do you want to know first,” he asks, placing your cup on a coaster. It’s a piece of goofy pottery from a community class a few years ago. For whatever reason (maybe the drinks you had beforehand), y’all decided to draw each other in the most over-the-top, scraggly way you cloud. Practically stick people with unsteady lines and hyper-exaggerated limbs and features. You always use the one he made of you and vice-versa, as part of the little joke. With what you’re doing, though, the pottery feels more like a mirror. You avert your eyes.

“Well, something’s been itching my brain since that meeting,” you reply. “Who exactly are the beings taking our magic?”

“Great question.” He crosses his legs under him. “You know stories about fairies? The older ones where they’re more like magical people than small creatures, and they live apart from humans, and they’re immortal?”

“Yeah, they’ve got big dicks, too, I hear.”

“One of their most effective pieces of propaganda,” he says, so earnestly you’re not sure if he’s joking. “And in a sense, it’s an example of how they keep us ignorant. Not about fae, but immortals as a whole.”

Okay, you’re getting somewhere. Now to find a path toward asking what the plan is and the next few steps.

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, fairies, the fae, they’re very real. As, obviously, are werewolves. However, they’re much more like us than they are to immortals. Sure, they live longer—sometimes a lot longer—but the immortals, like the name implies, are basically infinite. And they can wield a lot of power.

“Funny thing though, it that they can’t outright use that power. Magic has to come from somewhere, and it, well, it’s kind of its own natural force that filters through things and empowers them. But! Humans are especially good at catalyzing it into usable magic. Something about our biology. And we just do it! Passively! All the time! You and I are converting loads and loads of energy into magical potential with every breath.”

You involuntarily press a hand to your heart, as if you can feel the change happen in real time. Memories of biology classes come to you, especially the diagrams of photosynthesis and the water cycle. All natural things feed into each other. But, Bunny has mentioned something a few times. That key advantage mortals have over them is “realness.” Maybe you can try to subtly mention that somehow, incept it into his mind so the dissonance wears away at him.

“How real is magic itself?” you ask.

“Oh, it totally exists. You saw yourself.”

“Oh! No, I’m not questioning its existence, per se, but more like it’s… tangibility? Does that make sense?”

He rubs his chin. “Yeah. It’s a good question. I…” He stares past you, choosing his words.

I just ask because it seems to me people would notice magic a bit more if it were physically noticeable. I’m no expert, but I’ve always thought of magic as dreamy, something unexplainably intuitive.”

He shrugs and watches you, head cocking to one side. He’s thoughtful. His lips twitch in a way that makes you think he’s considering how exactly to respond.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Magic is more ethereal and emotional. Inexplicable. But it’s learnable and tamable. I’m kinda new to it myself, so I don’t get all the nuances, but I can feel it flowing now when I couldn’t before and…” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, a placid smile on his face. “It feels like having a purpose.”

You try to “feel” the ambient magic as well, but as far as you can tell, there’s nothing. You discreetly reach for the petal and feel its buzz, and then clasp the necklace, which feels much the same.

Can he really sense magic? you wonder. Or does he just believe that he can?

“I made that myself,” Gillian says about the necklace. He points to his room. “I’ve been making a whole bunch for the cause after Jesús showed me how.”

His room is transformed with stacks of boxes and the metallic smell of wet clay. A baking tray with rows of discs sits on some trivets. Some of the discs have burnt edges. He gazes proudly upon his work in a way you’ve only seen when he talks about the restaurant.

“I didn’t know you did sculpting,” you say.

“Carving, really,” he replies. “I tried sculpting the rune into the charms before firing, but it was hard to get precision with the soft material. Etching it out after a quick trip through the oven but before it fully dries works, too, though.”

“Where’d you learn about this?” You tap the rune. “From the—your F-Friend?”

“Mm-hm. Needed some way to free myself from the oversight of the enemy. Can’t let them know my next move.”

He picks up one of the clay discs and scratches at a burnt edge. It leaves a light-colored streak, but hardly fixes the burn. He winces and tosses it back on the tray. As he does, you notice many, many more in various stages of completion around the room. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Too many for only one person to have done in the space of six weeks or so.

“How did you get all this done?” you ask. “It’s only been, what, a month?”

“Well, actually—” He slams his lips shut. “Yeah, something like that. I’ve just gotten on a real kick with this. I know it’s not real art, but it’s been nice doing something artistically related again. Jesus had a few charms before that it gave me, but then it needed more for all the new people we’re getting.”

“How many more?” From what you saw at the meeting, it seemed like only a fraction of people stayed after the initial reveal. Either from being too scared to run away or because they truly bought in. “You’ve had more presentations?”

“Yeah, mostly around the city, but we also went out to Newark a few nights ago. I think we have around a hundred returning so far.” He toys with another charm, this one carved but not sealed. “I was always on the more restorative end of things, but it’s nice to know what few art skills I possess haven’t completely atrophied since failing out of SCAD.”

That halts your next questions, which was going to be about the follower numbers and methods of communication. Instead, intrigue and horror fills you at the idea of a well-known university secretly using such an outdated mode of assessment. All public institutions were changed from it in the latter half of the twenty-first century, and most private ones followed suit. The mere thought of that sort of judgment makes you nervous, and you doubt even Gill would withstand it for too long.

“SCAD still uses the grading system?” you ask.

He looks confused. “No? I think the only people who do are weird fringe homeschoolers, but they also try to skirt learning standards and regulations, so it’s not surprising. Anyway…”

“Anyway” it means you’re calling yourself a failure, you think to yourself. But he’s already moving on to something else, so you have to try to catch up and put the train of thought back on its proper tracks. Whatever those may be.

“I’ve thought about getting it tattooed on my body,” he says, “but, well, you know how I get about needles and bodmod.”

He gestures to his torso. A half-hearted smile creeps onto his face, looking more like a queasy grimace. But it does remind you of a question you’ve been looking for an opening to ask.

“Why’d you stop wearing your binder?”

He freezes and looks down at himself. His arms start to cross over his chest, but he forces them back to his sides, then behind his back, and finally into his jeans pockets. His eyes shift from side to side.

“Oh, uhm…” he says.

“I’m not judging you. I trust you to know yourself best. But like I said a few weeks ago, I hate seeing you so different so suddenly. I’ve known you long enough that this makes me worry because literally every time you’ve had to go without, you’ve been an anxious mess.”

It’s like trying to coax a scared animal out of hiding. Gillian hunches, bashful, giving in to the urge to cross his arms over himself as he sinks into his desk chair. It almost makes you retract your demand for answers, but no, you need something to go on. Not even for the larger mission, just for yourself so you can understand better.

“Well… the end goal of this with our Friend is to bring the world to a happy homeostasis. The natural order of the planet is disrupted, with most of the magical ability going to a privileged few, and humans being left behind. From what I’ve come to learn, pre-Enlightenment, pre-Renaissance humanity was much stronger, more resilient. And we’ll be able to, you know, exist like that again once the immortals are taken care of.”

Despite alarm rising like bile in your throat, you reply, “And then what?”

“We get control of our minds and magic back, and then we can do just about anything—end hunger, cure disease, bring about a new Golden Age.”

“… And then what?” He looks at you, confused. You sigh. “Do you really expect humanity to settle down after getting all this power? What about international conflicts? What about the climate? What—”

“Well, if everyone could just see we need to reject the system in place, we’d be able to fix all that in a snap,” he mutters. He immediately looks sorry for the outburst. As much as you want to throw it back in his face, you swallow back your retort.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Gill. Why’d you stop wearing the binder when you know it gives you peace of mind?”

“I mean, it does but it doesn’t, really,” he says. “They’re still there no matter how flat I can make them. And as I was saying about tattoos and stuff… man, just thinking about it now makes me queasy.”

He holds his hand up to his mouth and makes a face. You’d think it an act if you hadn’t seen this exact same thing go down many times before this. It takes the buddy system for him to get his annual flu vaccines, and he always apologizes for crushing your or his parent’s hand in the process. Forget surgery. Even merely considering it makes him, as you joke, green around the gills. Funnily enough, it only ever matters when it comes to him and his body. He manages to hold together leagues better if you get a scrape or if there’s a knife slip in the kitchen. You nod to let him know you’re listening.

He continues, “So, I figure—and our Friend concurs—that if this change is so difficult to fathom, why worry about it at all? Why not just get used to myself as I am?”

What can you even say to that? Nothing nice. Nothing productive. You don’t know him better than himself, and at this point, trying to undermine whatever the Stranger’s been whispering into his ear is probably going to backfire.

All that comes out is a simple, neutral, dissatisfying, “Okay.”

He waits, but when there’s no further comment, he smiles. You try to return it, and then you change the subject.

“So, what can I do to help?”

Gill brightens. “So, one of the first things we’re doing is teaching people how to home in on that feeling of magic in the works. Belief in it might be step one, but step two is recognizing the magic currently around you.”

He sits you on his bed and hands you a Medieval labyrinth printed on paper. He says monks who studied the old ways used it to focus their thoughts, wandering its curves and turns with their eyes. You follow his instructions and, lo and behold, fall into a state of focus. It’s nowhere near as thick as the hypnosis, but between Gill’s soft murmuring, the scratch of carving on half-baked clay, and lo-fi music on the stereo, you go a bit fuzzy. It’s almost normal.

Your eyes unfocus, textures blurring together into starry flares. Brighter, brighter, and brighter still until it settles into a familiar, unpleasant morning. There’s just enough time to register the gold-tinged glaciers beyond the broken window and the drooping, wreath-decorated banner announcing “Christmas in July” before something snarls and leaps at you—no, at someone else. There’s a sense of “cold.” Your borrowed eyes fall to the ground. Stars bloom in front of them on impact, and when they clear, a transformed werewolf leaps past you. It kicks your face on its way, and your chin burns from the large scratch that travels up to your ear.

There’s a shout across the way. Bunny smacks a wolf away with his boomerang only for two more to fill the space. He makes to open a tunnel, but a third behind him sinks its teeth into his ankle. He topples with a scream. Four more wolves leap onto him, howling. You gasp and reach your pale hand—fingertips the faintest shade of blue—out to scoop up the gnarled, hooked branch nearby. Ice ferns wrap around it as soon as the hand touches, and you shoot through the air like a bullet. Another dark shadow swoops in from another angle, wings wide, reaching for the nearest scruff—

“Hey!”

Gill’s voice knocks you back into yourself. The room spins for a second as you remember who and where you are. The Pole invasion again, you realize. You hold your breath in order to re-regulate it. No need to alert Gillian to anything. Speaking of, he returns with a glass of water and some ice in a dish towel.

“Thanks,” you manage. The water splashes down your throat, cooling your insides. Gill watches, worried and sad. “Thanks,” you say again, then, “Oh no,” as you realize you’ve ripped the labyrinth.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I suppose you felt the magic?”

“Yeah. Powerful stuff.”

His mild concern drops into a frown. “It is. And you managed it so quickly…” He clears his throat. “Uh, listen, I’ve been meaning to ask something. Have you been having weird spells lately?”

You hold the ice to the bridge of your nose so you don’t have to look at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Have you been overwhelmed like that before. Have you…” He pauses so long you pull the ice away. He looks pained. “The magic just now is more than just a bit of sensitivity. Our Friend mentioned that sometimes people just have innate powers. They’re rarer nowadays, thanks to the immortals’ leeching and the general lack of self-Belief. But it happens.”

“What are you implying?” A last-ditch, flailing effort to deflect his scrutiny and keep yourself hidden. But it’s too late.

“Have you been having visions of any sort?” he asks, and your automatic wince at the question is the answer. “I thought so. I—our Friend said it noticed a certain spark when it saw you at the meeting. It really wants to meet you. Thinks you’ll be…” He sighs. “Really good for the cause.”

The way he looks at you is disconcerting. Anger? Sadness? Annoyance? All three at once? It’s not your fault it’s happening. A part of you wishes this had never happened and that your powers never awakened. But at least they helped your and Bunny’s lives connect.

“If it means anything,” you try, “I saw an immortal being piled on by a bunch of werewolves.”

That does visibly cheer him up, and you feel ill.

“What’d the immortal look like?”

You screw your face up. “It happened so fast it was hard to tell. A dark humanoid with wings. Red eyes. Just got literally dogpiled.”

Momentary disappointment slips onto his face, but then he smiles. “Good job. I’ll let our Friend know so we can watch for that one.”

After that, as if nothing had ever changed, Gill treats the rest of the day like an art jam. You manage to get some sketching done as he continues to carve. He lovingly kicks you out an hour before the restaurant opens, as he’s on first shift. As he walks you to the door, he catches you in a deep hug.

“Between you, me, and our Friend, we’ll make it all work. Now that you have these powers, though, you might become a target.”

“Please don’t say shit like that.”

“I’m not trying to scare you. It’s the unfortunate reality. They have ways of tracking unregulated magic. Luckily, I found ways around it. So don’t worry. I’ll post guards around your place to make sure no one funny gets you.”

And there it is. Confirmation of your visions. Can’t even take consolation in your preparedness. All you do is smile and make your exit. It takes a monumental (monu-mental, even) effort not to wildly search rooftops and alleyways and over your shoulder for the wolf following you, if Gill is able to recruit one so fast.

Unless he already had and is only now admitting it because he can disguise it as a new development.

The thought follows you to your apartment, where you pace-sit-pace-lie down until it’s time to eat. The you pace-sit-pace until the food arrives and sit-pace-sit until night falls. You end up curling around the flower and its remaining petals, careful not to crush them or accidentally call. The familiar hum soothes you, and you swear there’s an extra layer of magic that’s uniquely Bunny’s. And that finally lulls you into, if not a peaceful sleep, then a restful one.

Chapter Text

Bunny spreads out a diagram on the table. The assembled humans—the infiltration team—pause in their conversation and watch him, as do Katherine, Skreeklavic… and Arreedra. Of course. He has no idea why his ex feels the need to be there. He could always just assure Skreeklavic that they mean no harm and will communicate with him, but it probably has to do with his control issues and incessant need to bug Bunny.

Arreedra whispers something into the werewolf’s ear, low enough that Bunny’s hearing can only pick up a murmur. A single laugh bounces Skreeklavic, and he reaches over to pat Arreedra’s arm. Bunny half-watches as the mothman clasps his hand over Skreeklavic’s to keep it there, antennae bending toward the other man. He can see in all directions with those compound eyes, so there’s no hiding Bunny’s notice. Bunny isn’t more openly disapproving, however, because that’s what he wants. It’s what he always wants: attention. So instead, Bunny claps his hands, directing all of it onto himself.

“Thanks everyone for coming and for volunteering for the subterfuge.”

The five humans at the table smile, salute, or nod. All of them are either graduates of Santoff Claussen’s magic schooling, one of Katherine’s Raconturks, or both. Ombric, Katherine, and North have quite the entourages amongst themselves, as well as a hearty stream of resources. In fact, this meeting is being held in the central core of Ganderly, Katherine’s base. A library to rival all libraries, with intertwining stories and tropes and genres resting safely in the lower portions of the treehouse. Katherine isn’t too pleased to host Arreedra, but the Pole is preparing itself for the invasion, the Warren is right out, and they think it best not to subject the whole of Santoff Claussen to his antics. And, of course, Ganderly is one of the most secure places on Earth. It was only ten years ago the shadows managed to find and siege it fort he first time. Since then, Katherine and the Raconturks rally at the first sign of shadow residue if they find any. This is the place to plan.

Bunny indicates to the diagram. “Our first mission is a gimmie. This is the Standstill Symposium, where the oracle works. There’s an exhibit opening, and our person of interest, Gillian, is going to be there. Theoretically, there won’t be a bunch of the Stranger’s followers there, as it’s not an official meeting, but they told me Gillian’s assigned people to watch over them so he can make sure we don’t get to them first.”

A few chuckles and hums round the table. Silently, Bunny is also grateful that not only did he meet them first, but that Gillian seems to have convinced himself there’s no way they’ve made this much of a connection. He suspects, Bunny’s sure. Gillian surely suspects something is happening.

“What should we do if we encounter a follower of the Stranger?” one of the volunteers, Andre, asks. Ombric had been surprisingly reluctant to let them volunteer, saying they’re one of the best they have. But, they argued, making impossible connections is their specialty. With their track record of communications wins, no one can argue. Bunny shrugs.

“Much as I hate to say it, but play dumb. If they don’t suspect you’re a plant, then engage them in small talk and try to lead them to the subject of the Stranger—excuse me, the Friend, and of magic. If they do suspect you to be with us, call on your crystal for extraction and try to make your way to safety, denying everything and acting confused. If anything goes especially wrong, don’t be afraid to raise your voice or cry to get more eyes on you and the situation.”

“But even if things turn aggressive…” Skreeklavic licks his lips and swallows. “Even if things escalate, please do not harm my people.”

“Even if they’re stalking our people?” Bunny asks, perhaps a little too firmly. One glance around the room, and it seems clear specifically who he’s referring to when he says “our people.”

“Granted, I think it unlikely that there will be too many be-furred werewolves running around the place,” Skreeklavic growls. “But should you make contact with one outside or elsewhere, or especially once you manage a successful infiltration, please do not harm them. They are still my people, and I am responsible for them even if they do not recognize me as pack leader right now.”

“I understand they’re being manipulated and deceived,” he replies. “But most of these people are adults following the orders of the Stranger. I have sympathy and grace for the pups and adolescents, but at some point we need to point fingers at the ones willingly going along with something, despite allegedly having learned the difference between right and wrong.”

“Perhaps it ain’t so simple, Bunny.” Arreedra’s eyes glimmer as the lenses across them contract and expand. “If people think they’re doin’ the right thing, why would they consider doin’ the opposite?”

“Harm is harm.,” Bunny replies.

“Oh, I’m quite aware, darlin’.”

Katherine clears her throat. The tension fizzles back to a low simmer. She stands and says, “Given this is an espionage job, direct harm is unlikely. And as Skreeklavic says, the chances of being accosted by werewolves in the presence of regular humans is equally as unlikely. Let’s focus on the central mechanisms rather than try to shave down the number of hypothetical pawns on the board.”

She dives into the floor plan. The majority of the opening will be concentrated in and around the display gallery housing the featured art. That’s in a small room off the east end of the building. According to the oracle, the central courtyard is also a popular mingling place at such events, barring inclement weather. It’ll be a good spot to approach Gillian if given a chance. There will also alcohol available. Gillian apparently always has a few at these events, so the plan is to make the first approach about an hour or two in, when the drink lowers his inhibitions enough to make him a little careless, a little more willing to talk obscurities.

The western end of the gallery will technically be open, but it’s likely the permanent exhibits won’t see much foot traffic until the third or fourth hour of the event.

“It really goes that long?” one of the Raconturks asks.

“Yeah,” Bunny replies. “They’re partnering with some big name art group for this, and they apparently love putting on elaborate shows, even for events that don’t warrant them. So, y’know, stay on task, ut if you have the opportunity to take some of it in…”

Arreedra snorts.

“Objection to something?” Bunny looks at him, but he shakes his head.

“Just a little surprised that you of all people would encourage taking time to smell the flowers. Especially during something as dire as this operation.”

Bunny’s fur raises as he searches for a response. But Arreedra beats him to it.

“I don’t mean nothing by that except what I said. I’m surprised.”

“Well.” Bunny grits his teeth. “Moving on from meaningless things…

“Tooth has been kind enough to lend us a few of her fairies. It’s not unusual for a pigeon or two to get into the rafters, so no one will freak out if they see a ‘bird’ darting around. I’ll be hanging out in the west galleries or the employee zones most of the night. That way I can be on hand if a disaster happens, but can avoid being seen. Cause Gillian can for sure see immortals.”

They go over a few more movements, check-in times, and call patterns for the crystals before it’s time for the mortals to take a break. Bunny and Katherine head into the library to stretch their legs, but someone quickly calls her away. Alone, Bunny wanders from row to row until, no-so-accidentally, he comes to the section dedicated to him. Well, to books about “The Easter Bunny.” Ninety-nine point nine percent of them don’t mention him by name, but it’s nice to see the lineage of his existence and presence. He drifts a paw over the spines of hundreds of picture books and the odd chapter reader. When he reaches the end of the row, he turns to pace back, paw on the opposite shelf.

“Hm.”

The sound makes him glance over his shoulder. Skreeklavic is there, gazing skeptically at all the books.

“Santa Claus has two rows,” he says. Bunny bristles and the werewolf snorts. “Easy. I mean no offense, truly. Though, I have noticed your oddly antagonistic friendship with him.”

He enters the row and pulls out a thick board book. It looks like it was published at the turn of the millennium, judging by the plastic-coated “pages” and hyper-saturated colors. Skreeklavic flips through it, smiling at the charming images. He places it back on the shelf.

“It’s funny to watch you two interact,” he continues. “Despite the jealousy and ego you share and impose upon one another, you’re able to look past it and be friends. Or, depending on the circumstances, friendly with each other.”

“Yeah…” Bunny replies. “What of it?”

“I…” Skreeklavic starts and pauses, reconsidering. “Arree has told me a bit about his relationship with you. Obviously—” He holds a hand up to quiet Bunny’s objection. “Obviously, he is biased. But so are you. I’m not here to convince you otherwise, nor to obtain gossip about him, but I would like for you to consider that, perhaps, he is different now.”

That’s not the first time Bunny’s heard a request of this nature, and it doesn’t lessen the sour taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, he tries to be patient.

“Due to everything, I can’t. I hope you can understand why I simply can’t. And I know I can’t force you to do anything you aren’t willing to, but if you find yourself in need of a reprieve… a break… or if you want to leave… then by all means, wander down to the Warren, and I’ll get you set up in safety.”

Skreeklavic rolls his eyes. “Your concern is noted, and on some level, appreciated. But I repeat my request: please consider that he is different from what you remember and experienced. I have made this same plea to him about you.”

“Why?” The single word blasts across the space between them. He clarifies, “Why go through the effort of trying to make him understand I’ve moved on?”

Skreeklavic cackles at that. “That’s a good joke, ‘moved on…’ Please be honest with yourselves. But the reason I’ve tried to speak with him and now you is because first of all, I think it would be healthier for you two if you were to swallow your pride and come to a sense of neutrality on each other. Secondly, it will be far less embarrassing to be in public with you. I’m somewhat used to scrutiny, having been the public face of my pack for years. I can work an awkward situation if need be, though, it often needn’t be. Can your human?”

The final question throws him off-guard. Somehow, he hasn’t really thought about what it will mean once everything stabilizes and he and the oracle finally make good on their mutual attraction. Of course he’ll want to take them around, to show them his world and show them off to his world. Arreedra never features in these fantasies, for obvious reason, but what about anything else? Their reaction to being watched by the Santoff Claussen folks as rumors swirled was to freeze and pretend they weren’t there. And Bunny knows the citizens of the village are completely harmless! Busybodies, but harmless. Same with the yetis and Raconturks. Can they survive such situations? Yes, he’s sure of that. They work with various guests and visitors at their job. But, he begrudgingly admits to himself, he’s kind of in a different class of notoriety than their typical gallery patron. The transitive property of expectations starts at the most public of figures, and violently waterfalls down to everyone around them.

“You’re not the be-all-end-all judge, jury, executioner of character worth,” Skreeklavic says patiently. “I am sorry for what transpired between you and him, but I am having quite a different experience. I’m not asking you to forgive him, let alone be nice to him. I am—of my own volition, I may add—requesting that you hold space for complicated realities in your heart.”

Reluctantly, he thinks of the former boogeyman and his partner. His muzzle wrinkles in disgust as he replies, “I’ve had some practice with that, don’t worry.”

“Thank you. For your restraint and your help with this existential threat.”

Bunny nods and busies himself with another book. There’s a beat of silence, then another hum, and then shuffling. When Bunny looks up again, he’s alone. He lets out the rest of the breath he’s been holding and emerges from the row to reconvene with the meeting. Once again, he’s stopped. Arreedra and Katherine round a corner, conversing rather enthusiastically.

“Thanks,” Arreedra says. “I’ll contact you about it once we’re done here and I scrounge up some more… information.”

His sentence falters upon catching sight of Bunny, who merely blinks. Arreedra heads back into the meeting room, leaving Bunny and Katherine on the edge of the stacks. He regards his friend carefully. She returns his skepticism. Once the door clicks shut, she speaks.

“He asked about literacy resources for his village and the surrounding areas. The mortal mothmen, like a lot of Appalachia, have historically had lower literacy rates compared to elsewhere. He says he wants to get more involved to help change that. My influence is wide, but my reach is limited; I can help the spirit of the intention, but not necessarily lead the act itself. You know how it is.”

“What’d you say to his request?”

She looks offended.

“What did I say to someone asking the Guardian of Stories for help to increase children’s literacy rates? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Don’t—No!—Stop that, you know what I’m asking.”

She blinks silently, face as neutral at Nightlight’s. Uncanny how people start to resemble the ones they’re close to.

Bunny admits, “Okay, maybe I expected a ‘no.’ Because of who’s asking.”

“But you know why I’m going to do it.”

He grimaces. Yes, he does know. If one of the others’ bitter exes asked him to bring hope for their village’s children, he couldn’t very well refuse. No matter how awful said ex might be. He sighs.

“Yes.”

“Trust me,” she says, softening. “I’m not doing this for him. Him, I don’t trust. Him, I remember being the cause of misery for one of my closest friends. But the wrong person asking for help doesn’t mean we can neglect the children they’re asking after.”

“Right.”

“So, with that established…” She leans in and darts her eyes to the closed door. “Are we almost done? Can I please kick him out of here with little to no fuss from Skreeklavic?”

He smiles and brings her in for a side hug. “Almost. Just gotta refine some timetables and where to regroup after.”

He forces himself not to hurry through the final parts. Getting it done sooner means he can be free of Arreedra and also see the oracle, but he can’t neglect this. He needs to concentrate as well, since he’ll have to reiterate all this to the oracle. They’ve been busy at work putting the finishing touches on the show as well as gathering as much intel on Gillian as possible before the major operation starts. They also asked to be left in the dark about half this information, as they’re a terrible liar and Gillian knows them too well not to pick up on when they’re holding back.

The atmosphere at the end of the meeting is nervous. It’s odd for the mood to be so tense, as if entire armies are about to march off with the knowledge that some will not return. Five are going in, five will come out. He’s sure of that.

When he looks around at the volunteers, though, he suddenly sees green recruits. Kids that became adults under his nose at some point, but are still young. To say nothing of how these communities so rarely see strife and fighting. They’re unsure. He knows what to do with that, though; it’s the reason for his existence.

“We all clear on what’s happening?” he asks. Murmurs, non-committal shrugs. “Are you ready to take down the Stranger?” He modulates his tone to sound excited. The volunteers pick up an it and respond louder, more determinedly. “Are you ready to help save the world?!”

They rally and cheer, smiles on all their faces and fires in their hearts. They file out to get a good block of sleep before jumping time zones, chatting with each other and continuing the hype Bunny stared. Yeah, they’ll be fine. Then he, Katherine, Skreeklavic and the other one are left. Another library assistant calls for Katherine, and she scurries off, assigning a Raconturk to lead the guests out. Skreeklavic nods to Bunny and saunters away. Arreedra’s antennae quiver curiously.

“Keep surprising me,” he says.

Then, he catches up to Skreeklavic, wrapping one arm around the man’s shoulder and a second around his waist as they leave. Bunny’s sure there’s an insult in there somewhere, but he takes the words as just what they mean, for now.

Tell that to the tingle in his ears.

Chapter Text

“Thank you so much for coming!”

Chrissy glitters under the low lighting, somehow managing to direct the rays onto her as if there’s a naturally occurring spotlight. Vaguely, you wonder if this is one of those spontaneous magics the Stranger claims regular humans sometimes do. You wouldn’t put it past her to have the right Belief-of-self or whatever to tap into that. It’d explain a few things.

She continues, “Welcome to the pilot soft-launch of the GreenWitch Art Collective’s newest art outreach initiative!”

The crowd claps, some whoops joining the noise. The sound reverberates from tiled floors to the high paneled ceiling. It’s contained. It’s polite. It’s a little stronger than events outside of the semi-annual galas, but not as overwhelming. A wonderful start to an art opening at the Standstill Symposium.

From the back of the crowd, you clap and watch Chrissy glow even more. Gillian stands beside you, one hand in his back jeans pocket, the other choking a small paper cup of watered-down liquor.

He and Chrissy haven’t been in the same room since that art jam, but whatever tension exists between them is, for now, on pause. He even manages a polite nod and knocks back a sip when Chrissy calls for a toast to officially begin the event. When she swirls through the crowd over to you, however, he backs away.

“Well, here we go,” she titters. The guest of honor, the showing artist, is mobbed by people as soon as they’re turned loose. He looks overwhelmed at the attention, but beams at the excitement of his peers.

Approximately fifty people are here already, two-thirds of them Collective members. There’s been some real buzz about this opening and the initiative throughout the art circles, and Nirupama expects to see a peak of two hundred. Pennies compared to the larger galleries, art museums, and even the Collective’s own headquarters, which regularly hosts eight hundred or more, but two hundred for Standstill? Practically a riot.

Nirupama wraps her arms around your and Chrissy’s shoulders.

“Great job,” she says. “Now let’s schmooze.”

The first hour consists of mingling, directing newcomers toward the art and the artist, pointing out the refreshments table, and discussing the local art scene with Collective members. For one of the biggest, most respected art collectives in the city, there’s an astounding amount of internal politics and drama. It pains you to have to wander away from the juicy conversations, but there are other guests to take care of.

That first hour also consists of looking up every fifteen minutes and noticing a newcomer who deliberately catches your eye, letting you know they’re one of the Guardians’ human contacts. They all flash a peace sign and fade into the crowd. You work at trying to memorize their faces, just for reference. It’s a task for all of the first four, but not the fifth. As soon as they arrive, you know they’re here to try and infiltrate the Friends of Humanity Movement. Despite never having seen them in your life.

Have I? The few times you’ve been to Santoff Claussen, it’s possible you’ve seen or met them. But a name sits at the tip of your tongue, unlike with any of the others. Alex? Amanda? Aaron?

“You know them?” Gillian asks, scooting up beside you. The unexpected presence makes you jump. You must have been staring for a lot longer than you thought. He nudges you and repeats, “They a friend of yours?”

“No. And no,” you reply. “They do look familiar, though. Maybe I’ve seen them around at different openings or during Pride. Maybe they’ve just got one of those faces, you know?”

Gill doesn’t respond right away. He watches the newcomer like a hawk, sipping on some water. The silence drags on long enough that you get uncomfortable.

“Do you know them?” you ask.

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “No, I think you’re right. They’ve just got that kinda face.” He takes another sip. “The face of an ‘Andre.’”

“Funnily enough, I was thinking something like ‘Alex.’” You chuckle; he does, too, but on a delay, still watching them. Then, an idea strikes you. It’s a longshot, could go either way, could make him confused, but you hug Gill from behind and hook your chin over his shoulder to whisper, “They’re kinda cute.”

He grunts. You shrug.

“They’ve got that post-twinkish thing going on I know you like. Androgyny out the wazoo. Shallow laugh lines. The barest beginnings of pudge.”

Gill cocks his head. The infiltrator is across the room, contemplating one of the shadowbox collages on the wall and reading the placard to the side. You’re not literally trying to set Gill up with them, just to give him a reason to go up and talk to them. It just so happens they tick a number of his boxes. As you hold your breath, the magic crystal you’ve been given for tonight heats up in your pocket. It’s time for a check-in with Bunny. You lean in closer to Gillian.

“Hmmm?” you go, trying to give him a supportive and playful look. You flicker your eyebrows up and down. “Hmmmmmm?”

He struggles against a smile but gives in and laughs. “You know what? Sure. I’ll talk to them sometime tonight.”

“Talk to who?”

You press your lips together in frustration as Chrissy slips over to you two. She sees the person and hums. Gill watches her with a similar fascination he watching the guest until she shakes her head.

“I swear I’ve met them before,” she says. “I went up and talked to them like I knew them only to realize I very much didn’t. Embarrassing!”

“What’s their name?” you ask.

“Andre, which, again, I swear I knew already…”

Gillian watches her even more intently. His cup sits on his lips, but he doesn’t tip it farther.

You say to him, “Good guess.” Then to Chrissy, “Gillian thinks they’re cute.”

He rolls his eyes, but that catches her attention. Despite the rift between them, they start talking. Well, Chrissy starts fishing for details, but Gill seems relaxed and willing to listen and respond.

You use the opportunity to slip away on the excuse of using the bathroom, locking eyes with one of the espionage team. He nods at you and turns so he can see across the whole room. As soon as you can, you dip into one of the employee accessways and rush to the west gallery. The whole building is small enough that you hear the music pumping in from the courtyard, throwback lo-fi mixes creating an energized but not busy atmosphere.

You find Bunny leaning over a statue. Odorlisque, by a recently passed local legend. It’s a reclining figure, as its name reference implies, made from brass piping. Metal stems and twigs poke out at various joints, and long, pipe flowers grow from an armpit, the mouth, the groin, and a foot. Bunny glances from the placard to the nearest flower, the one on the mouth. He pops the endcap off the flower center and leans toward it.

“Bunny!” you call to stop him.

But he doesn’t react, and you remember that you have the rune necklace on. You wore it to satisfy Gillian, to help get his guard down. So, you can only watch, amused, as Bunny sniffs the flower.

His fur jumps on end, and he gags, slamming a hand to his mouth as he turns away. A full-body shiver races over him, ending at the tips of his ears, which hang out to the sides like airplane wings. A few mini-fairies flutter over. One chitters at him and another buries its own head into the same flower. It, too, fluffs up and actually passes out.

“No—!” Bunny catches the poor thing before it hits the floor and it recovers, looking woozy. You pull off the necklace and laugh at their sputtering and coughing.

“Oh…” Bunny cringes when he sees you. “How much of that didja see?”

“Whole thing,” you reply. The fairy nearly sneezes itself out of his hand, and you notice it’s the same one from Chrissy’s sketches. The other fairy lands on your shoulder, shaking its head. “Not gonna lie, I sometimes wander in here on shift to see people do exactly that. Despite the huge sign saying it stinks.”

Bunny side-eyes the placard. The both of them are fully recovered by now, and the two fairies take off, chattering in their language. Bunny watches them, smooths down his fur, and then asks, “How’s it going so far?”

“Not bad. I think more people will filter out into the courtyard now, and that’s when your people should start to make contact. If Gill doesn’t do it first.”

“Would he?”

You shrug. There’s a beat as Bunny looks around the room.

“Lots of interesting pieces in here,” he says.

“And this is definitely your favorite, right?” You point to Odorlisque and laugh again at his scowl. “I did offer a tour, didn’t I? I think I’’ve got some time before people wonder where I am. They’re used to me disappearing to refresh from crowds at events.”

He nods, and you lead him around to the various artworks, eager to get some of the docent spiel in before returning to the opening.

“The pieces here range from fifteen to thirty years old. All of them come from the different boroughs and are generally representative of what people are calling the Embrace Modernity movement. The original Modernists were jaded after coming out of the first world war, declaring that nothing mattered anymore. The breakdown of traditional figurative depictions in all mediums, but especially oil painting, had begun back in Impressionism and Post-Impressionism, but the fall of so many empires and the terrible deaths with new war machines just kind of broke a lot of people—”

“Tell me about it…” Bunny says. He then looks at you. “Sorry, I just remember those days. ‘Modernity’ had a rough start that didn’t clear up until the latter half of the century, and even then only in certain parts of the world.”

“I bet that was hard to see, being the Guardian of Hope.”

“Yeah…”

You wait for him to say something else, but he seems done. So, you lay a hand on his arm and squeeze. He returns the touch. You catch each other’s glance. Energy builds up between you again, and you low-key regret acknowledging your attraction out in the open. Stressful times call for easy coping mechanisms, and being near him, letting him take up most of your brainspace, is difficult not to do or want. Especially since he’s practically trying to drag you ahead with him, and you almost want to let him.

But there’s the Stranger. Werewolves. Work and your own art. And of course, Gillian.

So, you look away to make the energy fizzle out. Not yet. Soon.

You stop him in front of another piece. It’s a gigantic piece of sculpture like a flat disco ball. Maybe with bigger pieces. Bunny’s ears twitch up at it.

“Not sure I get this one. It’s a little hard to look at.”

“You think so?”

He squints at it. “It’s confusing. Whenever I move, parts of my reflection distract me. And from back here, it looks flat, but it can’t be with all those different angles it shows.”

“Very good observation.” Sometimes, guests make the same one, and it always thrills you to show them the secret. You pull him over until he’s in the exact middle, exactly ten tile spaces from the wall. “What do you see here?”

It takes a second, but he gasps as he recognizes his form reflected precisely three times on the left, right, and center. Still broken up by the different facets, but they’re angled in a way to re-form a new reflection when someone stands here. Like looking into a whole mirror, but with an absurd texture.

“Oh. The title makes more sense now.”

“Loneliness in Triptych is my favorite piece in this room,” you say. “I’d stand here whenever I could when I first started, and I still like to visit. Dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m not fond of being seen a whole lot. Watching myself three times was uncomfortable, but in a way, it’s led me to becoming more of myself, seeing different things within.”

It feels a little silly saying that. That’s the sort of answer that people in your art degree would jokingly say was the intent of a piece. But, you mean it, and the perspective a viewer brings to a piece is just as important, if not more, than what the artist hopes to portray. Bunny hums thoughtfully, and you second-guess the confession.

“Granted,” you continue, “after working near it for so many years, I more often than not use it to watch guests or maintenance people coming in from other doorways. It’s prevented a lot of collisions. Makes for interesting people-watching.”

“It’s kinda like the compound eyes of a bug,” he says.

The turn in the subject loses you, and then you remember. You still haven’t mustered up the courage to ask what the hell happened between those two. And now… probably isn’t the best time. But the more Bunny’s face screws into a scowl, the more curious you get. And the more agitated at his growing agitation. The fur on the back of his neck sticks straight up, but he still doesn’t look away.

“Bunny.”

You touch his face. He jumps and immediately tears his eyes away from the piece. He blinks and then rubs his eyes before focusing back on you. You drop your hand to his elbow, and he nods.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but there’s a buzz in your pocket. At first you think it’s one of the others calling in an emergency. However, it’s a text message.

Gillian (7:43 pm)
Where are you? You fall in or something?

“Shit.” You pull out the necklace. “Gotta go before they send a search party.”

Bunny glares at it, but he steps back to give you space. No need to accidentally brush him and send him flying. Especially not around all this. The fairies squeak what must be insults at it.

“Take care,” Bunny says. “See you at next check-in.”

Once the necklace goes on, you take a last glance at him. After ten seconds of staring at the spot he last saw you, he heaves a sigh and turns back to the triptych. Your hand twitches, wanting to drag him away from the piece if it distresses him so much. The phone buzzes again.

He’ll be fine, you assure yourself. And you hurry back to the main throng before Gillian takes it upon himself to find you.

Chapter Text

The next while reveals why spy and heist movies are often more interesting as stories. There’s so much waiting, something vastly enhanced by the unreality of editing out said waiting.

To be fair, the show is at least more entertaining than you imagine sitting in a parked van would be. But, every time one of the Guardians’ people moves, let alone approach Gillian, your anxiety wakes from a dead sleep. It waits for covers to be blown, for an attack and for danger. And then nothing. Gill laughs politely at a joke one of them makes. Or answers a question. Or makes small talk. Then moves on. He brushes past Andre a few times, but never stops to chat. At some point, you catch Andre at the bathroom sink and ask how things are going.

“Decent, for the others,” they say. We’re not due to physically convene and debrief until after the event, but I’ve gotten a few signals that things are proceeding well. I…” They catch your eye in the mirror. “I think Gillian may be avoiding me, though.”

“Do you think he suspects what’s going on?” Blood pounds in your ears.

“I’m not sure. I admit, since coming in and seeing you and your friends, I’ve had an odd sensation of déjà vu. I recognized you, and Chrissy.”

“We’ve never met before today, though.”

“No.”

It’s an uncanny thing to swallow, but you manage. Just in time, as the door opens to reveal Gillian. He’s muttering something to himself—not unusual, it’s how he keeps track of things—but the instant he senses he’s not alone, he stops. And not merely out of surprise. You watch his face smooth from concern to neutrality.

“Oh, hey,” he says. He points to the stalls. “Just gotta go.”

“Happens to the best of us,” you say. “This is Andre, by the way.” You nod to them. “They were talking about how something’s in retrograde and how that’s messing with their chakras. I was trying to follow as best I can, but you’re the expert on that magic stuff, so I told them I’d introduce you two.”

Gillian swells with the least bit of pride when you call him an expert on magic. But he puts his “Why are you lying” face on. Luckily, Andre jumps in.

“I’m fairly new to this sort of thing. It’s always interested me from a young age, but I get lost when trying to do readings sometimes. I know Mercury is in retrograde at the moment, and I can feel it messing with my aura, but I can’t pinpoint why. I’d appreciate any help.”

Gillian scratches his neck and looks them up and down before saying, “It’s probably one of the less prominent houses if you can’t find the source easily. Hang on, I really do have to pee, but then I can whip up a chart.”

“Lovely,” Andre replies. They give you a wave as you return to the show. “Thank you so much.”

After making a quick round through the probably just over two hundred guests and restocking the refreshments (those strawberry jam rolls move quick), you slide up next to the two infiltrators pretending to be a couple as they dance in the courtyard, near enough to the speakers that the volume should cover your conversation.

“Andre is making contact right now,” you report. “I think that makes all five of you now. How’d it go with you?”

“Gillian was very polite, but not as talkative as hoped,” the man says. “I asked about his necklace, and he seemed receptive. Mentioned name of group, but did not elaborate.”

The other says, “I had more luck. Gillian talked about magic and history and I told him I wished things could be as magical as they seemed in textbooks. He told me it was possible, and that magic was more real than given credit for.”

“Did either of you get an invite to the next demonstration?”

They shake their head. “No, but he promised to speak with me in time. I think I may get his number by end of night.”

“Do you think you can fake having gotten it if I just let you have it?” you ask.

A shrug in return. “It is worth a try.”

That’s about as much as anything else. The event itself is a wild success; Standstill will absolutely be working more closely with the Collective in the future, and despite how insular they can be, you are very excited. Perhaps there’s even another solo opening in your future if you play your cards right. But the Gillian situation is a little more up in the air. Hopefully Andre can bring it home.

The crystal in your pocket heats up. Time for the next check-in. You start making your way across the courtyard, but Nirupama captures you into her conversation with some of the senior Collective members. If not for your time-sensitive business, you’d love nothing more than to sit and listen to her rave about the hard work you and Chrissy did on such short notice. As you search for a polite place to cut out, two bird-like shapes swoop overhead. They land on one of the large sculptures nearby, the carved marble made to look like basalt. The fairies dive into one of the larger holes and poke their heads out. They chirp shrilly, making a few guests jump and look around wildly for the source. Surreptitiously as you can, you wave to them and let them know to give you one minute. They flutter off to be near one of the infiltrators.

Thankfully, you find a way to extract yourself from being perceived at the hands of your employer, saying you’ll be back after you get a new drink. There’s enough alcohol in the Collective members and Nirupama that they enthusiastically encourage you to do so.

“Oh!” Nirupama catches your shoulder as you turn to leave. “Chrissy was looking for you a second ago. I can’t remember where she went, but it’s a small place, I’m sure you’ll find each other.”

“Thanks!” you say, and then make your escape.

You don’t get far—just step inside—when the crystal goes haywire. It sears your hip, making you cry out and fall down. The heat pulses erratically a few times, and then, as quickly as it happened, it stills. Several guests rush to help you up and ask you over and over if you’re okay. All you can do is assure them that it was just a stumble, you’re fine, please continue enjoying the event as nicely as you can even as you hobble to the west gallery.

You rip the necklace off and search around the room. “Bunny!”

In an instant, he appears in front of you. He grabs your forearms, hands glowing green. The intense scrutiny in his face makes you pause. It’s not fear, exactly, but you’re aware that he’s high-strung, so taut he could snap in a second’s notice. So you take it slow. The green starts to move onto your arms, a warm calm alongside it.

After a second of relaxing your muscles, you say, “It’s just me. What’s going on?”

“You’re all right,” he breathes. “I thought that signal—”

“What the hell was that?”

“Something’s wrong.” His ears twitch around and around, but he doesn’t stop watching you. The green starts to fade away. “But you’re not hurt.”

“No, I got delayed trying to get back here, and then it… exploded? I don’t think literally, but it felt like it was going to burn my skin off.”

He nods. His grip relaxes a bit more, and his ears start to lower from their height. Bunny finally takes a breath. “Sorry, I just hate being so useless right now. I feel so exposed, like a sitting duck—”

You’re well-versed in the universe’s cruel jokes. Speak an idea, and the universe may be listening. And it may feel like having fun at your expense.

Bright red sprays from Bunny’s head. His eyes widen and he tilts in the direction of the hit. You freeze, mouth open in horror, mind racing to sort the next order of operations. Have the werewolves found a way in? Is it the Stranger? How many enemies could the Guardians have?

And then, Bunny stops tilting. He releases one of your arms and touches the thick red oozing from his skull. It clings to his fingers, as does a white, foamy substance. Bunny sniffs it.

“Strawberry…?”

“Let them go!”

Chrissy stands nearby, one arm raised over her head, clutching a second strawberry jam roll. The gelatinous fillings seep between her fingers and down her wrist. She winds up even farther.

“You let them go and tell me what the fuck you are and what you’re doing here. I’m not much, but I’ve got a wicked pitching arm from years of baseball!”

You and Bunny look at each other. “You can see him?” you say at the same time Bunny says, “You can see me?”

“Giant fucking rabbit’s a little hard to miss, dontcha think?”

A laugh escapes you, relief and surprise all at once. Bunny looks skeptically at Chrissy, but he does release your other arm, if only to start combing the sticky mess out of his fur. Chrissy watches, confused, as you wave her over. She approaches, seemingly to try and pull you away from the perceived threat, but you hold firm. It takes a second or two for her to believe both that Bunny is not threat and that, yes, he’s the Easter Bunny. What ultimately brings her over is when the fairies descend, squeaking at her and trying to pull her hair in defense. Bunny brushes them off of her, and they scatter—all but one.

The small fairy from her sketches lands in her non-sticky palm. To your annoyance, she drops half the mangled strawberry roll right there on the floor. To your surprise, she smears the jam and whipped cream and honey sponge cake all over her hot pink skirt. She always looks so put together that you’ve always thought she wouldn’t… But she does, and she cups her hand around the fairy. It starts to glow. Chrissy goes glassy-eyed for a second, watching something you can’t see, and the fairy sings a strange song. Its companions land on your shoulders and cheep quietly, excited about what’s happening. You glance over to Bunny, who is still trying to get the snack out of his fur, but he looks on with a gentle smile.

“I’ll tell you later,” he whispers to you. “But it’s not hurting her.”

The glow fades. The communion ends. Chrissy returns with a shiver and a single tear falling from her eye. At least she’s no longer trying to fling pastry at Bunny’s head.

“Huh,” she says, stroking the fairy’s head crest with her free hand. It looks up at her adoringly. “I feel like I should be more surprised than I am.”

“Have you always been able to see things like me?” Bunny asks. She shakes her head.

“I mean I believed when I was a kid, but I… grew out of it, is that offensive?”

Bunny shrugs, carefully wiping the jam off with a damp towel the fairies managed to truck over. “It just happens.”

“Oh.” Chrissy then looks between you and him. “So you two already know each other?”

“Met about two months ago,” you reply. “I can explain later. Did something happen about ten minutes ago? Out in the main crowd?”

“No, why?”

You reach into your pocket for the crystal, relived that the petal you also stuck in there is still intact. Maybe not as much zing to it, though. When you pull the crystal out, there’s a small crack in it. Bunny retrieves his, though it’s intact. You explain what happened from your end, but Chrissy has no clue.

“The worst I’ve seen is someone who pre-gamed a little too hard knocking into a corner on a sharp turn and bumping into a few others. That was Tammy. It always overdoes it, very annoying, hopefully it won’t stay long. (But, not gonna lie, it does give excellent critque…)”

“Then I should probably go talk to the others,” you say. “I’ll see if they’re okay or if they noticed something or—”

Thundering footsteps make all of you turn. Someone’s approaching the west gallery.

“Hide!” you whisper to Bunny.

He’s already disappearing into a tunnel. You step on the flower that pops up after it closes. Chrissy tries to ask what’s happening, but you shush her, and then again when she cried out in distress at her fairy flying off to hide.

“Act casual,” you say. And then the loudest, fakest laugh bursts out of your mouth.

Thankfully, it’s just Andre. They skid to a stop and clutch their knees, panting. They gasp out, “The Pole is under attack!”

“What?” You rush over to them. “I thought we had til July.”

Andre’s head snaps up with an odd, confused look on their face.

“The ‘Pole?’” Chrissy asks. Her fairy lands back on her shoulder now that there’s no danger. She shares an incredulous look with it and points to a distant corner. “Like the North Pole? He said he’s the Easter Bunny right?”

“Go watch the entrance,” Andre says suddenly. They point, still wheezing. “Make sure Gillian doesn’t get near here.”

Chrissy looks around at all of you. You nod.

“Please,” you say. “I promise I’ll explain later, but time is of the essence.”

She stares at Andre for a second, then shakes her head and walks to the entrance of the gallery, disappearing around the corner. With any luck, if Gill figures something out, she can delay him long enough for you to concoct a convincing story.

Once she’s gone, Bunny hops over from wherever he was. “You’re sure about this? The Pole thought it had time to prepare.”

“We all did…” You shut your eyes and try to induce a vision. There’s a flicker, but it’s unclear if it was the Pole or something else. Lots of lights passing by. Blurry movement. It won’t settle. You try again, but it takes too long to even get near the right headspace of a potential, controlled vision. You tug at your hair, frustrated. Bunny squeezes your shoulder. “I can’t tell what’s happening, I’m too rushed.”

“It’s okay,” he replies. “I’ll go check and sound the alarm.”

“Yes,” Andre says. There’s a pulse in their clenched jaw, but you don’t pay that much attention to it, not with so much at stake so suddenly.

“Go,” you tell Bunny.

Bunny looks at you. “Right,” he says. He thumps his foot while squeezing his communications crystal, alerting the Pole to his appearance. “Wait here, or go home and lock up if I don’t get back before the event ends. I’ll contact you as soon as I know something.”

“Stay safe,” you say, right before he drops down. He hesitates, then pulls you into a deep hug, mindful to keep the mess on his fur out of your hair as much as possible. Then he disappears.

“He’ll be okay, right?” you ask Andre. They don’t answer. You turn to look at them and repeat, “He’ll be okay through this, ri—”

Andre lays a hand on your shoulder and starts pulling you toward the door. “Let’s get you to safety.”

“Wh—”

They nearly bowl you over with how much force they’re using to push you. You stumble, catch yourself, and then manage to stand your ground. Your arm slips out of their grasp.

“He said to wait here.”

The momentum of Andre’s lost grasp makes them step a few times before halting and turning to you. But something’s wrong. Wrong in the loose way they hold their body. Wrong in how their arms swing a few times before sliding back up to their sides. Wrong in the change in demeanor as they reset and then… morph.

“You would trust your Friend, wouldn’t you?”

The practiced, pitiful edge to its voice almost has you reassuring it on instinct. Thankfully, your fear keeps you quiet. It also keeps you still. The Stranger cocks its head at you, face less stable, though it more closely resembles Jesús now. When it’s ploy doesn’t work, it drops the pathetic nature and leans in close.

“If you won’t trust me, then I hope you will consider the well-being of your other friend. Gillian.”

You inhale sharply, and in order to stop your hands from shaking, you shove them in your pockets. Your fingers meet with a flat, velvety thing that rings of magic as soon as you touch it.

The petal…

“If you do not come with me right now, I will make sure you never see Gillian again,” it says. From the depths of its jacket, it produces a knife and flicks it open. “He’s a useful resource, but everything reaches the end of its usefulness at some point.”

You let up on the petal, having been almost ready to call Bunny back. The look on the Stranger’s face is so deadly serious that you cannot tell if it’s bluffing or not. Surely it’s not someone who would get its own hands dirty. It uses other people to—

The werewolves might just be those people. It doesn’t have to lift a finger when it can just call Gillian a traitor. Your mind races, and no matter how you try to run the scenario, the threat weighs on you, heavy enough that another flicker of a vision comes to you: you, next to the Stranger, in a familiar van, Gillian at the wheel, happily chatting away.

As it fades, movement over the Stranger’s shoulder catches your attention. Facets of hot pink cover a small strip of Loneliness in Triptych. The Stranger’s back is turned to the piece, as well as to the general angle the pink is coming from. You know it, though, and you’re sure you know who’s standing there.

“All right,” you croak to the Stranger. “I’ll go.”

It smiles like it doesn’t really know how and latches its hand on your upper arm. You hiss and pull your hand out of the pocket, slipping the petal out as well. It flutters to the floor, thankfully under the Stranger’s notice. You watch the pink reflections out of the corner of your eye until the angle changes too much, and it disappears.

Dread builds within as you half-lead, half-follow the Stranger out the back door and out to a distressingly familiar van. Gillian comes round the side of the catering van, halts when he sees you, but opens the door for you and the Stranger to get in.

“Everything will be okay,” he says from the driver’s seat. “I wish I had gotten to this sooner, before… well, regardless, we’ll get everything fixed up.”

He avoids looking at you in the rearview mirror. You busy yourself with holding a tsunami of a panic attack back. You just need to outlast them. Maybe you can trick them. The Stranger’s threat still lingers at the back of your mind, so you sit up and act like you’re paying attention. Meanwhile, you hope with all your heart that Chrissy understands what you need her to do.

Chapter Text

Bunny leaps from his tunnel, draws his weapon, and bounces on the very tips of his toes as he assesses the situation. Yetis surround him, all at their toymaking stations, confused and surprised. But not panicking or fearful.. The entrance is wide open rather than locked down, and from the sounds filtering in, it’s business as usual.

The Pole is completely calm.

“Guardain Bunnymund…?” A yeti wearing watchmaker’s glasses raises the telescoping lenses and speaks slowly. “Are you all right?”

His first instinct is to yell and get them moving, get ready for whatever’s coming. But a sick feeling of wrongness makes him pause. He turns in place. Although no one is panicking, they look so very disconcerted. Staring at his head.

Ah, right. The red. Probably looks bad.

“I’m fine,” he says. He points to the mess in his fur. “Had a strawberry jam incident.”

A deep sigh of relief whooshes across the room and half the yetis go back to their work. The other hald move their worry to his drawn boomerang. There’s a flash of familiarity. He’s definitely been in similar situations, right? Bursting into the Pole or Tooth Palace or Isle of Sleepy Sands and riling everyone up. Strangely, he can’t remember the particulars at the moment, but he remembers the regret and embarrassment of causing a scene where it wasn’t necessary. So, despite his pulse pounding in his head, muscles twitching in anticipation, and the dire circumstances of hesitation, he relaxes his stance and puts his weapon away.

“Sorry,” he says. It comes out strained, he hears it. “I need to see North.”

“Of course.”

The yeti slides off her stool and uncurls her back with a few cracks before heading out the door. She leads him through some back hallways before pausing at a restroom. Bunny is dismayed until she hands him a wet towel.

“Please.” She indicates the jam. “Before we go through the crowded spaces.”

She refuses to move until he starts scrubbing, and then she leads him into the open center of the workshop.

“Is this a social call?” she asks quietly. As the pass workbenches, she heartily greets her peers, perfect facade of normalcy.

“You can call it that,” Bunny replies. He also nods to the yetis as he passes, though much less convincingly. As he goes, he notices others fully absorbed in their thoughts but not their tasks. One simply stares out the window, toward the glacial peaks they’ve determined are the most likely origin of the upcoming attack. He swallows.

“And what sort of social call smears red jelly on your head and has you drawing your weapon upon entry?” The yeti looks at him. “The others will be curious.”

He understands what she’s getting at, and he takes a moment to think. “Thought North might be up to some old tricks. Come to think of it, thought, this has Frost written all over it. Think he mighta framed him, and I didn’t stop to think properly before jumping to conclusions.”

They approach the door to North’s office. It’s closed, but a dozen yetis with paper, clipboards, and irritated expressions mill about. His escort nod to him.

“Thank you. That’ll do for now. Make way!” she yells, causing the others to jump. “Guardian Bunnymund is here and wishes to see North.”

The crowd immediately dissolves into sputtering and shouting and waving paperwork like flags. She, however, raises herself up to her full height and bellows until they all—and the rest of the central room—go silent. She glares at them, daring them to challenge her. If anyone wants to, they don’t get the chance. The office door swings open and North pops out.

“Tchaikovsky’s shriveled sugarplums! What is going on out here—Bunny?”

Upon seeing his friend, half his restraint crumbles and he rushes up to him.

“North, we need to talk right now, something’s wrong, something’s—”

North claps a hand over Bunny’s mouth and pulls him over the threshold.

“Ten minutes!” he yells to the crown waving documents in his face before slamming the door.

Bunny catches his balance only to come face to face with another crowd. This one of the defense team, half yetis and half Raconturks, mages, sand constructs, and Nightlight himself. They all stare at him, at the fur on his head surely sticking up at odd angles, and at the reddened towel in his hand.

“Nothing’s happening here, is it?” Bunny rasps. He points out to the glaciers. “No movement yet?”

The defense team looks at each other, confused. Save for Nightlight, who opens a window and rockets out to look.

“Bunny.” North approaches, checking his pocket watch against the time zone clocks on the wall. “Why are you not in New York?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” Bunny’s legs can no longer support him. The tension collapses, and he starts to slide down to the floor, taking deep breaths.

“No!” North grabs him before he makes it there. “Focus! What happened?”

“Andre—I thought—said the attack was happening now!”

The window clicks shut. Nightlight hovers and shakes his head. Bunny hisses and murmurs rise from the others. North opens his mouth to speak and then looks thoughtful. Then worried.

“Where is oracle?” he asks. Bunny’s breathing picks up. North shakes him. “Where is your human?”

“I thought I left them with Andre…”

The rest of the attendees shift and murmur.

“No! Stop!” North cries. “He steadies Bunny and throws his arms out like a conductor, as if to control the volume of the room. “You all stop and breathe and go back to formations!” He points to the papers and diagrams before rounding on Bunny. “And you! You are right to feel this way, but now is not moment to feel fully. Now is moment to bottle all up and make sure your oracle is safe. Yes?”

“Y-yes.”

“I said ‘Yes?’!”

“Yes!” Bunny’s mind eases, insofar as it can with all the worst-case scenarios compacting into a dense ball of tension. But he’s right. This is how it is in crises—reflect and feel after. In the moment, do.

“That’s right, Bunny! Now, raise one hind foot.”

Bunny does. It holds in the air, a captured spring.

North slices his arm down to point at the floor, and he yells, “Tunnel!”

The instant he touches mossy ground, Bunny takes off on all fours. After a few strides, enough worry is stored away for later that he thinks to open another tunnel, this one instantly taking him back to the west gallery. He shoots out like a cannonball, landing and then sliding on the remainder of Chrissy’s un-thrown jam roll. He catches himself on one of the statues but jostles enough for it to scrape a few centimeters over the floor.

“Hello?”

Bunny freezes and looks for the source of the voice. A woman pops her head through a hidden doorway—one of the employee accessways. It’s the oracle’s boss, wielding a mop in one hand and a dry rag in the other. She looks around the room, swaying a bit, probably from having drunk a bit. After calling again and receiving no answer, she shakes her head and heads over to the mess on the floor. Where she stops dead yet again at the sight of the skid mark.

“Hello?!”

Bunny thanks his invisibility as he slips out into the hallway, where he takes stock of everything.

No oracle in the gallery. No signal from the crystal. No—

Some cheeping echoes up the hall. Bunny looks up in time for three fairies to smack into his face and squeal into his ears.

“What happened? I wasn’t gone long, was I just being foolish?” he asks. The continued screaming and cheeping tells him, no, he wasn’t foolish. Well, he was, but not in the way he initially thought. “Point me in the right direction!”

“Help?”

Bunny’s fur stands on end at the call. That’s not the oracle’s voice, though. He listens again.

“Hey, Easter Bunny, can you hear me?”

The pull compels him out the door and in the direction of the voice. He grits his teeth as he bounds through various humans on the street. The sensation becomes so much it hurts to breathe.

“Are you coming, Mr. Rabbit?”

‘Mr. Rabbit,’ that’s a good one, he thinks, half-delirious from the overwhelming everything-nothing. Yes, yes he is. Hje just needs to find her, find the ends of the echo. But why does Chrissy have the petal?

What does that mean about the oracle?

No, he won’t think about that until he has to.

The end of the call leads to the edge of a long park, under which descends a tunnel full of delivery vans, freight trucks, a few cars, and a slew of rickshaws. Bunny’s whiskers twitch. He sits back on his haunches and looks around, panting and hoping he doesn’t have two humans to chase down. That’s when a fairy flits around his face. He follows it to a group of trees where Chrissy paces back and forth.

“There you are!” she cries.

“Where’s Andre and the oracle?”

“Oracle…?” She looks like she’s about to ask a question, but she shakes her head and wipes the thought away. She points to the ground. “Fucking Gillian has them in his shitty-ass catering van with… they… It did not look like a human from my angle. It stopped (yeah, that’s the right word, I guess, ‘stopped’) being Andre. They’re in the Mid Line Tunnel right now, should pop out the other side in ten minutes or so. Hurry!”

“Thanks!” He starts heading off, only to double back and draw a rough sketch of the rune on the ground. “Hang on, was there something like this on the van?”

Yep! All taped on the side looking tacky. Hey!”

Bunny grabs her arm and starts running. “I need you to be my eyes. I can’t see or touch things with that marking.”

“Um…”

She keeps pace surprisingly well, thought she looks wildly around as they go. And he’s not surprised why. Dozens of other humans are in this park as well, and surely a few of them watch her stumble oddly. Thankfully, the strip of park ends a kilometer and a half later, the other end of the tunnel ramping up to street level again Bunny leans on the railing to look overt he side. Chrissy catches up, puffing a little bit, face flushed and sweaty.

“D’ya see it?” he asks. He looks anyway, as if it’ll zoom past noticeably despite being invisible.

She finishes catching her breath and taps on her phone. “We’re actually in luck he decided to drive this way. Well, maybe not, it’s still the most direct route to a bridge regardless but they’ve been doing maintenance and upgrades on the tunnel for the last month. It drops to a single lane after nine pm, so we’ve got some leeway.”

She points to the red stripe under their location on her phone and then looks at the traffic crawling out and through the light a few meters up.

“I don’t see ‘em yet, but it won’t take long.”

Indeed, barely a minute later, as the lane backs up into the tunnel due to a red light, Chrissy yelps and grabs him.

“There!”

A conspicuous gap appears between a delivery truck and a few rickshaws. Bunny clutches at the railing, trying to think fast enough to form a plan. The light won’t stay red forever.

“Are you going down there?” Chrissy asks.

“And do what? I can’t get near it until at least one of those runes is destroyed. How fast does traffic move? We might have to follow again.”

“Speed limit has been twenty-five kilometers per hour since the Great Mackinacing.”

He regards her for a moment. The odd phrase sounds familiar, but he can’t remember what this event was. Chrissy huffs and shrugs.

“The de-autofication of the US. Like Mackinac Island. Sixty percent of cars were off the roads by the end of the first decade. This isn’t important!” she rubs her eyes and stomps her foot. “Is there a way to put a tracker on it? Take out the window or door? I can see one of the runes on it, like it’s a fucking target. If I could—”

She leans down and finds a rock near her feet. Bunny, still lost in the calculations of eggs and baskets and the order in which to remove them, registers her throw dimly. The small bullet whips from her fingers and a blink later, it hits the empty air where the van sits, invisible. The chalky stone splits on impact, one half grazing the open-air rickshaw right behind.

“Hey!”

“What the fuck?!”

“You fuckin’ tryin’ to kill us or something?”

The passengers in the rickshaw yell up at Chrissy, who pays them only enough mind to flip them off and reach for another rock. But it wakes Bunny up. All the silly, disparate plans he’s been trying to fit together wither away as her next throw lands another bull’s-eye—and magic fluxes over the rough shape of a car. The rickshaw screams up at her again. The pedestrian lights at the crosswalk are blinking, readying to pause for the cross-traffic to move again. They’re really out of time. Bunny snaps his head to her.

“You said you got a good arm?”

Chrissy preens for a second. “Used to throw knives in the woods outside Boston with my stepsiblings.”

“And the baseball, you said earlier.”

“And the baseball—oh!”

Bunny presents his boomerang to her.

“I can’t get near enough to save them unless at least one of the runes is gone,” he repeats. “Ya ever thrown one of these?”

Her eyes gleam in excitement, and she smiles.

“No,” she replies. “But I’m a quick learner.”

Chapter Text

When the van peels out from the curb, you catch onto the back of the front seat to steady yourself. There’s no second row, just the cabin and space in the back for cambros and tables and other supplies. You watch out the windshield, trying to see what route Gillian is taking. Things look so different from the auto roads, though, compared to mass transit.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask him.

He starts to answer but is preempted by the Stranger. “We’re taking you to the safety of the pack. The immortals will not be able to find you there.”

“Gill,” you say, ignoring the Stranger as best you can. “Gill, what’s going to happen to me?”

“You’re going to save humanity.”

It’s a rote answer. There’s a gesture of of hopeful admiration, but it’s swallowed by the neutral tone and stilted phrasing. He avoids your eyes.

“What if I don’t want to?”

He slams the brakes to keep from hitting the rickshaw in front of him. Traffic crawls along the street, curling around roundabouts and inching through the occasional light. You think you know where you are, but it’s not until you see the ramp down ahead that you’re sure. The Mid Line Tunnel.

“Go a faster way,” the Stranger orders. Gillian shakes his head.

“This is the straightest shot to the airport we’ve got from here,” he replies. “Even with the delay, it’ll be faster. And… and it might give us some cover in case they come after us.”

There’s a part of you that doesn’t think that’s entirely true. You haven’t driven regularly since leaving your home state, so you have no reason to pay attention to nor care about anything other than transit and foot traffic (you even limit your use of rickshaws), but you’ve been here long enough to hear drivers complain about certain routes and compare better ones. Including the Mid Line. It’s stop and go once you get in, much to Gillian’s apparent surprise. He curses quietly. The Stranger shifts its attention to him and he sputters an excuse or two before gathering himself up and putting the van in park.

“Switch with me,” he says. The Stranger makes an impatient noise, but it hauls itself into the cabin as Gillian flips into the bay.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper to him. “You know this isn’t right.”

“I’ve tried other ways,” he says. “I’ve tried a few different things, but they keep finding you.”

“‘They?’ You mean the Guardians?”

“Shh!” Gillian flinches and looks at the Stranger. It keeps its expression unreadable, almost convincing you that it’s concentrating on the road. You know it can’t be with things so slow. Gillian places his hand on your arm. “They don’t deserve that title. Humans are the true guardians of everything they claim to stand for. Our Belief makes the world run.”

“Gill, I’m sorry, but that is the most arrogant thing I’ve heard you say in a while.”

The Stranger had inched up a bit before slamming on the brakes. It’s not the worst sudden stop, but it trips you against the seats. The top ridge hits your stomach hard enough that you crumple from having the wind knocked out of you. As you gasp, Gillian eases you to the floor, where you see a tiny porcelain doll. It bumps against your foot as the van moves, the signholders outside presumably allowing a swath of cars to swerve to the other lane in turn. There’s something odd about the doll, something familiar in its lanky, androgynous proportions. You reach for it only for Gillian to snatch it first. He doesn’t get far, however. You catch his wrist and hold it there to confirm your horror: the porcelain doll is a match for Andre. Your finger bumps against the surface, and you can feel the binding magic in it. In shock, you release his arm.

“What did you do to them?”

Gillian tucks Andre into a bag attached to the wall, but doesn’t answer. There’s a soft clink where the porcelain doll knocks against something else. From the way the bottom stretches, it’s something heavy and round.

“Gill, why?”

“Because they’re corrupted,” he responds. “I needed a way to keep them quiet so we could extract you without them getting wise.”

“Why kidnap them, though?” His head snaps over when you say that. “Why kidnap me?”

“That’s not what’s happening!” he cries. He looks sick.

“What the hell do you call shoving me into the back of a van and driving away, then?”

The color drains out of his face, leaving him with an ashen pallor. For the first time, he seems genuinely speechless. Confused. He looks around the interior of the van as if realizing for the first time where he is. Where you are, purely because of him and his “Friend.”

Come on, I know you’re in there. You silently plead with him to finally see reason. Up to this minute you’ve been hoping that he’s been under a spell and that the Stranger is controlling him. But you can see that’s not true. He’s fully cognizant of his actions, even if, from the thousand-yard stare overcoming him, he doesn’t perceive the context the same way you do.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you try. “You’re not stuck here with any of this. Things can be different. We can… leave.”

You pointedly glance in at the Stranger, trying to get him to realize without it realizing what you’re up to. Gillian turns and watches it from the corner of his eye with the same scrutiny that you’ve seen him give tourists, new friends and partners, and random people on the street. He knows people. He used to know people. He can know it again, you know he’s in there.

“Gillian, I need your help!” the Stranger calls from the front seat.

Instantly, Gillian perks up. The color rushes back into his cheeks and he turns to the front seat as the Stranger jolts the brakes again.

“Go easy, go easy!” Gillian taps the Stranger on the shoulder, all signs of his deep thought evaporating. He continues to chide it gently, “Just like how I showed you. Don’t slam on the pedal, ease off it, brake farther away than you think you need to. I still need to use this thing when we’re done, you know!”

The disregard for the situation. Enlightenment flitted across his face and now he throws it away. Talking as if he—and you—can just go back to normal. A whole decade of time rewinds and fast forwards in your head, every moment seeming so far away now, even the ones from before Easter. It breaks your heart as much as it lights a fire under it. Here stands your friend and current kidnapper, refusing to acknowledge how deep a pile of shit he’s in. He’s even going so far as to say it’s a mountain of gold.

And here’s you, unable to convince him otherwise.

“Gillian!” You manage to shout around the lump in your throat. He jumps and hits his head on the ceiling. The road starts to ramp upward again; the Mid Line is a short tunnel, after all.

“What…?” he asks softly.

You bark, “Why?” He flinches again. This isn’t a tone you use often, let alone on him. “Setting aside the current everything, why me, out of everyone on Earth? I’m not special.”

“I couldn’t abandon you to them.” He shakes his head. “My Friend will lead us to a golden age, where all humans can reach our full capacities, and you will help lead the way. My Friends says—”

“I’M YOUR FRIEND!” you shout.

He flinches one more time, a ghost of that self-reflection coming back upon him, but it’s not enough. He shakes it off without the help of the Stranger.

“You are!” he shouts back. He tugs at his shirt, especially around the collar and over his torso. “And you’re wrong about not being special. You can see the future. You can solve most of these problems before they ever start, if you wanted. You could get us to safety now—if you tried!” He pants. “You never try, that’s the problem. You have all this ability—not even the visions, but art and making friends and having people think you’re amazing. BUT YOU NEVER TRY WITH ANY OF IT!”

His anger is bewildering. Him being frustrated his new bestie’s plan isn’t going smoothly, sure, you can understand that, if only on a zoomed-out level. But this wounds. You are trying. When are you not trying? Every day is a new adventure in pretending you’re not overclocking your hyperawareness, the fuck does he mean try?

“Not everyone has the luxury of natural talent! Or luck!” he continues. “Or the ability to up and leave a place! If I could save the world by myself, I would, but I…” His shoulder droop. “I can barely use runes correctly, let alone begin to tell the future.”

Something hits the side of the van.

“That’s why you’re doing this?” you ask. It’s so petty. You know he can be petty, but it’s always him and you being petty together at someone else’s expense. “You’re kidnapping me out of jealousy?”

Another something hits the van, in the same spot.

“No, I’m kidnapping you because it’s the right thing to do!” he yells.

The wind is completely knocked out of you. To hear him confirm it so brazenly, unthinkingly. Something severs between you and him, a rope fraying nearly all the way through.

He realizes what he’s said and says, “No, shit, you know what I mean! Rescue, not kidnap, rescue!”

In the vague distance out the windshield, you see the light ahead turn green. But the backed-up traffic doesn’t have the chance to crawl far before a third thing hits the van and stabs right through the metal.

You and Gillian cry out and shield your heads. The van accelerates suddenly, swerving to the right and into the wide bike/emergency lane. Thankfully there are no bikers there at the moment, though you don’t avoid clipping the vehicle in front of you. The simultaneous jolts throw you shoulder-first against the side of the van. Your head knocks into the door at such an angle that not only is there sharp pain on your skull, but in trying to straighten out, you find you can’t turn your neck properly.

The Stranger curses in the cabin and turns the wheel, trying to regain control. Gillian’s bag slides from its perch. He catches it before it hits the ground, and you hear the Andre porcelain doll clink again. Hopefully they’re all right. They can come back from a few cracks, right? It’s just a manifestation of magic, not… not literal…

The van skids, tires screeching, until the whole thing stops by crashing into a brick retaining wall. You barely manage to brace yourself against the momentum, but the movement is enough to trigger the pain. Your eyes water. Now that everything stops, you can see what pierced the side: a piece of curved wood. Carvings all up and down it. Mostly depicting eggs.

“Bunny!” you cry.

You feel around for the door handle, but it’s locked. The boomerang twitches in the hole it created, sliding back a degree or two. You look for a lock release, but it becomes clear the only ones are in the front seat.

“Gillian, defend us!” the Stranger commands.

“Right.”

He takes a final look at you before hauling himself over the seatback and out the passenger door, depositing his bag in the front seat. You do the mental calculus of trying the same, but every twitch of your neck forces you to wait until the pain dies down. To say nothing of the Stranger still there, watching you.

The boomerang fidgets again, peeling through the door. Whatever it’s made from is strong. You rush over to it and try to twist it, get it to an angle where you can saw right through the side with it for an escape. All you manage is to make your arm go temporarily numb and wedge the weapon upright. But this seems to work in your favor, as whatever magic makes it move does so in a way that it catches on the metal like a can opener, widening the gash.

“Stop that.”

The Stranger yanks you back from the opening, through which you hear yelling. Mostly the confused shouts of the now really backed-up traffic, but another voice cuts through, calling your name.

“Can you hear me?!” He appears in your view, squinting toward where the boomerang is.

“Bunny!” you yell.

His ear twitches in your direction. You start to shout again, but the Stranger covers your mouth with its hand.

“Shut up,” it hisses. “Can’t you see that thing is just using you for power? The suck us all dry of our abilities and make us dependent on their petty ‘gifts’ as thanks. Whenever they find someone like you, who manages to break free of their control, they try to recruit to keep any ideas of rebellion down. Don’t betray your own kind. Don—gurk…”

You’ve only been half-listening. Between the panic of being held. The desperation to get to Bunny, and a new wave of adrenaline, you thrust your good elbow backwards and manage to land the hit in its gut. Not only that, but shove it into the wall behind. It lets go, stunned. Heedless of the pain, you finally drag yourself over the seatbacks.

You crash into Gillian’s bag headfirst, and despite the need and want to flee, you have to take a moment to let your ears stop ringing. As you pull yourself up, the bag rolls off the seat. You wince and open the bag to check on Andre.

They’re fine, insofar as they’re not shattered. But there is indeed something else in the bag with them. A large egg, the same size and roughly the same color as an emu’s. Picking it up, two familiar sensations wash over you: the buzz of magic, and the disorientation of déjà vu. Except, the more you focus, the more you realize they’re one in the same. That’s what makes you realize what you’re holding.

“Put it down and stay there!” the Stranger orders, but you fling yourself out the door and slam it shut, laughing at the muffled shout behind. And then you hear your name again.

Bunny rushes over on all fours, half-crazed look in his eyes. He stands and slows in those last few steps until he’s just at arm’s length. You start to reach for him only for a spasm to stop you. He’s more than willing to close the distance for your both. His arm curls around your back, pulling you in. It’s not a proper hug, what with the bag between you and you slightly resisting to mitigate pain, but you sigh in relief nonetheless.

“I shouldn’t’ve let this happen,” he mutters over and over. “I shoulda paid more attention, I shoulda known…”

“Bunny,” you say. He dabs his thumb over your cheek. Catching a tear you haven’t realized is there. “In the bag, it’s—”

Before you can show him the egg or Andre, it’s yanked away. The movement twists your shoulder, and you drop your hold on the strap to grasp your arm.

“What’s wrong—what?”

Bunny keeps a hand on your shoulder, a slight warmth creeping through your shirt. That green magic from before, you realize, though it sinks to the back of your mind for later. Right now, you whirl in the direction the bag went, and see exactly what you expect.

“Gill.”

Bunny tenses beside you, ears going wild. But despite Gillian standing barely a meter away, right in front of you, Bunny looks almost everywhere except at him. Gillian’s rune necklace glints in the passing lights of the traffic.

“Gill,” you say again. “That’s not yours. Give it back.”

“They shouldn’t have it either. This is how they’ve kept rebellions down in the past.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re playing with. That egg could be very dangerous.”

“He has it here?” Bunny says, finally looking in the same direction as you. “He has the time artifact?!”

“It could be,” Gillian says.

He watches Bunny carefully and inches closer to you. You step back slightly, and Bunny accommodates by tucking his arm around your side. Gillian hisses at the sight and freezes. You start to warn him off, but he rushes forward and slaps Bunny in the chest, too fast to relay what’s happening. Bunny tumbles violently to the ground and skids across the concrete. You cry out and try to run after him, but Gillian grabs your shoulder and flings himself forward instead. You rush after him, and as he slows down to prepare a kick, you grab at his shirt collar. Your fingers slip, however, hooking through the cord around his neck. It grows taut.

Gillian gags and coughs as his momentum is stopped by the garrote. Not for long, thankfully. The cord snaps, making you stumble back a few steps and allowing him to double over to pant and catch his breath. At the very edge of your awareness, you see a crowd starting to form around the crash, hear the panicked murmuring. You try not to think about the pictures and videos being taken.

“Gillian!” the Stranger calls. It’s finally burst free of the van and hauls its own bag over its shoulder. “We must go now!”

“Right,” Gillian rasps. He stands up straight and holds his hand out to you. “Please… Please come with me.”

“I’m asking you the same thing,” you reply. “They’re not bad. They don’t want to hurt any of us.”

“Please!” he shouts. He offers his hand again while digging in the bag with his other, taking out the egg. A dot of light ignites its core and grows in diameter. “If not for humanity, then maybe for me?”

A strong impulse—instinct, even—to say “Yes” nearly makes you take his hand. Two months ago, you would have, without question. One month ago, you might have. Last week, you would have asked for a better explanation. Now, you ball up your fists and step back. The ground disappears under your foot, thought, and you shriek as you fall. You don’t get far, however. Below you, Bunny catches you around your waist; above you, Gillian grasps your wrist. It’s a tenuous grasp, however, and you start to slip from it. The light gets brighter.

“Please,” he says again, choking on a sob. “I don’t want you to be my enemy.”

A thousand million words crowd your head. All you can do is shake your head.

“Shoulda thought of that before.” Bunny lifts himself up and tugs your wrist out of Gillian’s hand and then drops you both down the tunnel. You watch the hole shrink to a pinpoint, losing Gillian’s face in a brief, blinding flash before the tunnel closes and the Warren fully engulfs you.

Chapter Text

They haven’t cried. For some reason, that’s the most off-putting thing about this whole evening. Bunny leans against the threshold between his sitting room and kitchen—arms crossed, knee bouncing. The oracle lays on a couch and stares at the ceiling. They’ve been staring for forty-five minutes. Every so often, they shift. Each time, they grunt and wince as their shoulder obviously pains them.

As soon as he got them to safety, he offered to help.

“I can get you something for the pain and shoot some magic into ya to fix it. Just sit here and I’ll be right back.”

“Please leave me alone,” they said. They blinked and shook their head, then winced. “I mean… I just need a second. To process this. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

After that, he kind of expected the adrenaline to fall out and make them fall asleep from exhaustion. Not ideal; healing magic works best applied sooner than later. But they aren’t asleep. They’re just staring. He leaves them be and goes to another room to send a few letters.

To the other Guardians, he sends,

Mission went pear-shaped. Oracle is safe and here at the Warren for now. Scene was caused in the middle of NYC traffic, lots of witnesses. Will need to keep an eye on the news and conspiracy forums to see what’s going on and make sure this doesn’t give the Stranger fodder for more supporters or cause a manhunt for the oracle and Gillian.

He sends those off with an egg and, after some consideration, sends one to Skreeklavic… And, he supposes, to Arreedra.

New development in the case. Unfortunately, it’s bad news. I’ve contacted the others and we will convene to debrief in the next day or so.

The idea of Arreedra hearing this failure is so humiliating that he almost tears the note apart. But, his duty as a Guardian—which includes keeping coworkers abreast of all developments—stops him. Before another urge overtakes him, he sends the note off to the old stump. He only addresses Skreeklavic, but he has no idea whose eyes will reach it. All that settled, he goes to the kitchen to take his mind off things.

He stares into his cupboards, unsure what exactly he has. Certain snacks he enjoys, sure, but they’re not enough for a real meal. And that’s what he needs to be concerned about at the moment. After going from cupboards to pantry to icebox, and then sending the eggs off for ingredients he doesn’t grow in the Warren, he starts a simple soup for them. Just some vegetable broth, chickpeas, carrots, celery, potatoes, and a pinch of paprika and cayenne each to give it some flavor. He feels like it’s missing something, maybe a thickener, but he also realizes now is not the time for ambition. It hasn’t been that long since the whole debacle, they might be hungry. Or at least need something warm to hold.

I could be that—

He stops that thought before it finishes. Knowing them, this would not only not be the right time, but it might just scare them away if asks. They need time to recover, much as he thinks he could help it along if they weren’t so skittish. He watches the pot simmer, focusing only on the taste of the dish and making sure it doesn’t overcook. An hour or so later, he portions some into the bowl, heavy on the broth, and takes it to the oracle with a side of pain relief chocolate.

Thankfully, they’ve managed to sit themself up, back against the armrest. They move their head just enough to watch him place the food on a side table with chipped paint on the legs. He makes a mental note to get to repairing that one of these days and then reaches toward their shoulder.

“Can I fix your shoulder now?” he asks.

They sigh and nod, freeze with a twinge of pain, and then say, “Yeah. Please.”

He moves behind them, and then suddenly realizes what comes next. He clears his throat.

“My magic works best if I apply it directly to the problem area,” he says, hoping to clarify.

The oracle inches their good shoulder up in a shrug. “Okay.”

A soft demonstration, then. He screws up his courage, summons his magic and strokes his thumb down their neck, from just under their ear, over their trapezius, and ending at their shoulder joint. The tips of his fingers reach just under outer lapels, the tips of his claws just under the thin strap of their undershirt. Is it self-indulgent to a degree, yes, but he does also need to get to where the pinched nerves, tight muscles, and whiplash are.

The oracle lets out a soft, “Oh.”

“Is this all right?” he asks. In response, the oracle sheds their outer layer and leans forward, giving him better access.

Bunny eases them into the massage, loosening the muscles and tension. At first, they wince with each pass, but as the magic buries deeper and softens everything, the more they relax in turn. He places one hand on their other shoulder to keep them still as he presses a little harder into a knot near their scapula. They grunt in relief as he works it out and the surprises him by grabbing his steadying hand. When next he drags his thumb up their neck, the lean their head back. He glides up along their jaw until he finds himself gently cupping their jaw. Exhaustion purples under their eyes.

“What do I do now?” they say.

Kiss me, the back of his mind supplies. It would be nothing to just lean down. Instead, he rubs his thumb along their cheek and squeezes their hand.

“Stay safe,” he replies. “I’ll meet with the others in a few hours to debrief and discuss next steps. Plans are gonna change due to all this. Might have to keep the other volunteers from tonight in hiding for a while. Definitely have to figure out how to retrieve Andre. Damn…”

That might be one of the most terrifying parts of the night. Bunny has heard from North and Ombric about being put under a spell of enslavement, and it doesn’t sound pleasant at all. Worse, North had been compelled to answer questions honestly, or at least to the best of his ability. And Ombric had once called Andre their best human liaison, talented at awakening Belief in adults who had forgotten. He’s not sure how much they know about the inner workings of the Guardians, let alone Ombric’s home or Santoff Claussen, but their talent alone could be a challenge if the Stranger gets any tips and tricks out of them. Or sways them over to its side.

“Bunny, my neck—”

He loosens his hold, having accidentally pulled their head farther back. He leans over and gets the chocolate for them.

“Here, this’ll help.”

They gingerly pluck it from him and chew on it. It kicks in and relief floods their face. They res their head against the arm their holding onto and look at him again, and he can’t help but return his other hand to their face.

“We can also discuss where the best place for you to stay is,” he says, continuing to rub his thumb over their jaw.

“‘The best place?’”

“Well, the tooth Palace is out because it was built for people who can fly. Not human friendly. The Pole is in the middle of preparing for the attack as well as going into full Christmas production. That leave’s Sandy’s place—”

“I don’t think he likes me much,” the interrupt. “Granted, I met him only once, but he seemed wary and distant. Standoffish.”

Bunny chuckles. “That’s not him at all. Maybe just caught him on a bad day.” He neglects to mention that Sandy is the sort of person who never has “bad days.” “So, otherwise, there’s Santoff Claussen. You’ve been there, it’s nice. And there’s Ganderly, Katherine’s place. Big treehouse library.”

“Is it quiet?”

“It is a library.” He thinks. “The archives aren’t very quiet, and the Raconturks can get a bit rowdy when not on shift.”

“What about here?” they say carefully. “With you?”

He freezes so fast his whiskers tremble. It’s not that the thought hasn’t crossed his mind. He’s debated how tactful and/or overbearing the suggestion would be since the oracle reported that first Friends of Humanity meeting that day on the fire escape. He tries to play this off casually, as if they haven’t manifested his hope.

“Here? I figured you’d want a livelier place. This ain’t a bustling metropolis like you’re used to.”

They face the nearby exit to the sitting room. Lush greens and vibrant flowers become like neon signs in the thumbnail of composition visible through the arched threshold. It especially glows next tot he mid-dark value range of the earthen walls, ceiling, and floors. The oracle rotates their shoulder and gives it a rub, satisfied with the healing, and then they pull their knees up to the chin. Still using their connected hands as a pillow. He squeezes again, and they return it.

“I’m originally from some ancient suburbs,” they finally say. “I grew up in places with as much nature as humans, though a lot of it was curated. But the parks in New York are kind of artificial as well, surrounded by brick and concrete. Much as I love the city, I’ve been missing the prevalent smell of flowers and trees.”

They close their eyes and take a big inhale. He almost suggests a tour of his gardens and fields, but there’ll be time for that later. For now, he needs to prepare.

“Well, if you’re intent on staying…” He gives them one more chance. They nod. “I’ll get a room set up for you.”

“Thanks,” they mumble. “I’ll need to grab stuff from my apartment if I can…”

“Sure, sure.”

He slides his hands from theirs and heads to his guest rooms. He’s added several over the years, for previous partners, visitors, even Jack once or twice. They always get disused with time, and there’s rarely a reason to sort through them and dust them off. He summons a bunch of eggs and gets to work.

Thankfully, the chosen room isn’t too bad. He shoves a bunch of junk down a tunnel into some other room, which clears most of the space. An hour later, he heads back into the sitting room only to find a half-eaten bowl of soup and the oracle curled up on the couch, asleep. In a position that’s likely to resurrect some neck pain when they wake.

But at least they’re resting.

He carefully props their head up on a pillow and covers them with a blanket. Watching them sleep, he imagines every possibility of them being here, constantly in his sight and reach. He imagines some of it so vividly that he has to splash cool water on his face to return to the current reality.

Eggs in the basket:

1) Oracle is shaken from a devastating event and is in need of comfort and assurances of safety. 2) Gillian is at large and fully aware of Guardian involvement. 3) He and the Stranger have taken Andre, who may be compelled to reveal any secrets they know.

His mentor, Calymma, always emphasized having a thorough understanding of how many, what kind of, and how to prioritize the eggs in his metaphorical basket before taking action. For years, Bunny stressed about this recommended method. Today, before he sets out for the debriefing, he writes one more letter.

Chrissy,

Thank you for your help earlier. Your friend is safe and will be in our custody for the next while. As far as I can tell, neither Gillian for the Stranger has any idea you’re aware of the Guardians nor that you aided us, though I’ve made wrong assumptions before. We can send protection for you as you go about your day, or we can have you in one of our communities. It could be for weeks, or it might be months. Hopefully not years.

If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate some more help. Your friend needs to get settled in and putting their affairs in order for their absence in human life. I also think they could use another human to talk to occasionally. Please send word back with the delivery egg to let me know. And again, thank you.
-B

The next week is… weird. There’s the usual routine for this time of year: planting the first round of egg crops, watering all other plants, weeding, and Guardian duties. But hanging over everything else is his new houseguest.

He, Sandy, and a human volunteer spend two and a half days casing the apartment building. As expected, there are a few werewolves pacing around the exterior and one or two watching from the adjacent rooftops. Rune-cloaked, of course. If a severe nerf to immortals’ abilities can be found, no doubt the Stranger and its ilk will use it continuously. Which means now they also have to weigh the risks and benefits of bringing mortals with them on such missions. Truthfully, a yeti would make him worry less, but that’s not the stealthiest fit for a human city of several million. On the direction of the human, though, Sandy is able to knock out the rooftop spies, thankfully affirming that even if they’re physically repelled, magic can still permeate the barrier. Makes sense; their magic can affect non-Believers, it’s just not generally noticed by them as “magic.”

They can’t see if anyone is inside the apartment from their angle, so Bunny opens a tunnel into the bathroom hallway, just around the corner from the main room. No barrier, surprisingly. He takes the lead then, slowly creeping and peeking to make sure the room is clear, opening one of the closets both to check to see if someone is hiding there or to make enough noise to attract their attention. Nothing. No werewolves inside, no runes, no other spells as far as he can see.

Yet, he says to himself as he finds two large bags and starts stuffing clothes and items into it. Probably not yet.

It takes some time to grab what he thinks the oracle needs. Clothes, books, painting supplies. The oracle says that Gillian has a key to their place, so he’ll leave any food cleanup for him to do. As Bunny hands the bags off, he becomes aware that this is probably their last chance to come here for a long while. At the risk of lingering a bit too long, he loads a lot of their finished paintings into a portfolio bag he found in the closet. He transports them down the tunnel himself.

The oracle is relieved to see their belongings, and as they eat, he helps them unpack. Their eyes light up when he reveals the paintings.

“I thought you were just going to grab clothes!” They abandon their food and start sorting the canvases and boards. It’s impressive how prolific they are, and the array of styles displays how dedicated they are to studying previous movements and eras.

“It felt like the right thing to do,” he replies. “I also hated the idea of them being taken by anyone else. Or destroyed.”

They pause as they get up, a hint of a frown twitching their smile down. Then, they give a small shake of their head and wrap their arms around him.

“Thank you,” they say.

Their fingers brush through the fur on his back, and he sinks into the embrace. When they pull back, their eyes lock, and for a moment, he sees mutual understanding. He sees a call. He moves his head forward one degree to answer said call, but in doing so, it’s like the spell breaks. The oracle blinks and releases the hug and returns to sorting and putting their clothes away.

“Thank you,” they say again.

“Of course,” he replies. He stalks off, urging himself to be more patient.

Another few days later, he’s out supervising the planting of another field when some of his eggs walk up escorting the oracle. He meets them at the fence.

“Hey!” he says. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Cabin fever,” they reply. They tilt their head up to the ceiling. “I keep expecting to see the sun.”

“Welcome to the Warren.” Bunny laughs. “No sun here, but the plants still grow.”

“Magic?”

“Magic.”

They watch the stone eggs toss seeds out and gently cover them with soil for a minute or so and then balance a sketchbook on the fence post. Bunny peeks over and then laughs when they slam their hand on the cover and pull it back. They hadn’t even opened it. He crosses his arms and lays his head on them, looking up at them.

“May I see?”

“They’re just sketches.”

“Any thumbnails of those paintings in there?” He gestures to his dwelling. “They’re really good, I’d love to see the process.”

“Not in this one.”

They hesitate and then carefully flip open to the most recent spread. He takes in the overlapping graphite and ink sketches. A third of them are various lines, like warm-ups or mindless wandering. Another third are eyes, crosshatching, or cartoony doodles, some of which look a bit rabbit-shaped. He tries not to puff himself up too much at that, especially when the last third of the spread is a large sketch of a house with an ominous shadow standing in the woods just beyond. He taps the page.

“You have a painting like this,” he says. “I think you were working on that the night we met.”

“Yeah, sometimes I get a little homesick and doodle my childhood home.”

He suddenly becomes very concerned as he realizes something. “Are your parents still around?” They nod. “Have you talked to them recently?”

They shake their head. “I’m not sure what to tell them. I guess that I’m on a long trip? I don’t want to make them worry. I have to talk to them soon, though before they have the chance to hear another story.”

They need to hurry on that. Bunny hasn’t had the heart to tell them—and they haven’t asked—but the van crash didn’t go unnoticed and was indeed caught on video a few times. Watching them confirmed that the flash they saw as he pulled them into the tunnel was Gillian and the Stranger using the artifact to travel. The fact he couldn’t tell in the moment, couldn’t feel that large of a time shift, makes him wonder if Gillian did something to the artifact to keep it under his sight like with the runes. Thankfully, laws have changed a lot since the early days of camera phones, so all the available videos have the oracle’s and Gillian’s faces blurred and their names hidden. He wouldn’t be surprised if word is spreading, though. Jack and Sandy understand the internet better than he does, so he’d have to ask them, but he knows humans, and humans have always sought to spread as much word about an event as possible.

Bunny glances up at them, then out to the field. The eggs are about halfway through; usually he starts walking behind them to double check the accuracy of the rows, do some cleanup, and then start on the next field. A small delay won’t hurt anything, though, so he asks, “Do you want me to help you figure something out? And then you can call today?”

“I’d very much appreciate that.”

They set up under a tree that has more lichen than bark, all in various colors. It’s mid-afternoon their time, so Bunny sends one of the stone eggs off to grab a snack, and they spend at least an hour formulating an explanation that is not an outright lie, but omits the entire context. Another hour is sent coaching them through the conversation and how to ease into and out of that part. The hardest part of all of it is having to wait another three hours to make the call. But once the time zones align, they dial.

“Hey!” they start.

There’s a waver in their voice. He squeezes their hand, and they interlace their fingers in his. It’s so quick and unexpected that he doesn’t hear the next minute of conversation.

“—got an opportunity for an international trip!” the oracle chirps. “Australia!”

“Oh?” The tinny voice of one of their parents just reaches his hearing. “That’s so exciting! Is this through your work? Are you showing your art?”

“No, not through Standstill, and no, not showing. Just a trip with friends.”

That stings a little, but it was his idea. A sudden trip across the ocean with friends is less scary to humans than one with some partner… partner?… otherwise involved person they’ve never met or heard about. It’s not even that he doesn’t consider the two of them friends. Just… you know…

“Wow! Is Gillian there, too?” The oracle freezes. They grip so tightly, he has to pry his hand out of theirs and move it to their arm. After a few seconds of no answer, “Hello?”

“Just say, ‘No, he had to take care of the restaurant. I’m with other friends,’” he murmurs in their ear. They relax against him.

“No, he had to take care of the restaurant. I’m with other friends.” It’s a little robotic, but not like reading a prompt, in his opinion.

Their parent takes their own long second to respond, but when they do, they say, “Oh, I’m so sorry! I’m sure you miss him and he misses you, and there’ll be other vacations! For right now, you just enjoy yourself and make sure to take lots of pictures. I want to see a kangaroo, mate!”

They chuckle. “Of course! I’ll make sure to send one just for you. Okay, I just wanted to check in and let you know what was going on. I think it’s seven am where you are? Eight? So I’ll let you go and get ready for the day.”

“Okay, honey. We love you, have fun!”

“Bye.”

They end the call, toss their phone away, and cover their face with their hands. After a few deep breaths, they turn to look at him.

“Thanks.”

“Course. You did great.”

“Mm-hm…”

He’s about to suggest a walk through the gardens to ease their nerves when they suddenly power walk over to their sketchbook and grab it up. They head for the hallway.

“I think I’m going to paint now,” they say. “I’m working on this series that’s kind of like a weekly journal and I’m way behind.”

A few seconds later, a door closes. Bunny stands there, the their form against him visible through touch due to the chill of their absence. He looks around, as if someone will squirm out of the walls and laugh at him for falling for a prank. One of his ears twitches, and he hops quietly into the hallway and sidles along the wall until he’s next to their door. The quiet clatter of paintbrushes and mixing pigments together greets him. A hissed “Dammit” accompanied with a stumble over objects, possibly the same supplies they’re using. Finally, quiet, until he listens close enough to hear the zip of bristles over canvas. He situates himself in front of the door and raises a hand to knock. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he stands there, listening for a little while longer, just in case they change their mind, just in case they mention his name and he can leave, satisfied they’re thinking about him still.

After twenty minutes of silence, he escapes down a tunnel and starts winding his way up and down the rows of freshly planted seeds. Naturally, he finds all sorts of mistakes the stone eggs have made, of course they’ve made them, of course he has to go behind them and correct all this mess. He tells them as much, gladder than ever that they’re mere constructs. They take instructions well. They have no concept of flightiness or confusing people with what they do. Hours later, he returns to a table set for one, a second plate and cutlery set in the dish drainer.

This might be the longest few weeks he's ever experienced.

Chapter Text

Adjusting to life in the Warren is less hard than you think it ought to be. After the better part of three weeks, you start exploring more. The vast network of tunnels is dizzying on first glance, but when Bunny shows you around, they solidify into real places.

“Through there is the experimental garden,” he says one day. You make note of the crepe myrtle tree with blueish-white flowers next to the entrance. “I can show ya through there at some point, but please don’t go by yourself.”

“What, you got plants that’ll eat me?” You laugh, but he gives you a look and a nod. “Oh. Okay, then. No experimental garden.”

“Not by yourself at least,” he repeats, putting emphasis on “yourself.” “There’re some things I think you’d like. In the meantime, I’ve got lots of biomes in here that’re perfectly safe. Any requests?”

“Lowcountry?” you suggest. “You got magnolias and marshes?”

Bunny thinks for a second. “I’ve definitely got magnolias. Don’t think I’ve had a marsh for a while, sorry.”

“Lead the way.”

The cavern you’re in narrows into a tunnel. The ambient light (which seems to exist only in rooms with a tall ceiling) dims as you go in, and glowing lichens take over. They intrigued you the first time you saw them, and now is the perfect time to examine them since you’ll be here a while. You lean close to the wall. Pinks and golds flicker over the different spots and “leaves” of the lichen. It’s soft to the touch, and the glow pulses out on contact. When you lift your fingers away, some of the glow comes with you.

“Spores?” you mutter. You bury your hand back in.

“Yeah, spores.” Bunny comes up close to you. He does that a lot, and unfortunately, it’s not unwelcome.

“Unfortunately,” you scoff silently, as if the two of you are still cluelessly pining. It’s just… not a good time.

A lot has happened, you want it to work longer term, and you don’t want to throw him in the deep end that is you at your lowest. In fact, you’ve been doing your best to be as normal as possible, despite how exhausting it is to keep from breaking down in front of him and furthermore to keep quiet in your nightly spirals so he doesn’t linger by the door worrying. Alone in your apartment, you’d feel free enough to have angry imagined arguments with Gillian where you manage to cut him out of your heart and soul forever or to pretend you’re in a timeline where you say the right thing at the right time and pull him back from the brink before it collapses underfoot.

It’s especially egregious because you can see the softballs Bunny keeps tossing you. “Don’t go to the experimental garden by yourself…” “You don’t have to eat alone if you don’t want to….” “If you need me for anything…” But until you finally get yourself back together and can think about Gillian without a knot forming in your throat, this is how you keep Bunny remaining in arm’s reach. But if there’s an occasional indulgence in the closeness he offers…

Brian would be so disappointed in me…

You pull your glowing hand out of the lichen and pick up Bunny’s nearest paw. He takes a deep breath but doesn’t otherwise react as you draw two eyes and a smile on the back of it. He flexes his fingers, starting to curl them over your fingers, but you peel away and start down the tunnel. After a few paces, you turn to look back at him.

“Lead the way,” you say again.

He nods, expressionless, and steps ahead of you. Every so often, he subtly glances at the glow before clenching his fist. Despite everything, you catch him smiling when he does, his lips spreading out the slightest bit over his muzzle. He’s genuinely pleased about your gesture, too; you’ve paid enough attention to his lips in the last while to know when he’s just being polite or if he’s trying to cover up disappointment.

The glow mostly fades by the time a sweet, muggy smell fills the air, and you emerge into another cavern. Blooming magnolias spread out before you in straight lines, intermixed with rows of tall pines and sprawling, but contained, live oaks covered in Spanish moss. You rush straight for the nearest magnolia, nearly tripping over a few fuzzy, spiky seedpods on the way. The lowest branch reaches just below collarbone height, and in the last few meters, a childish impulse takes over. You speed up enough to leap at the trunk, gain some height, and push off the bark onto the branch. It’s… not quite enough. Your rib cage slams into the wood, winding you. You manage to get your arms around it, keeping you from falling back to the ground, but the result is that your legs kick in the air as you struggle to haul yourself up. A few seconds later, however, and something pushes on your foot, boosting you slowly until you turn and situate your foolish ass into a seat.

Looking down, you see Bunny getting up from where he knelt to help you. It takes you back to that first night, where he’d done much the same, expecting to talk to a child, and instead looked up at you with naked awe. Now, he stands and places one hand on either side of your seat, his height reaching only just below you now. He struggles to keep a straight face.

“Better?” He coughs lightly, avoiding a full-on laugh and then repeats, “Better?”

“I forgot how old I am.”

You sigh, inhaling more of the magnolia flower smell. Above you is a small cluster of tough, shiny leaves and a wide, white flower. A careful bend of the thin stem brings it to you, and you bury your face into it. It’s the closest sense of home you’ve had in a while. All that’s missing is a briny intracoastal breeze and cicada screams.

“This is nice, though.”

“Nice enough for a picnic?”

He’s not looking your way when you glance down, but he is rubbing his hand over where the smiley face had been.

“I think this would do well, yeah,” you reply.

“Good. Chrissy should be here in a few minutes, so I’ll grab some things for you. I’ll be right back.”

He slips down a tunnel, and you’re alone. In the ensuing silence, the uncanny loneliness betrays how much this isn’t anything like your hometown—no breeze, the aforementioned lack of cicadas, absolutely no distant chatter or squeak of trolleys on their rails. Despite having signs of occupation carved and glowing into the distant walls, there’s a distinct sense of nowhere you haven’t experienced since a dark night nearly fifteen years prior. The impulse to tuck your legs up under yourself as much as possible wins out, causing your calves to ache. That thing can’t possible be here, Bunny would not allow it, but this isolated place feels like the natural habitat for a vengeful monster.

And you’re up a tree.

The minutes tick by as if they’re hours, and you stiffen in anticipation until all your joints hurt. Eventually, though, you hear a rustle. Your head snaps to the tunnel entrance you came through, heart speeding up, mental calculations for climbing higher or getting to the ground cascading through your mind like hail. Then the rustle disappears. The silence returns. It’s hard to say which is worse as you check behind you.

“H’lo there.”

You jump at the voice and cling to the bark to keep your balance. A warm, hearty chuckle comes from near your knees.

“Ooh, sorry there,” Arreedra says up at you. You recoil, and his antennae twitch. “I don’t mean ya no harm.”

You don’t know how to respond. On the one hand, like with the others, it’s wild to be conversing with a mythological figure. On the other hand, you’re a little biased with regards to which side of whose history you’re on. It’s also impossible to tell if he’s being friendly or hostile. No eyebrows, no human-like eye movements, a somewhat human mouth that is still unreadable without lips. So, you opt to say nothing. He cocks his head and hums.

“I’m not gonna bite, I promise.” He waits, then says, “What exactly has fussybritches told you about me?”

“He’ll be back soon,” you say as if that’s a threat.

“Oh, no doubt he’s on his way.” Arreedra picks up a seedpod and hurls it at a shrub. To your surprise, a stone egg leaps out of it and dashes a few scampers before disappearing down a hole. “He’s expecting me, but I figure I’d check in before my own interrogation.”

“Check in with me?”

He nods.

“I’m… I’m fine. That’s it.”

“Was you stayin’ here your idea?” His compound eyes ripple, and from his tone, you glean that he’s impatient. “Or was it his?”

“Mine,” you reply firmly. “Not sure it matters whose it was.”

“No, it matters. I’ve known ol’ Cottontail for a while. Biblically, even.”

He pauses again, and at this point the stop and go sounds demeaning. Past sexual history is irrelevant to most discussions, least of all this one, so you just meet his silence with a neutral stare. He sighs.

“My point is that outside of the Guardians, I might know his quirks and foibles the best of anyone alive. But whereas his little friend group circles the wagons ‘round each other, I’ve got nothing holding me back from speaking the truth. So, I just wanted to make sure that not only were you here of your own choice, but he wasn’t imposing too many expectations on you.”

“I don’t think anyone can put harsher expectations on me than myself,” you reply, hoping your cold tone ends the dialogue faster. Instead, he laughs.

“Neither did I, friend, but he loves to prove people wrong. His people—you know he’s an alien, right? Good—his people were all about being prim and proper. Talkin’, sittin’, and sayin’ right according to a bunch of self-appointed ‘keepers’ or whatever. Very hierarchical. Anyway, Ast—Bunny, for all his rebelliousness against that lifestyle… Mmmm… He hasn’t quite managed to to shake it all, and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

“Stop belaboring the point.”

“Don’t just sit and take it,” he says. “Whatever your relationship is, was, or will be, don’t let him decide for you. Because he will if given half a chance. And since you’re just a human—”

You make an offended noise. He holds up all four of his hands.

“I agree with you, but that’s the mindset he works on. Actually, there are several mindsets; he loves his ordered lists and priorities. And adult humans are down near the bottom of his scale of capability. Unless you can prove you can take care of yourself (to his standards), he will damn near forbid you from doing what you want.”

This doesn’t quite line up with the Bunny you’ve come to know. You have just enough self-respect that is he was the type to order you around, you would have nipped your and his interest in the bud before it had the chance to bloom. Although… there is that conversation you had before embarking on your failed espionage attempt.

“I’d never forgive myself if you walked behind that rune where I can’t help and then disappeared forever,” he’d said. It took extra convincing and affirming your attraction to talk him down and let you merely try.

Was he wrong, though, in his doubt?

Something touches your knee, and you jump again. Arreedra pats it a few times before carefully removing his hand and putting all four up and out.

“Just makin’ conversation, darlin’,” he says, And you notice behind him is Bunny, pressing his boomerang against the back of Arreedra’s neck.

“You and I can continue this elsewhere, like we planned,” he growls. “You don’t have clearance to wander around my place alone.”

“Not anymore,” Arreedra sighs, but he backs away. “All right, all right. Back to home base.”

Several large stone eggs surround and escort him out, passing a bewildered Chrissy on the way. She gawks. He gives her a nod and a, “Ma’am.” Once he disappears, she raises her eyebrows and gives an approving nod. You restrain yourself from rolling your eyes, especially as Bunny turns to you.

“He wasn’t being weird at you was he? Don’t worry,” he says before you can respond, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do that again.”

“Okay,” you say, trying not to let his bitter ex-boyfriend’s words infect how you feel. Bunny sets down a wicker basket, nods to Chrissy, and starts walking away. You call, “Wait, Bunny!” and gesture to where you’re sitting. “I think I could use some help?”

As if waiting to hear that exact request, he rushes back over and holds his arms out. You slide into them, bracing against his against his chest as he helps you to the ground. One again, your grip is on his arms, his on your waist. Each time this happens, you become more reluctant to let go. But you do, repeating, Soon… Soon… Soon… to yourself as if you can conjure this “Soon” from the ether.

“Thank you.” you step away from him. He doesn’t grab you, doesn’t cling, but his hands stay in place so that they trail over your body as you walk to Chrissy. You suppress a shiver. “Ready?”

“Only if you are,” she says, looking between you and him.

“I’d better catch up to him before he makes a mess of my burrow,” Bunny replies. And with a gentle squeeze of your hand, he heads out.

Chrissy waves after him and plops herself down by the picnic basket, gesturing for you to join her. You watch the spot where he disappears for a moment longer and then sit down for lunch.

Chrissy has been coming every so often since you arrived. Bunny surprised you with that the first time. You’d been prepared to brood on your own as you recovered from the stress of betrayal and near-kidnapping, but then she showed up.

“I just thought it would help for you to have a friend around when I couldn’t be here,” he said when you confronted him. “The eggs are helpful, but they’re not exactly companions.”

Though he offered to send her home, you relented, not wanting to be rude or disruptive to her day. And after that first visit, you begrudgingly admitted her presence was nice. However, there was still something… odd about it.

“Anyway, the Collective is now really ramping up the core of the project, and it should be in full force in the new year,” Chrissy says between bites of sandwich. “Since Standstill is one of the first to jump aboard, it’ll get first dibs on the money shares as well as be advertised in the majority of the Collective’s material. Nirupama should see an influx in the next few months and then a whole wave of new guests.”

“That’s great,” you reply.

It’s hard to be enthusiastic about something you desperately want to be part of, but will inevitably miss. Nirupama had been very understanding of your “bereavement leave,” but it irritates you that you can’t tell her a date when you’ll be back. She’s thankfully put it in for a year and will only be hiring a temp to fill your role but… you fear that this Stranger business won’t be resolved in that time and you’ll be forced out of the position. Neither you nor Nirupama wants that, but legally and realistically speaking, she can’t keep that slot on hold forever. Chrissy waits for another word from you, but that’s all you can manage without being rude.

“It is… So, uhm.” She coughs and jerks her head back to the tunnel. “So you and the rabbit…?”

You close your eyes and sigh. She continues.

“I’m just saying you should probably get a move on that.”

“I need to get myself together first,” you recite. You and she have had this conversation more than once. “I want this to work.”

“Look, I don’t have extensive experience in this field, but it always seemed to me that something that wasn’t a friends with benefits or casual situation was all about supporting each other through ups and downs, no matter how high the peak or low the canyon.”

“Yeah, once you’ve already established the relationship and you get a baseline of each other’s normal. Then you can ask for the impossible.”

The amount of relationships that have begun under duress and ended well are none. At least, not for you. Statistically speaking, someone out there is batting a thousand when making wrong decisions and then fixing them, but you are not that person. From high school to college, through your short stint in your hometown after that to a few times across your time in New York. Every time you entered a relationship when stressed it was barely that. More like a cry for comfort that the wrong entanglement could soothe in the short term, but turned rancid before long. You were lucky the city housed several million or else you’d have had to move half a dozen times to avoid awkward moments. Chrissy, bless her heart, didn’t quite get it, and while that’s not grounds for ignoring advice, you just can’t bring yourself to put too much weight on hers. You really wish you could, though, as it might save you heartbreak or overthinking, but she can’t cut through your mess like a best friend could.

“Okay,” she says. She finishes off her sandwich and takes a swig of water. “But no matter what you both said before, I don’t think it’s reasonable to think that he’ll wait forever for you.”

Annoyingly, that’s the same thing Brian said on your last appointment.

“I say this as a former relationship counselor and someone in a relatively stable polycule.” He paused and adjusted something on his telehealth display. The screen flickered, then became stable again. It was just a side effect of calling from a magical place that didn’t quite exist. Brian had also mentioned your backgrounds looked like you were set against greenscreen, despite being in one of the gardens physically next to the flowers. Once the connection was stable again, he continued, “Regardless of where either of you are at the moment, you need—need—to communicate so that you’re on the same page about wants and needs, short term and long term. I know this is uncomfortable for you, but if you desire to pursue this, start by simply talking it out with him, even if you don’t commit in that moment. It’ll go a long way to keeping things honest between you. But eventually, the world will move on, and you will have to accept the consequences of your actions… or inactions.”

Chrissy watches you from across the way. Around you, the smell of magnolias fills the air, like perfume in a space with no airflow. It’s choking, and the buzz of your thoughts makes for a phantom chorus of cicadas. Nevertheless, you power through it, breathing to the best of your ability, and shifting back to the safe subject of New York’s art scene. You ask Chrissy to fill you in on the newest gossip coming out of the Collective’s internal drama. She does, but it takes her a moment to get going, disappointment on her face.

By the time you’re taking her to the exit alongside the stone egg assigned to her, she’s excitedly regaled you with a scandal about someone submitting a replica of Duchamp’s Fountain but with the new artist’s signature on the urinal bowl below the “R. Mutt.” There’s an ongoing discussion as the Collective has to decide if this is in the spirit of Duchamp and praiseworthy, if it’s too derivative and obvious, or if it’s just plagiarism.

“Time is a flat circle,” you say, and you give her a hug. “Let me know what they decide and why.”

She returns it, but when she pulls back she looks at you sadly. “Listen, I know I’m barely a replacement for… you know, him—yes, I am, don’t argue,” she says when you try to argue. “I don’t know if you and I will ever be at that level, and if not, that’s fine. I do care, though. And I think you should do yourself a favor and really ask yourself what you want before you fall behind.”

She squeezes your shoulder and follows the egg down the tunnel. She has her other responsibilities—work, other friends, art, laundry—and you have your own things to attend to. Though, you spend time walking through the gardens before you go back. The Warren’s quiet follows you through every section you move through. The magnolias again, the pollinator beds (devoid of flying insects at this time), the orchard that only grows fruit when necessary yet stays in bloom almost nonstop.

Bunny should be done with his work by now, you think as you play with a pear blossom. He said he’d be done in time for dinner.

As a being who became exhausted only when he pushed a thousand times beyond a human with exceptional stamina, he had been thrown off-kilter by your rigid schedule at first. His overlapped itself in odd shifts. As you settled in, however, he started aligning with yours more and more. Mostly around meals, but he was also taking some breaks he normally wouldn’t. He was still very much on schedule for next year’s Easter; crunch started in December, he said. And despite yourself, you had come to expect about half your meals to be with him.

He is choosing to eat with me, I suppose. But I’ve made sure to keep myself in check in front of him.

That’s becoming harder, though. Your mind can compartmentalize like nothing else, but fewer and fewer compartments show up these days. Brian’s and Chrissy’s words echo in your mind and you rub your eyes.

“Fine, I’ll just talk with him. See about getting on the same page. Just a talk.”

You head back to his burrow. There’s shuffling down the hall, meaning he’s probably cooking or trying to see if he has anything edible at all. Before you can call Bunny’s name, there’s a clatter and a crash. And another. A growl and a shout. You rush through the rooms and down the hall until you reach the kitchen and stop cold in your tracks.

Arreedra is still here, currently, pinned up against the wall. One of Bunny’s knees cages his hip in, and Bunny’s other leg is shoved between his. One of Arreedra’s hands is also pinned, but his other three cling to Bunny’s shoulder, waist… and an ear. Bunny yanks his head back by the antennae so that their faces are mere millimeters apart. They pant the same air, atmosphere blazing with an unmistakable charge.

“Well,” Arreedra breathes. He rubs the ear in his grasp between thumb and forefinger. Bunny huffs. “I see we still got it after all this time.”

You grit your teeth and swallow a shout of surprise. Consequences of inaction, indeed.

Chapter Text

Bunny catches up with Arreedra at his burrow after leaving the oracle be. The closer he gets, the angrier he becomes. He has to know, right? He has to be doing this on purpose. He has to be doing a lot on purpose, because the man has gotten way too bold.

It started at the debriefing after the art show. Bunny tried not to split his attention too much between worrying for the oracle asleep on his couch and the important round-up going on, but looking his peers in the eye was humiliating. He’d been so sure about this plan of attack. Well, actually, not quite so sure since the oracle was the one trying to run it. He shook his head, banishing the idea that it’s their fault. He should have just tried harder to dissuade them to keep them safe. Slowly introduce them into the espionage shallows rather than letting them jump into the deep end. Not that it mattered anymore. He had to figure out what the best course of action going forward would be.

Arreedra cleared his throat. When Bunny looked at him, he said, “Seems to me you Guardians have used up your chances for an independent, direct approach. Time to call on some others, don’t you think, darlin’?”

Bunny scowled at the pet name, even harder when Skreeklavic smiled at it and patted one of Arreedra’s arms in reply.

“I think I would prefer a new tactic, though I still welcome the Guardians’ expertise and resources,” the wolfman replied, diplomatic as always. “Besides, you still have a major stake in this, Bunnymund. I would never try to deny you a personal mission, not to mention the upcoming threat to the Pole. Our fates are intertwined.”

“Speaking of,” Bunny said, turning to Ombric, who was also present, “Gillian did something to the artifact that keeps me from sensing it now. I’ll need to use that mirror to try and bypass that to see what they’re doing to the timeline.”

Ombric got a delighted look on his face, and Bunny wondered how long it would take to regret this decision. Then, the wizard looked thoughtful.

“I suppose it would be convenient when you brought the oracle over for their lessons.”

“Lessons?” Bunny’s mind took a second to catch up. “Oh… yeah, they can wait a bit, they’ve gone through a lot tonight.”

“‘Wait,’ Bunny?” North said. “My home will be invaded in a month and a half’s time! We need information, precise positioning!”

“Give them a week, at least.”

“’Scuse me.”

Bunny and North looked over at Arreedra, who had stood and wrapped an arm around Skreeklavic.

“Can we get back on track?” he asked.

Bunny bit back a snarky remark about how he was the one who’s got no dog in this fight, but he bit his tongue and nodded to Skreeklavic. “I’m willing to try something so long as we get somewhere. Did you have anything in mind? I know it’s only been a few hours—”

“I was speaking with Arreedra before we convened, and he had a proposal.” Skreeklavic indicated for him to speak.

“Next verse, same as the first,” he said. His eyes rippled in reluctance before he continued, “You might’ve been onto something with that infiltration plan, A—Bunny.”

Arreedra looked disgusted and sincere at the same time, which meant the compliment’s backhand was approaching. Regardless, grateful satisfaction settled through Bunny, and he let it, despite knowing what was coming.

The other shoe dropped when Arreedra said, “The problem was you assumed your ties to that magical village were less well-known than they are. Completely told on yourself with those mortals. How ‘bout we try again, but with some ‘less-important’ mortals completely off their radar?”

And this is how Bunny came to be helping with a mothman bootcamp of sorts, preparing a few of Arreedra’s kin to join and sabotage a cult. And that’s all he thought would be happening, so Arreedra asking for some extra time to chat before the next work session catches him off-guard. Now that he sees it’s just a ruse, he rushes in to give his ex a piece of his mind. Arreedra stands patiently in the sitting room, smug and full of himself. Bunny shoves into his space and jabs a finger into his chest.

“What was that about? You can’t just come in here and—”

“Whoa, whoa, calm down.” Arreedra brushes his hand away.

Calm down? Calm down?! Bunny’ll show this annoying fly the true meaning of “calm.”

Areedra continues, “Just wanted to see who you pulled this time. Didn’t get much of a chance the few times our paths crossed before, and I was about to ask if they could use some fresh mountain air when you showed up.”

“They’re not goin’ anywhere until we can ensure their safety,” he growls in response.

“‘We.’” Arredra snorts and makes space for Bunny to create a tunnel. “Huh, sure.”

How did I ever fall for someone like him? Bunny thinks. Except Areedra halts suddenly. He looks at Bunny, who manages to keep a neutral face despite realizing he’d hissed that aloud. There’s a moment where the only sound is the distant patter of eggs in the fields. Arreedra’s hand twitches, and he inhales, but Bunny opens up a tunnel and hops in.

Runebreaking, cult psychological resistance, how to sense time magic. These are the main skills Bunny, Ombric, and the others are tasked with shoving into these mothmen’s heads before setting them loose to Transylvania and Greater New York. They’ve done well for the most part, though like Areedra, they are a stubborn, cocky bunch resistant to outsiders—or maybe just him. Katherine has been around a lot, too, helping with reading and writing resources. There’s some hesitation, sure, but the children seem to like her, and although the teens and young adults play it cool, they always swarm when she shows up. And if not around her, then around her gigantic goose, Kailash, who has learned much patience with children over the centuries.

There’s something nostalgic about being back in the mountains, in this village. A hundred and fifty years ago (give or take) these same people welcomed him into their company. They were loud and proud as they are now, but their resistance to authority was focused elsewhere. Now, he fights regular battles just to teach a lesson, battles that the others technically also have to fight, but there is decidedly more pushback against him. Constant questions, derailing conversations, full-on silent treatment. It makes him itch and raises his hackles to be treated like this, like some sort of…

“Master, could you at least stand up straight when you meet with the Keepers? Can you at least pretend that you have a shred of dignity? You look pathetic and broken hunched over like that. … Wait, Master, no, that was rude—”

“It’s good practice. For your own mind if not for society at large. Besides… … I’m not sure if this will diminish me further in your opinion—”

“Master—”

“But there is a foolish part of me that yet thinks I will somehow reach even somewhere close to the upper echelons of society. And that foolishness, for as much as I know it for what it is, keeps me going forward most days.”

“You’re not foolish. I didn’t mean…”

“Oh, my student, of the two of us, I am far more foolish than you will ever be in your life.”

“How so?”

“Because you keep talking back to me and telling me when I’m wrong or misguided, despite it doing no favors for yourself in the grand scheme of Pooka culture. May you never grow up to become like the Keepers. Now come, we have the flambé roots experiment to clean up.”

Bunny swallows thickly, letting the memory ooze its way out of his mind again. Out of everything from that far in his past, this might be one of the most infuriating ones. And unhelpful, as those days are long gone. Still, he can’t help but glance out at the assembled mothmen, who stare blankly back at him and wait for his next words. It’s been about two hours, and they’ve gotten almost nowhere with his breakdown of time magic basics. One of them raises their hand.

“Are you done yet?” they ask. The rest of them perk up. A few stretch. They’re never like this when Ombric takes lead. “Cause we’ve got another holler comin’ over for sparring soon.”

“You all are about to jump into the middle of an operation and risk your lives, if not sanity, and you want to skip out early? To fight?”

All their eyes ripple. “Yeah,” they respond at once, and they get up to exit the room.

Bunny leans against the wall and rubs his eyes in frustration. He might just go ahead and give up the teaching if they’re gonna be this way. Ombric and Sandy are pretty good at it, and the mothmen respect them more, so why not?

There’s a whoop from outside and Arreedra flies past the window.

That’s why not, he reminds himself. He will not make a fool out of me again.

Bunny gathers up his things and heads out. A crowd gathers in the middle of the village. Several mothmen scratch out the boundaries of a ring in the dirt and then use sticks to etch the lines into trenches. That other holler seems to have shown up, as there are far more mothmen than Bunny remembers there being when he arrived. The atmosphere changes from mundane to bubbling brightness. He scoots around the fringe, curious, but not planning on staying long enough to see anything in full. At that moment, a bunch of children buzz out of another building, Katherine in tow. She spots Bunny and joins him as the first few sparring matches get underway.

“How’d your day go?” he asks.

“Actually very well!” she replies enthusiastically. Her cheeks are flushed and more than a few of her hairs have escaped her normally well-tamed plait. “They’re rowdier than usual, because of all this, but they got through their English phonics and sat nicely through the storybook portion.”

She beams, and Bunny sees the gleam of new Belief in her eyes. The kids really are doing well, then. He does his best to return the smile, but hers fades a bit.

“I take it you haven’t quite had as successful a time.”

“Of course not.” Bunny jabs his chin over to where Arreedra stands, right beside the ring. “He turned them against me before I had a chance. Now, when this fails or a few of them succumb to the Stranger’s rhetoric, I’ll be asked why I didn’t try hard enough.”

“That’s awful cynical for you,” she replies. He turns, offended, but she busies herself with smoothing her flyaway strands. “It’s not that I don’t understand your frustration, but we have to remain a little idealistic, don’t we?” She nudges him with her shoulder. “I think that’s your department.”

He sighs. She’s correct, but that doesn’t make this any easier. They watch a few more rounds. Arreedra and others step in to give feedback, and although the different communities are divided by geography, they’re united in sport. The joviality almost infects Bunny when Katherine nudges him again and leans over.

“By the way. My father wanted to ask about the oracle—”

“They’re not ready yet,” he replies.

Katherine rolls her eyes. “I know you care for them, and apparently will shelter them from anything, but we are approaching the point where we need more information. We only have three to six weeks. Foresight does us no good if we only receive it a minute ahead of time.” He grunts. She presses her lips into a line. “Don’t forget it’s not just us immortals on the line. The yetis and werewolves are also part of this. And now mothmen.”

“I know.”

That’s not quite satisfying enough for her, so she growls, “Next week. We’re not asking. You prepare them for further lessons starting next week.”

With that, she whips away, the tie of her plait bopping him on the nose. The sparring stops long enough to wish her farewell and watch Kailash take off, and then everyone resumes. Bunny should go. He wants to go. But he remains in place as round after round goes by, stewing in a new set of frustration and trying to figure out how he’s going to tell the oracle this.

Some time later, the mothmen cajole Arreedra into getting in the ring. He works the crowd like a pro, cupping his hands around his head and not moving until they’ve cheered loud enough for him.

“Who wants to face me?!” he yells, beating his broad chest.

A small portion of the crowd snicker and turn toward Bunny. He tries to be nonchalant, but the idea spreads until half are watching. He’s about to make his escape when someone calls from the sidelines.

“Dragule,” Skreeklavic says. He steps into the ring. “Shall we show your people what they are up against?”

Arreedra’s eyes ripple, his antennae pull to the sides, and his wing flap, all with such intensity that Bunny shifts uncomfortably. That being said, he is curious about werewolf fighting techniques, having never studied them before. Skreeklavic bows; Arreedra nods his chin up in acknowledgment.

Skreeklavic strikes first. He leaps toward Arreedra, transforming as he does. Arreedra easily avoids the strike and starts hovering, not so far above the ring as to be unfair, but high enough to warrant an effort from the earthbound. Skreeklavic easily twists around and trots underneath, tail flicking side to side. Arreedra chuckles, and then rushes him. Blow after blow slide past each other: teeth snap just too late to catch flesh; an elbow drop lands on the tail rather than anywhere that would hurt; a claw scratch hits the chest, but no fuzz flies loose and there’s only a minimal impact. All the while, both Skreeklavic and Arreedra grin like crazy.

Bunny recognizes this. That odd combination of fighting and dancing, waiting for the other to make the first real strike. Teasing in the meantime. That defined his and Arreedra’s relationship for the longest time.

It started back in 1968. A freak blizzard encapsulated the US’ eastern seaboard, scuttling a lot of Easter plans. Bunny hunted down the apparent source, a twerpy little ice spirit, eventually homing in between the mid-Atlantic coast and the Appalachain Mountains. He scoured the area for months, unaware at the time that Jack was the sort to disappear to another continent on a whim. He was getting desperate for progress as he ran through West Virginia one night, keeping an ear out for anything strange. He was in Appalachia, though; there were always strange things creeping around the place. And at some point, he realized one of them was following him.

Bunny tried to lose it in the trees, but it knew the place way better than he did. So, he made it a head-to-head confrontation. Enter the mothman, a being that Bunny first heard about through human pipelines a few years prior. He fought, aiming to just get away from the man and back on the hunt, but the ensuing chase took him across mountain, holler, and abandoned coal mine alike. By the time the sun rose, it had evolved into a game where they traded being hunter and hunted. Things moved quickly after that—perhaps too quickly—but that aspect of their relationship never went away. If anything, it only spiraled most ungracefully from there.

Bunny almost leaves while the mothmen are enraptured, but he’s morbidly fascinated by the demonstration. He alternates watching either of them—the wild expressions, every twitch and flicker, the grazing touches—until his stomach sours. Eventually, the crowd grows tired of the impressive display of agility and demand a real fight. The two oblige. Skreeklavic’s teeth sink into an ankle, and he pulls Arreedra down to the ground. As the wolf pounces, Arreedra catches him in a scissor hold and with a flap of wings is able to reverse their positions. Skreeklavic squirms on the ground, unable to move well on his back when transformed. He starts to change back, but its too late, and as soon as his paws become wrists, Areedra pins him. One, two, three count later and Arreedra is named the winner. The crowd goes wild.

After that, the people half-disperse, many opting for mealtime while some stay behind to chat and clear the ring for the next phase. Arreedra and Skreeklavic mosey away arm in arm, heads tilting in to each other until Arreedra stops and turns to face him.

“You’re still here?” he asks.

“Didn’t realize I was getting kicked out,” Bunny replies. He nods to the ring. “You put up a good show in there, both of you.”

Skreeklavic inclines his head. “Thank you. Dragule, I’m going to go get something to eat.”

“I’ll catch up with ya in a bit. I actually still need to talk to this one,” Arreedra says. He watches Skreeklavic wander off and then catches Bunny’s odd look. “Figured we’d chat in private. My place.”

It’s been a long time since Bunny was here. There’s a clock on the wall of the modest home, which Bunny checks. The oracle’s time with their friend is about up, so they’ll wander back into the burrow soon, and he plans on being there for dinner. For now, he crosses his arms.

“Talk.”

Arreedra chuckles. “Almost forgot how you like to pose like that.”

Bunny’s ear flicks, but he fights the effect of the neg and keeps them crossed. Once upon a time, he would have folded immediately.

“I said ‘talk.’”

“Same thing as I was askin’ your… human earlier: are they at your place because they want to or because you want them there?”

The insinuation has his fur raising, an angry flush heating his body. “It was their idea,” he replies. “I suggested Ganderly or Sandman’s place or the village. They chose me.”

“They chose the Warren, you mean? Because no offense, but I don’t know if I’ve seen enough evidence of them choosing you.”

“Is this all you wanted to ‘talk’ about? You just wanted to insult me?”

“I know you.” Arreedra closes in, moving closer than he has since they reunited. His face is centimeters away, all of the lenses of his compound eyes becoming like shards of glass. Reminds Bunny of that piece at the oracle’s gallery, Loneliness In Triptych. “I know you better than most, to the point that I’m not impressed with your Guardian title any more than I am your friends. I know you so well and I worry about that human in there because they deserve better than someone who talks big, but can’t get over himself as soon as the tables turn.”

“And just what the hell d’you mean by that?” Bunny clenches his fists, resisting the urge to forcibly kick him for just a second longer. “What are you accusing me of?”

“Bein’ a hypocrite. Someone so determined to run away from his upbringing he forgets to drop his burden and makes it everyone else’s problem.”

Areedra pokes him in the chest to punctuate his words. After the fifth time, Bunny snatches his wrist and pulls the man close. He uses his other to grab him by the throat. Not choking, but a very clear warning.

“And I know you,” he says. “I know that you are so desperate to be the center of attention that you’ll snuff out any flame that gets bigger than yours. No one can be stronger or more confident or important than everyone’s favorite cryptid, ol’ Mothman.”

Bunny shoves him away. Arreedra stumbles across the room and rubs his throat and wrist.

“You have no right talking to me like that,” Bunny says. “After everything you put me through, you have no right saying this shit to me.”

“What I...? What I put you through?” Arreeda laughs. “Fuck off with that. I was barely the same person after knowing you. You forced me to become something I ain’t!”

“I tried to help you be your best self.” Bunny raises his toes ready to open a tunnel and get himself out of here. “You were always complaining about being lonely when we met. I thought I could fix you.”

Arreedra’s eyes ripple and he heaves a few breaths. “I. Don’t. Need. Fixing.”

“No, you apparently just need enough sycophants to suck you off to be content, and an extra fool along the way for you to lead on,” Bunny says, pointing out the window to where Skreeklavic was gnawing on a plate of catfish and grits.

“Leave him out of this!”

“Sure.”

Bunny opens the tunnel and jumps down into it. He may come to regret such a dramatic exit but this is getting to be too much for him. They have better things to worry about at the moment. He starts heading down the tunnel only for a wave of magic to catch up to him and make his whiskers tremble.

“Bunny!”

The hole didn’t close in time, it seems. Arreedra claws his way down the corridor even as the walls grow tighter and thinner with the travel magic wearing off. Several meters yet separate them, but the gap closes faster and faster, and the glowing lichens tremble as he yells.

“Get back here and say it to my face, you coward!”

Adrenaline lights up all around his body and Bunny darts off down the tunnel. Arreedra hollers threats after him, about his insults to Skreeklavic and the mere idea that the mothman is imperfect in any way. Just like old times. Bunny increases his speed, hoping that the tunnel’s disappearing act will catch up and allow the Warren to spit Areedra out where he belongs. He imagines it so vividly that when he exits the tunnel and looks back on it, the sight of Arreedra pumping his wings and barreling down on him genuinely makes him go cold. Try as he might to close the last little bit off, it’s not enough. Arreedra gets one arm and half his torso through, and through sheer willpower, rips the ground away to erupt into the egg design studio of his burrow.

“Coward!” he yells again. His wings flare, and the wind tears papers and palette tests from the walls. “Say that again about him… or me!”

There’s just enough adrenaline left that instead of just forcing the man out of his home, Bunny turns to face him.

“You’re not looking for real companionship,” he growls. Arredra’s eye ripple in rage, only encouraging him to say more, “You’re looking for accessories who make you look better be comparison. And you’ve always gotta keep diminishing them to stay on top!”

Arreedra rushes him. Bunny tries to move, but now they’re in a much smaller space, closed in on almost all sides. He manages to avoid three hands, but the fourth grabs the scruff of his neck, and the momentum pulls him along the same forward path. Light pain jolts through him, activating deep memories and an instinct to kick. He makes contact, a confirmed hit when he hears the strangled cough near his ear. This allows him to wriggle free and open another tunnel that both fall into.

Instantly, they shoot up into the kitchen. Bunny manages to get his hand around one wrist and swings Arreedra around until his back hits the cabinets with an echoing clatter. Bunny shoves his foot against the man’s stomach and presses his weight into it, pressing the breath out of him. Triumph rushes through him, makes his pulse pound in his ears and heated excitement grow. Arreedra, despite being winded and pinned, looks much the same. Bunny’s confused for a second before, too late, he realizes the unfurled wings splayed against the wall. He tries to readjust, but the wings come down and beat against his head, and he flinches. Arreedra pushes off and tries to dash away. Bunny keeps his grip on the wrist and digs his feet in, making Arreedra swing around again. This time, Arreedra leans into it, swerving with a ready fist.

Bunny ducks, but that allows the other to catch one of his ears and yank it with the momentum. They swirl around a few times, Arreedra’s extra arms coming in to swipe at his face and try to beat the hand around his wrist. Bunny holds fast, and they end up against another wall, Arreedra pinned yet again.

So much for that ring fight earlier.

Bunny takes no chances and leverages his leg up to press his knee against the wall, caging his ex in and pressing against him enough to keep him from moving. Arreedra keeps pushing at his shoulder and hip, digs his nails into his ear. A shiver runs down Bunny’s spine at that. He uses his remaining open hand to reach up and force Areedra’s head back. His compound eyes see everything all at once, but Bunny will fill up enough of his vision to make his point. He opens his mouth to say… something, but all that comes out is panting. He just needs a moment to catch his breath, then he can let this bastard have it.

As the sound of both their labored breathing fills the silence, as Bunny looks down at Arreedra, he realizes how close they are. How their hot breath slides effortlessly over each other. How familiar that touch is on his sides. How easy it would be to just lean down and reach his mouth. How he’s on the verge of repeating history… and has gotten here purely on autopilot, lessons learned so long ago reappearing despite all efforts to banish them over the years.

“Well,” Arreedra finally says, voice husky. He rubs the ear in his grasp between thumb and forefinger. Bunny huffs and shivers at the sensation, closing his eyes as if to hide from the effect it has on him. “I see we still got it after all this time.”

Bunny feels sick and lets go of his antennae. What’s wrong with him? He knows better, he has too much self-respect to do this—

“Don’t worry darlin’,” Arreedra says, tilting his head to the side as if looking behind. “He’s all yours.”

There’s a small gasp in response and Bunny freezes. His ears shoot straight up and then swivel to hear behind himself. Sure enough, he recognizes their breathing and the little stammers they make when they’re put on the spot and trying to form words. He feels sicker.

“Get off me.”

Arreedra gets a foot between them and kicks Bunny away. He walks past, feet pattering on the floor until they stop nearby.

“If I learned anything from this high horse-riding perfectionist,” Arreedra spits, “it’s to strive to never make the same mistake twice. And he’s nothing but a whole bundle of mistakes.”

Bunny inhales sharply at those words, finally finding it within himself to turn around and look at them. The oracle watches Areedra, who cocks his head and flicks an antennae sideways. They don’t respond, presumably unable to read a face like his. They steal a glance at Bunny, one so quick he almost misses it, before returning their attention.

“Knowin’ all that, you still want him? Can’t say I personally recommend it.”

A terrible part of Bunny hopes they answer. At this point he needs one, even one he doesn’t want to hear, he needs something from them after all this time. But they remain silent. Arreedra releases a beleaguered sigh.

“Suit yourselves, then.” And he leaves.

Only when his presence fully disappears from the Warren is Bunny able to look at the oracle. They wring their hands, cracking each knuckle in sequence without looking up from them. When they run out of fingers to crack, they slowly raise their eyes to meet his. Once again, they’re blank. Not truly, they look shocked above all else, but they’re not crying or getting overly emotional. He doesn’t like that. They should be yelling or crying or throwing something at him, something that’s infinitely less painful to see than nothing.

They open their mouth to speak, but then shake their head and indicate that they’re going to leave the room. At first, he sees no reason to stop them, feels like he owes them some time to process what just happened.

And how long will that take? a nasty voice in his head pipes up. How long will you wait for that? As long as you waited for Arree to change?

“Wait!” Bunny says, breaking the protective unreality of the silence. “We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

What a dreadful combination of words, “We need to talk.” Despite having been on your way to do that very thing, it feels like not the right time anymore. The both of you need to… recuperate. From the shock and unexpectedness of it all. Goodness knows how long the vivid tableau of Bunny and Arreedra up against each will last in your head. You swallow, body flushing, though not from any sort of arousal. It’s indignation.

“Please turn around,” Bunny says.

You swirl on your heel. It surprises him enough to make him jump, pausing where he was approaching, hand outstretched as if to place it on your arm. He watches you, whiskers twitching, eye moving up and down over you, redoubling the heat and indignation. The proximity only serves to stress you out further because this whole situation is completely off the rails. You almost wish you were back in the process of being kidnapped.

No, no, that’s stupid, why am I being stupid right now?

You take a deep breath to calm your mind, find one of those handy mental compartments and shove another breakdown into it. It almost doesn’t fit; the door almost doesn’t close. This is not the time for that, he’s just asked you to do the mature, responsible thing and talk. He stands there, waiting.

“So talk!” you say, louder than you’d planned. His ears flinch back, and you wince an apology.

“Okay. Well, first, I’m sorry for… that. For earlier. I don’t know how exactly I’m going to restrict his access, but I will make sure he doesn’t impose himself on you like he did. And…” He waves his hand at the wall. The wall where only seconds ago, he’d been pressed up against someone who, according to him, is the worst ex who ever existed which, in your opinion, is a bunch of extremely mixed signals. “That’s not gonna happen again.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper this time. Then you clear your throat and say a little louder, “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter to me what happened.”

Silence. “It… it doesn’t bother you?”

“No,” you say firmly, despite your stomach dropping. “No, it doesn’t. You did nothing wrong.”

All the while, you stare just past his head, trying to focus on the cabinets behind him. But the glimpses and twitches of his whiskers and ears keeps drawing your attention back to him. He frowns, his muzzle doing that odd thing where one half of his lips curls up while the other shoots down.

“Why doesn’t it bother you?” he asks.

You make the mistake of looking up into his eyes, and they’re… confused and disappointed. Was that not the right answer? Why the hell wouldn’t it be the right answer?! You’re poised and calm and not trying to pry no matter how much the image makes you want to scream. He rubs the back of his neck, averting his eye contact this time.

“I’m just curious,” he says. “Is that sort of situation not taboo anymore for humans? I mean, even if it isn’t, I still figured… some sort of reaction.”

Your attention drifts to the corner where he and Arreedra were. The frustration from before had been fading, but it returns in full force. You clench your hands.

“Okay, maybe it bothers me a bit. I-I know it shouldn’t but… um…”

“Why shouldn’t it?”

You let out a deep sigh and run your fingers through your hair. What the hell is this talk? These questions?

“Do you want it to bother me?”

“Ah, um—” Bunny swallows and rubs his eyes. “Yeah,” he admits, “I do want it to bother you.”

“Why?” you demand. Your heart rate keeps escalating, no matter how many calming breaths you take. The doors and drawers on your mental compartments rattle, threatening to burst open. “Why the hell would you want me to…” Something occurs to you. “Do you want me to be jealous?”

He tenses and looks at you, the truth of the statement not needing to be said aloud. Your cheeks grow hot as you finally see the desperate gleam in his eye. It’s different from every other time he’s looked at you this hungrily. Easter night, it was hopeful. At the fire escape supper, it was willing. Over the last few weeks, it’s been wistful and patient. He’s nearly about to break from pleading.

You clear your throat. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on me.”

“At this point, anything would look great on you,” he replies. “Jealousy, anger, I’m personally hoping for contentment, but I need something. Anything from you that lets me know that you care about me. That you want me.”

Oh, I fucked up. I fucked up big time.

All sorts of alarm bells go off and you feel a downward spiral closing in. That might be the chance to escape. Plead temporary insanity and retreat until things calm down and you can think like a normal person again. You start trembling as the compartments rattle and shake. Hinges crack and start to tear away from the walls, those wonderful organizational tools for forgetting now starting to fail. Bunny calls your name, pulling you back to the world beyond your head. He’s gotten closer. His hand grasps yours— firmly, but not inescapable.

“A lot has happened recently,” you say. “I’m overwhelmed.”

“I know,” he says. “I can help with that.”

“You can’t.” You pull back, though not enough to break contact. “I am just like this, I have always been like this, and I will continue to be like this no matter who I’m with.”

“Like what?” He runs his thumb over your knuckles. “What do you mean ‘like this?’”

“You know… Always overthinking. Never trusting myself. Having to hold back every single breakdown so I don’t disturb people.”

His ears perk up. “Wait. Have you been doing that this whole time? Holding back your feelings?”

“Yes.”

“Why?!”

“Because you don’t need to see me like that.” you says. “I’m a lot when everything comes crashing down, and… and I don’t want you to see me when I don’t have myself together. It’s too much.”

“I’ve made a whole career out of chasin’ off literal fear, so it takes a lot to scare me off. I can handle a lot.”

“You also just go so fast! Every time I think I’ve caught up with you, I find you even farther up the path.”

There’s a complete lapse of sound. You and Bunny watch each other, still hand in hand. Now comes the inevitable collapse. Everything he’s seen so far has been a burnt appetizer to the ashen feast of you. Someday, maybe there can be a good start to all of this, but you get the feeling this is too much of a turn. Only one person has ever really been able to withstand your entirety without making you feel like holding back was necessary to keep them around, but he’s currently indisposed and probably planning an invasion. Your hand twitches and goes slack in his, and you brace for him to let go.

He doesn’t.

He licks his lips. It’s a quick movement, but you latch onto it, even after his tongue disappears and he heaves yet another sigh. You drop your gaze for a second, trying to think of the next thing to say. That final, logical reason that will get him to realize that he doesn’t really want to become an “us” with you until you’ve set yourself straight. Then you almost miss what he says, intrigued by the shapes his mouth makes when he speaks, so unlike the animal he resembles.

“Listen,” Bunny says, voice thick. You interrupt before he can get further.

“No, you need to listen to me. I’ve had this happen before. This—” You gesture to yourself. “This is only the ugly tip of an uglier iceberg, and that’s all you’ve seen so far. It’s not a good time right now, but it will smooth out eventually, and then we—”

“When, though?”

He looks at you with such ferocity that you forget your next excuse. “Soon,” you want to bark back at him. But all the “soons” said in the last while have diminishing returns.

“Listen,” he says again. “It’s not that I don’t understand that you’re stressed, or why. It’s not that I don’t know I can get ahead of myself and others. I’m impatient on a good day. But I feel like I’m goin’ backwards waiting for you.

“It is a fact that you and me like each other. A lot. Romantically. We’ve basically said so in as many words before. It is not a fact that ‘this’—” He gestures at you in a mirror of what you did. “—is all I’ve seen. I’ve also seen you revel in art. I’ve seen you curious. I’ve seen you match my stubbornness. I’ve seen… you. And I want to see so much more, if you’ll let me. But if… If…” He swallows, dropping his eye contact. After a moment, he returns it. There’s the least bit of gleam in them from a layer of tears welling up. “If, for some reason this can’t happen anymore, please just tell me that now.”

“Of course it can happen,” you say quickly. It happens before you have time to think, and you bypass the next escape route. Just follow him as quick as you can without remembering to stay back. “I just… I want…”

“What?” he asks. “What do you want? Name it, and I will hunt it down. Say ‘jump,’ and you won’t have to specify how high, cause I’ll make the moon my first stop!”

“I want…”

The compartments explode. All the careful curation, hiding, feelings stuffed away to be forgotten. They create a flurry in your mind, so many things whipping around trying to be chosen first.

Peace of mind. Safety. My friend back. The list builds and builds in the space of your silence. A solo art opening that launches me into fame. To never have art block again. A better apartment. For all of this to be a long, bad dream I can wake up from.

Bunny waits, but his ears droop.

“I want…”

Do you, though? Is that what you want right this second? Fame, indeed, you can barely attend the front desk when it’s your turn. And everything else is a nice thought, but it can wait. And what is the art process without the blocks, without having to puzzle your way through to inspiration and release of that creativity in the proper direction? The flurry starts to settle, useless want after useless want going still.

You watch him, still searching for the answer that will cause this entire thing to turn, one way or another. There’s no more heading straight on anymore, no more wearing blinders and fighting every change of the wind. His posture locks into that formal stillness he described the Pookas demanded. He’s probably not even doing it consciously. You can’t imagine it’s of comfort to him; but familiar discomfort is, at least, familiar. His grip slackens.

Then, his arm twitches, and your gaze is drawn to his markings. The eternal branding of the ones who were supposed to take care of him, and just above, the symbol of one who did. You move to the matching flower on his forehead, remembering the softness of the fur under your fingertips and the terrifying, yet wondrous, proximity that you haven’t really ever gotten since. Once more, your gaze lands on his mouth, not longer expressive in any capacity. Completely neutral and looking so unnatural in that state, not when you’ve seen his crooked smiles and sardonic smirks and genuine contentment.

“I want…” The flurry settles, only one thing remaining: “I want to kiss you.”

Bunny’s head snaps up, ears alert.

“What?” he breathes.

“I want to kiss you.” You curl your fingers around his just before they slip away.

He takes a step toward you, quick and eager, but he halts before fully closing the distance. He clenches his fist at his sides, straining against his impulses.

“I thought now wasn’t a good time,” he says.

You shake you head. You hesitate a second before saying your next thought, aware that this tips you over an edge you can’t pretend doesn’t exist. “It absolutely isn’t. But I’m beginning to think there isn’t ever going to be a ‘good’ time. I think this whole Gillian and Stranger business could have never happened and I’d think it wasn’t a good time.”

“So this is, what? You just trying to blow off some steam? Just stress relief?” There’s an edge of a sob in his voice. “Because I can’t do casual, not with you.”

The future is coming for you, whether you want it or not, and you have no idea what it entails. You get the feeling that even if you suddenly become an expert at wielding your power, you’d likely constantly watch for the future, losing yourself to deepest anxiety, accomplishing nothing. However, there’s another state of time between past and future. As comforting as the former is, as terrifying as the latter is, the third place is what matters most right now.

“No,” you say, closing the gap between you. “No, not casual. It took me a while, but I’m realizing that holding back really doesn’t work as well as I’d like. So right now in this present moment, I want to start something new. I want…” You lay one hand on his upper arm, right over the flower there. You lace the fingers of your other with his. “… to kiss you.”

Bunny clutches your hand and lets out a shaky breath as your fingers trace the lines of the petals and then climb over his shoulder and loop around the back of his neck. You lock eyes and your stomach flips as he pulls your waist flush against him. Powering through your trembling, you cup his face. He nuzzles into your palm, causing you to inhale. It emboldens you to reach his other cheek. He encompasses you in both arms, one hand moving in slow circles over your back.

The atmosphere charges. Degree by degree, you pull him closer. He swallows, and you feel it pulse against your fingertips. This has to happen before your nerves get the better of you, but as you get so close you’re almost breathing into each other’s mouths, something occurs to you.

“Wait, how does this work?” you whisper, running your thumbs along his muzzle. It’s flatter than Earth rabbits’ are, but this is still not something you’ve worked with before.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, also in whisper. It makes it seem as if you are only the two people left in a shrunken world.

“I’ve never… not with a muzzle. Sorry, I know I’m overthinking this, but how do I do this?”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No!”

“Then…” He holds your chin and guides you. “Like this.”

Your lips connect. Briefly, you expect everything to crash down and validate your caution. For the magic of the push and pull to end upon acquirement. But, when that first kiss ends after only a few seconds, it’s enough time to remind you that there is a long past to the world, longer than the art and stories you normally focus on. If anything, those stories are but echoes up through time, curling and sneaking into each and every new present, each and every coming future.

Those stories are fairy tales, and a fairy tale kiss is so much more than a mere thing to acquire.

Bunny starts to say something, you think, but he doesn’t get a single breath before you push him back into you. It’s clear he’s not expecting it, because he stumbles, pushing the both of you until your back hits the cabinets. The impact jolts the air out of your lungs, and you break away to gasp for more. Bunny steadies himself with one hand on the counter and peppers your cheek with kisses as you catch your breath. As soon as you do, however, you pull him right back in.

You two stay like that for a while holding each other, pressing kisses to every plane of each others’ faces, and exploring this new beginning. All precedent is gone; there’s not a protocol for throwing caution to the wind outside of breakdown-induced mania. Your chest feels light and unburdened by worry. Things aren’t ideal, but your feet are on the ground, your mind moves at regular pace, and you’ve thought this through. You’ve thought this through. The last time you did something nearly so impulsive, you moved to New York City. By comparison, this is well-adjusted.

Still, worry persists, as it always does. Although you’re sure Bunny won’t leave tomorrow, he might one day. And although you press that looming fear away to enjoy the moment, you do pull back and cup his face so that he looks at you. A lump grows in your throat at his punch-drunk expression, and you smooth the fur on his cheeks with your thumbs. He presses you closer to him.

“Bunny,” you say.

“Aster,” comes the reply.

You laugh. “That’s not my name.”

“But it is mine.” He looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear at any second. “And I want you to say it.” He kisses your temple. “Please.”

There’s a weight to his words, and you don’t intend on taking it for granted.

“Aster…” you whisper. He inhales shakily. “Aster, look at me.”

He does, breathing as heavily as you do. You swallow. His eyes follow the motion, and somehow, you grow hotter.

“Aster,” you manage to say, “I need you to promise me something.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Don’t go too far ahead of me.”

He pauses and looks you in the eye a little confused. “What do you mean?”

“It takes a lot for me to take a step forward from my comfort zone. You don’t seem to have that problem, but I need you to walk, not run, or else I have no hope of catching up.”

It takes a moment, but you see him take in the words and their meaning. He reassures you with another long kiss before lacing his fingers with yours again.

“I won’t leave you in the dust,” he says. “I promise.”

“And one more thing.” You glance into the corner where the two had been earlier, and that simmering resentment flares up for a moment. You look at Aster with the hardest, most serious look you can muster at the moment. “I don’t ever want to see that fucking bug in here ever again.”

He grins. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

And that, it seems, is what tips you over the edge. The lump in your throat congeals, and your eyes blur with tears. Everything you haven’t let yourself feel in the last three weeks erupts out, and you find yourself sobbing into Aster’s neck as you clutch at his fur. He pulls you close and whispers, “It’s all right, let it out,” in your ear. Your legs give out, and you both sink to the floor where you ugly sob as the weight of the world tries to crush you. But you feel only the gist of that downward pressure as Aster holds you, whispering reassurances and punctuating them with his touch and kiss.

For once, you’re unwaveringly sure you’ll survive.

Chapter Text

“Come on, it’s time to wake up,” Bunny says.

He nudges the oracle, who’s asleep with their head in his lap. Their breathing changes, but they neither open their eyes nor get up. They fell asleep on the couch hours ago after spending time just sitting and talking with him. And kissing. Holding. Whispering. Teasing in some respects. It seems such a shame to wake them, not only because he thinks they deserve more rest than they give themself half the time, but also because once they finally get up, he has to as well. No more excuse of being “trapped” because he “doesn’t want to disturb them.” And he’s more than content to sit here next to them, close enough that he can easily map their facial features into his memory while gently brushing their cheek with his thumb. A stone egg comes in, however, to remind him of their obligations. Bunny sighs and prods the oracle again.

“C’mon. Get up.” He trails the tips of his claws over their neck, barely touching, and they flinch at the tickle. That finally gets them to roll onto their back and squint open their eyes.

“Is it morning?” they mutter, voice thick and croaky.

“Technically yes,” he replies. “We have to be at the village in a few hours.”

They groan, but haul themselves up to sitting. As they hit a certain angle, they freeze and hiss in pain. He figured this might be the case, but he waits until they ask.

“Aster?”

He’ll never get tired of that.

“Yeah?”

“My neck…”

Green magic rises to his fingertips, and he starts massaging their shoulders, making sure to press some deeply yet carefully into the tissue where their shoulder meets their neck. It’s not a harsh knot. In fact it’s one they probably could have worked out on their own with some stretching, but they’re both well aware of that. This is hardly the first time they’ve come to him with a non-emergency, purely for the purposes of being near him.

This whole last week has been more incredible than he ever imagined.

After that day, it’s like the atmosphere breathed a sigh of relief. He no longer felt like he was tip-toeing around possibility and instead was welcomed right into its inner circle. It hasn’t been all glamour, though. The oracle has seemingly given themself permission to freak out over their circumstances in a more tangible way than before, which means that he’s been fielding higher anxiety from them. It was worst at the beginning: an hours-long panic attack where they couldn’t breathe well and, on top of that, several visions were triggered. He sat by them the whole time, talking them through it as best he could.

The next day, after the oracle managed to calm down and had a good sleep—and after he reassured them that, yes, he meant what he said when he’s all right seeing “the worst” of them—they mentioned that they’d been vision-free up until then, since right after the art show. He hadn’t thought to ask if they’d been having any, but it was odd to realize. Regardless, they asked to resume their lessons. At least it’ll be of their own free will, even if it’s a chore to them.

The oracle leans their head back until it rests on his shoulder, and they smile up at him, the crick in their neck better. He runs his hands down their side and around their middle, and they share their first kiss of the day. Then, naturally, another stone egg comes in to remind them of the time, and they both peel themselves away from comfort to get ready for the day. A few minutes later, the oracle wraps their arms around him, and he instantly transports them to Santoff Claussen, directly into Big Root.

They lay their head against his chest as the nausea passes (quicker this time, they’re getting used to it). There’s a small cough behind him. Ombric greets them, giving Bunny a knowing look as the oracle leads the way to the workshop without ever letting go of his hand.

“Permit me to go through the basic warm-ups, as it’s been a while,” Ombric says.

“Sure,” the oracle replies.

They breeze through said warm-ups, surprising themself, but the bigger surprise is when the lesson starts in full. At first, things are going about as they always have been, but then a vision hits, and without the use of hypnosis. The oracle’s breathing picks up. Bunny lays his hand on their leg, just to reassure them he’s there and to keep them grounded. They tremble and clench their fists on the table. Ten minutes later, they focus on one of the many doors leading out of the workshop.

“What’d ya see?” Bunny asks.

Instead of replying, they rush over to a specific door. They swing it open to reveal Katherine, who wrestles with a huge stack of tomes, holding the cover of one in her mouth as she tries to keep another from falling by pinning it against her leg. It continues to slip. As she notices the open door, however, she pauses, confused and letting the book fully drop. The oracle dips down to pick it up, and Katherine releases the cover from her mouth.

“Thank you,” Katherine says. She looks into the room, then back at the oracle. She smiles. “I’m guessing you…?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Perfect! Now, If I may request your help with these.”

They get the books over to the table, and Katherine immediately starts sorting them into piles and flipping to marked pages. The oracle slips back into their seat and links arms with Bunny. The gesture does not go unnoticed by either Shalazar; Bunny swears the corners of their mouths quirk up.

“Very good,” Ombric says to the oracle. “That’s quite the improvement after such a long break. Has anything changed?” He glances between them and Bunny. “Besides the obvious?”

The oracle squeezes Bunny’s hand. “It’s actually due to the… obvious. I’ve been holding myself back and, despite everything, I’m now more open to moving forward.”

“Mindset is very important when performing magic,” Katherine says. “Even innate gifts are easier to use with self-acceptance.”

“Why?”

The Shalazars look confused. Bunny huffs a laugh. For all their emphasis on education and wonder and curiosity, they—and to a lesser extent, North—take the knowledge and presence of magic in their lives a little bit for granted. To be fair, they don’t get many outsiders to the village. The last had been a child who was nearly turned into a fearling a decade ago. It had changed her to be touched so thoroughly by magic that her mothers were recommended she come to the village to learn. It was sensational at the time, but not quite as sensational as the rarity now: an adult suddenly coming into their magic, and thus into renewed Belief. “Why” is the most logical question a person like that would want to ask, even if, unfortunately, the people who should know the best can only answer in the form of a drawn-out lecture as they try to describe all the theory and moving parts to the subject. Bunny leans in.

“Because magic runs on different logic, not physics,” he says. “It’s more like the placebo effect half the time, really.”

The oracle considers that for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

“Sorry.” He laughs, knowing that’s an incomplete explanation. “That’s as succinct I can make it.”

They take a deep breath and squeeze his hand again. “Thanks.”

The lesson resumes with a few more exercises before Ombric calls for a break, after which, Katherine swoops in to lay a few of the open tomes in front of them.

“I found a bit more theory about the process of visions and how they’ve been conjured in the past,” she tells the oracle. “I put translation spells on these so you could read them in modern dialects, but I think they’ll help put things into perspective. As well as, hopefully, accelerate your abilities even more.”

“I’m doing pretty well today,” they reply. Katherine nods.

“Yes, and that’s wonderful, but admittedly, we’re eager for more improvement soon.” She plays with her hair. “The Pole event is coming up…”

Bunny feels the realization of the statement hit the oracle. They skip a breath and sit up straighter. He wraps an arm around them to reassure them that they’re okay and that this doesn’t have to be an ordeal they have to face alone. And also, a little bit, to warn Katherine off on going too fast for them. Yes, this is important, but he’s not going to let just anyone have a go at them, even if they are his colleagues. She looks at them both with the neutral, academic stare she’s perfected over the centuries. Nevertheless, the oracle sinks against him and takes a few breaths.

“That is something I’ve been trying to pay attention to,” they reply. They place a hand on the books. “Thank you. I’ll look into these for a bit.”

“Just as well,” Ombric say, placing his own protective hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Katherine closes her eyes, but Bunny sees them roll underneath her eyelids like she was once again a child irritated at her parent. He internally relaxes and feels sheepish. Despite any character flaws, they’re still Guardians, determined to help humanity where they can, how they can. Ombric continues, unable to hide the new glee in his voice, “I believe you were wanting to look into another solution for the inability to track time jumps? Perhaps we can go ahead and look into that while your partner practices and studies here by themself?”

Reluctantly, Bunny drags his arm from around the oracle—Partner… I kinda like that better, he thinks—and he follows Katherine and Ombric toward another door.

“Aster!” the oracle suddenly calls. He halts and looks back. “When will y’all be back?”

“In no more than an hour and a half,” Ombric replies for him.

That’s when Bunny realizes a whole ten seconds had elapsed where he was just smiling at them, loving to hear that name. Beside him, Katherine presses a knuckle against her lips and takes a deep breath. She’s laughing. He clears his throat.

“I’m sure Ombric’ll send someone, or something, to check in every so often,” he says.

“Indeed, I can.” Ombric waves his hand and mutters something. In the distance, there’s a small ting. “The butler will arrive to a random door at random intervals. See if you can’t try to open them before it knocks.”

“You’ll do great,” Bunny adds before following the others into the hall.

They barely round a corner before they start chuckling.

“Oh, Aster!” Katherine says, putting on a heavy twang. “Oh whenever will you come back, Aster?”

“Aw, knock it off…”

Bunny’s whole body flushes from the teasing. Ombric chuckles and claps his shoulder, saying, “We’re just happy to see you like this again. It feels like it’s been a while.”

“Mm-hm…”

“Welcome back,” Katherine says. And they head to the mirror.

“All right, I think I’ll start by going into the timestream and seeing if I can sense anything,” Bunny says.

“Do you need assistance?” Ombric asks hopefully.

“No.” Bunny tries again, less dismissive, “Not right now. Might need a second opinion if I don’t get anything right away, but you said you had something for me to try, right Katherine?”

She flips open another book and takes out a mass of wire. Bunny takes it, realizing it’s in he shape of a pressed flower. He raises a brow at her.

“This was something obscure I came across,” she says. “An ‘undying bloom’ to better remove the mage from the timestream, or so the translation said thereabouts. Thought it was worth trying, considering the way your magic manifests.”

“Can’t hurt.”

He approaches the mirror and lays a hand against it, tucking the pressed wire flower into his bandolier. The glass gives slightly. A breeze wafts up from the timestream. His gut clenches in a familiar way, one that screams at him not to violate the principles of Keeping.

I’m here by myself. They’re all gone, he reminds himself. This is the only avenue I have to get to the bottom of this right now.

He presses through the glass and into the weightless space behind. His sense of balance tumbles a few times before he manages to find a semblance of stability among the nothing. Once he does, he closes his eyes and listens to the timestream. There doesn’t seem to be anything other than the calm hum of extemporalneous clusters dipping in and out of observable time. He takes in a breath and propels himself a little deeper into the stream. The clusters repel away from him like matching magnetic poles. They streak away with a distant trill, a few bouncing off the boundaries of timelines and yet others being sucked into regular time with muffled phnmps. Theoretically, the echoes of outside time manipulation should be sounding off somewhere in all this when. Bit by bit, he allows himself to move either way in the timestream. He keeps the mirror in sight, of course, but he wanders from the shallows and down the slope.

An aura like a tuning fork reaches him, and the various specks of light start turning to streaks. Bunny catches his equilibrium in the timestream and listens, pretending he can feel his ears twitching until they triangulate where exactly it’s coming from.

There!

He propels deliberately in that direction, slowing and stopping every few minutes to keep the door in sight. He’s lightyears away from it, yet simultaneously close enough to see the blurry forms of the Shalazars on the other side of the glass. It’s an art to keep oneself stable in time like this, and this art is one he had to perfect and practice on his own while shoving away the nausea that comes from trying to step into a Keeper’s line of skills. His skin crawls a little from being here for so long, but that may also just be the clusters again.

Suddenly, the tuning fork-like aura sounds like its origin point is right next to him. No, actually, on him. Bunny forgets to check himself and flails as if he’s within the normal bounds of time, making him head off in an unexpected direction. The mirror starts to get farther away without staying near. The resonance, as from a singing bowl, makes him clench his jaw so hard he theoretically should be cracking a tooth or two. But, he manages to fight it, regain control and search himself to see what’s going on.

The wire flower floats away from him, ringing and slowly unraveling. The more loose wire, the more physical the resonance. Bunny catches it before it gets too far, and that resonance starts shaking him.

What is this? he wonders. He takes a moment of forever to study it so at the very least he can report to Katherine. From what she described, humans probably used this to get in tune with the timestream, but probably never carried it in here.

It grows hot. The wire turns blue with the heat several beats before Bunny can subconsciously try to toss it away—but then he finds that he can’t get rid of it. The wire curls and weaves around his fingers, burning so hot that he stops feeling it, though his nerves never stop registering pain. The specks of light that had started streaking resume, but unlike what usually happens—those streaks converging onto a perfect one-point perspective of a horizon—they spiral, weave, curl like the wire. And all sense of balance and imbalance disappears.

Its as if the wire drags him around all the twists and turns. Bunny tries to keep track of the mirror, tries to propel himself its direction, but it seems like there are many mirrors. All in a row and on top of each other, layered so that each reflection distorts into greenish clouds. It becomes too much, so Bunny just calms himself and waits for whatever magic this is to wear off.

Until he smacks into an invisible barrier.

It’s solid enough to wind him, but there’s a give, like the mirror’s glass. The wire keeps pulling, crushing his arm and subsequently the rest of him against the barrier. He struggles to free himself, but gravity takes control. He’s through. He’s nowhere. He’s everywhere. He can see four of himselfs running from something, and he swears if he can just concentrate enough, he’ll be able to recognize this madness—

Bunny falls through an entrance into regular time. He hits the ground face down. He lays there for a second before pushing up to his knees and elbows, but all that earns him is rapid-onset sickness. The breakfast of fresh fruit and seasoned potatoes he and the oracle had rushes back up and onto the concrete. He heaves a few more times before sitting himself up against the brick wall to catch his breath.

Why the hell am I in New York?

That’s the first question he asks himself, and it’s not a bad one given his senses are assaulted by the cacophony of traffic and millions of voices. The sun is just setting, which doesn’t seem right for the time zone he had been in. Then again, he is messing around with time, so maybe he’s off by a few hours. Nevertheless, the sky is an encroaching purple that fades to the greenish blue of early evening. Bunny blinks, and then rotates his head. He’s facing north or south, not east-west. He’s seen a sunset like this before. With a deep breath, he hauls himself up and takes a proper look at the buildings around him.

The oracle’s place?

Sure enough, this is the backside of their building. Two dozen fire escapes zig-zag from tip to toe, and he has no trouble picking out the once he knows so well. All at once, though, a violent shiver runs up his spine. It’s uncomfortable, but the flux makes him ring in triumph. That’s Déjà Vu; that’s time magic. He tries to home in on the epicenter of the flux, only to find it suspiciously near him. He checks his back and side, and once those are clear, he looks up. He freezes.

There’s a figure on the oracle’s fire escape. For a moment, he thinks it’s a human. It’s the right shape for a human, but the more he stares, the more he realizes there’s something… off. Off and familiar in a horrible way. The figure shifts so Bunny can see its face. The Stranger sways loosely while staring directly into the window.

Chapter Text

Bunny is not the most calm under pressure. It’s a failing, according to the Pooka, that over the centuries has served him well enough in the fight to keep this planet safe. He does try, though. He genuinely tries to take an extra moment before rushing into things that might have escalating consequences down the line. The moment he takes now is nothing but lip service to the idea of a level head. Because that’s the Stranger, it’s trying to break into his partner’s home, and he’s not going to stand for that. He might even be able to end this whole awful thing right now.

The Stranger focuses on the apartment and tenses. Before he considers anything more, Bunny whips out his boomerang and hurls it at the being. It misses by a hair and hits the window instead, shattering the glass and sending shards out and down. Bunny avoids the worst of it, but when he looks up again, he’s in the Stranger’s crosshairs.

Good, he thinks, trying to contain his panting. Must still be dizzy from the ride through the timestream. He recalls the boomerang, ready for a fight, but instead, the Stranger puts two fingers to its mouth, whistles, then darts inside.

Bunny opens a tunnel to cut it off before it gets too far, but a movement catches his eye. Teeth catch his ears. He screams, yanked off-balance and dragged a few meters, sharp points piercing his flesh.

A werewolf, he realizes. Why didn’t I hear it run up? The dizziness isn’t that bad.

The werewolf growls and shakes him, and it takes Bunny three tries to stabilize long enough to jab the end of the boomerang into its throat. It yelps and coughs, dropping him. He rolls away from it, scrambles to his feet, and raises his weapon to defend himself, all the while trying to figure out how to get up to the apartment and hunt down the Stranger.

The werewolf growls and flicks its tail in an odd pattern: left, left, center. Bunny uses the pause to wind up a high jump, but just as he springs from the ground, another heavy creature barrels into him. And then a third stands over him. With three knocks to the noggin in quick succession, Bunny notices that it’s not just a series of dumb mistakes he’s making. There is a sluggishness to him. It’s not a devastating drop in sharpness—not like the last time almost all Believers had been wiped out—but it’s noticeable compared to where he was just a few minutes before. Nonetheless, he kicks out at one of the wolves as it pounces at him, causing it to veer off and crack into the wall. Both of the other werewolves whine and watch it, and he makes his escape down the alley.

He opts not to use a tunnel for a few reasons, first of which being the weakness currently plaguing him. Secondly, he wants to get these collaborators as far from the apartment as possible. Whatever they’re breaking into it for, he intends to rush back and reclaim it.

Bunny pauses at the mouth of the alley, turning and watching the werewolves. To his surprise, they shift back into their humanoid forms to chase him, even though they’d surely be faster as wolves. As he jumps through the throngs of people, gasping as the emptiness of disbelief douses him again and again, he realizes why. Humans tend to react wildly when they perceive major danger coming at them, such as in the form of giant, growling dogs. Three odd-looking humans, however, make just enough of a scene to get the foot traffic to part around them, but not enough to involve the news or Animal Control.

He tries to lose them by rounding a block or two, all the while wondering if he’s caught in yet another rune with an area of effect that would weaken him. There’s always some obscure or not-so-obscure magical nonsense people have used to oppose beings like him. Silver and salt don’t repel immortals, but the substances are easily charged with superstitious power, which can make it uncomfortable to touch or cross. He’s not being completely thrown out of the perimeter, so maybe it’s not a barrier—

Bunny suddenly notices a sign on a storefront. He skids and slows down to reread it. The sign declares:

EASTER SALE!
WHITE EGGS, ORGANIC FOOD DYES, AND GREENHAM™ PRODUCTS ON BOGO
DEALS GOOD THRU SUNDAY

The patter of feet behind him keeps him moving, but he lingers long enough to see humans in pastel sundresses and lightweight cottons and straw hats very much carrying dozens of eggs. He rounds another corner and catches sight of an LED-style sign as it flashes from the current time to the date. It’s the Monday before this past Easter.

Oh, that’s a relief, he says to himself. The travel to get here was so unusually rough that Bunny had been worried something was broken or had been tampered with on a timestream level. Explains the weakness. There’s less Belief going around right now. Should go back once I return to the correct time. Just plain old travel from point Z to point A and back.

He’s content to just keep running and distracting the werewolves before circling around to see what the Stranger is up to. And then something else occurs to him.

Which means the Stranger must have some way of manipulating time if it’s here and going after them. And if it’s the lead up to Easter means the oracle is currently staying…

Bunny halts, suddenly noticing that the wolves aren’t behind him anymore. He has an awful suspicion he knows where they’ve gone. To his credit, he has one crystal-clear thought before he leaps back into action: This… didn’t happen.

It couldn’t’ve, because that means it would have already happened and have always been the case that the Stranger would have shown up when it did. And as far as Bunny can remember, there was no disturbance like this right before Easter. Ultimately, the logic or lack thereof is irrelevant as Bunny bolts back to the apartment building.

He finds the entrance that leads into the basement, panting and shivering from having endured through so many non-believing humans on the way. His pulse pounds in his ears, and he prepares to leap up to the fire escape when he hears a sharp yet muffled growl from the other side of the door. Without hesitating, he enters.

Inside is a dusty basement that was a parking area once upon a time. A few vehicles remain, such as a large van in front of him, but the majority of the space is dedicated to maintenance materials. In fact the maintenance man for the building stands over to the side. For a second, Bunny’s relieved to see the familiar face, until he notices a transformed werewolf by his side. Looking closer, he realizes the looseness in the maintenance man, belying the truth that this is in fact the Stranger itself. Another wolf stands on the closed hood of the van, growling down at something on the other side. Bunny draws his boomerang, ready.

The werewolf on the hood spins around at the door slamming open. It pins its ears against its head and snarls. Bunny flings the boomerang at it, whacking it in the head and causing it to fall to the ground on the other side of the van. The other werewolf, plus one more, rush around toward him, teeth bared. Bunny recalls his weapon just in time to give them another two whacks, resulting in another two yelps. The Stranger huffs and takes a single step closer to the vehicle. Bunny leaps onto the van’s roof and then again until he lands, feet-first on the being’s chest, hooking the boomerang around its neck to keep his balance.

“Hey, Stranger,” he says, leaning in close. Then he drives his foot right into its face.

The Stranger hits the floor with a sickening crack. Its body bounces up halfway from impact, and then it thankfully crumples to the ground. Bunny isn’t content to think he’s killed off the threat, but for now he’s satisfied to see it down for the count.

Quick, panicked breathing comes from his side, and he turns to see the oracle, hunched on the ground and trying their best to press into the side of the van. So, he’s arrived just in time. There’s a certain dissonance to that thought, given the earlier realization that this couldn’t have happened, but that avenue of contemplation drifts on as he immediately prepares to help them through this panic. He puts his weapon away and holds his hands out.

“It’s all right,” he says. He approaches slowly, though quick enough to reach them before any of the hostiles start to regain their faculties.

“You’re real?” they whisper hoarsely.

He pauses, nods. He’s heard that humans in extreme distress sometimes lose their memories temporarily, sometimes revert to an earlier time in their life. His heart aches seeing them like this, and he starts to lean down to them, to reach out when they clear their throat and say something else.

“Last night… did you say you were the Easter Bunny?”

That stuns him. He mouths the words, “Last night?” and tries to understand what in the world they could possibly mean. Their breathing picks up again slightly, and he shakes it off.

“Yeah, I am. Name’s E. Aster Bunnymund.”

“Aster…” they repeat. They stand, still watching him with a cautious expression. Despite all the weirdness going on at the moment, he can’t help but perk up when they say it.

They flatten themself against the van and scooch away from him until the unconscious werewolf twitches, bumping their ankle. All of a sudden, their composure collapses, and they start to spiral.

“Easy, easy. Breathe,” he says. He cups their face in his hands and make them focus on him before it gets too far. “Listen, you’re doin’ great, and you’re gonna continue to do amazin’. I knocked that fucker down, but it isn’t gonna stay down, and neither are the werewolves—”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

“The what?!” they choke out.

“Shh…” The only thing he can think to do is try to press his forehead to theirs. It’s worked before. “It’s okay…”

He keeps moving closer to them, wanting to kiss them so badly, but he remembers that this is barely after they’ve met in the timeline. He figures they were on the same page after their first meeting or thereabouts, but he’s not about to press the issue too far and potentially entangle his future and recent past. His forehead makes contact with theirs, and he wills them to remain calm and fight back against their anxiety.

He’s deeply miscalculated. They retract their neck into their shoulders as far as they can with his hold on them, and their look says less about their worry for the real danger and more about their wariness toward him. He immediately pulls away and lets go of them. They let out a relieved breath. He gives them a single moment, pushes down his unwarranted irritation and worry, and holds out his hand. It’s truly time to get them out of danger.

“I’ll cover you until we get you to safe place. Okay?” he asks.

The glazed look of a vision briefly overtakes them. Their shoulders relax, however, and their breathing evens a bit more. He gestures his open hand again.

“Okay?” he repeats.

He’s sure they’re about to tell him to get lost, when the Stranger swings one of its arms up, preparing to push itself from the floor.

“The Live Oak. Just down the street,” the oracle says. They point a warning finger at him and grit their teeth to say, “But if I even think you’re taking me elsewhere, I’ll make sure everyone in this damn city hears me.”