(no subject)

[bubblewrapped]

They're watching him. Staring. Two sets of big, dark eyes. Too dark - like holes in an attic wall. Ones that lead to somewhere old and cold and secret. It would be unsettling - terrifying - if he hadn't gotten used to it forever ago. Instead, he’s sprawled out across the couch, having given up on getting his shiny black shoes off after one. Sleeves rolled up over his knobby elbows, he keeps one arm draped over his eyes. The other idly snaps at his suspenders as he gives himself a moment to decompress after a too long, too intense shift.

It's always like this when it's just the three of them. He fails utterly at proper human interaction. They hide in shadowed corners of the tiny apartment, forms indistinct except for those eyes. And they watch him. Because they're timid. Afraid, but curious.

Once upon a time, he had been timid - afraid and curious. That boy who’d been through hell twice could not comprehend how something like that could be afraid of him. That part of him is indignant, frightened and wound all the way up at these things in his home.

But they aren't things. They’re children. En and Tillie. And they're afraid because they mistakenly believe that he could throw them out at any time. At the slightest provocation. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Not when…

He isn't sure when exactly their “guests” became residents, when their apartment went from haunted to just unlived in, when the ghosts became the kids. Became something more than merely “the kids.” But it happened. Not all at once, no. In little increments of familiarity and fondness, raindrops filling a barrel. Anxiety replaced with acceptance. Acceptance with comfort. Comfort blooming into attachment. Into...

He hasn't told a soul.

When he and Sebastien talk about the kids, it's coded. Strained. Walking on eggshells. Always, there’s the acknowledgement of their less-than-legal status, a promise of a return to normal, of a time after they “go.”

But this had been their normal forever, now. He knows they're not going to go for a long, long time. And, really, he’s happy with that. More than anything, he wants this strange little arrangement to be defined. Official. But he’s never been able to express the sentiment. It's the wrong time or the wrong place. The words get tangled up, knotted like his fingers when he struggles to speak. Like they used to, years ago.

It's not worth dwelling on. Right now, there's no one to tell and time aplenty to kill before Bash gets home from class.

“Is he dead?” A whisper, soft, distorted, a sheet blown by breeze.

“No, stupid. Of course not. He’s tired.”

Lucas drags his arm away from his face. He must’ve been lying still for too long. Scraping his fingers through his dark curls, he turns his head in the direction of their voices - in the corner, blurry shapes, all moving shadows except for their dark eyes. “Tillie, kiddo, don’t call your brother stupid for asking questions.”

The response is silence, harsh and sudden. Like an airlock opening, every sound sucked right out of the room. That’s what it's like with ghosts. The conversation is over before it even started; the spectral children dispersed to somewhere - not really gone, but not really there, either. Lucas can't help but feel guilty about it. He sits up, frowns and heaves a heavy sigh. Finally, he manages to pull the other shoe off. Then he’s on his feet, padding around the apartment in bright blue argyle socks that most definitely do not comply with the auror dress code. A pop of color in a monochromatic uniform, they add a bit of slip-slide to his shuffling zombie gait. Into the bedroom he goes, busying his head and his hands with chores. First tidying up, then start the laundry. Sweep the living room, clean the bathroom sink, then swap the clothes.

It’s a lot of back and forth. Here and there. He’s so preoccupied with his thoughts and his tasks that he doesn’t even notice how the air starts to cool again. The faint slap-slap-slapping of bare feet against wooden floors behind him doesn’t register, nor does the misplacement and re-adjustment of things in his wake.

In fact, he straightens the same picture frame three separate times before he realizes what’s happening. And even then it’s only because someone can’t hold in their giggles.

Lucas stalls, fingers still light on the framed photo of his friends at a party that was not cowboy themed, but they decided to attend in cowboy theme, anyway. A sidelong glance over his shoulder reveals nothing - no one there.

So he goes to get the towels. And now he hears it - the sound of small feet trying and failing to match his wide, long-legged stride. He stops. He looks. Nothing, again. So he changes his gait - bow-legged and silly. This one’s even harder for his stalker to match and before long he hears another giggle.

But when he tries to catch a glimpse of his copy-cat, there’s no one behind him.

This isn’t the first time they’ve played this game, but it’s still relatively new. It’s Enoch, he knows. Enoch, who was always shyer, angrier and sadder, but quicker to recover after an outburst. Who is always testing boundaries and then going too far, sallying forth despite his fear, and never ever leaving well enough alone.

Lucas doesn’t quite let himself smile as he stuffs the towels into the washer. Nor does he smirk as he moves toward the kitchen, stopping each time he hears a footstep to look - at nothing but the cat lazily napping on the bookshelf. (Where she shouldn’t be, technically, but he’s not about to tell Zilla where she can and can’t go. Bash can brave that whirling razorblade cyclone when he gets home.) But, little by little, the dark, self-defeating static clears out of his head. And he does switch his pace with each stop. Tip-toe, then prancing, then sliding into the tiny galley kitchen, flicking on the lights as he slips across the linoleum.

At the sink, he hums while he washes the dishes.

He’s halfway through, scrubbing a grease-caked pan in sudsy water, the humming working its way up to a softly mumbled song, when the recessed fluorescent light overhead flickers. They’re watching, again. He supposes they’re curious about why he’s actually washing the dishes and not using magic like he would, normally. He would be mistaken.

What they’re actually interested in is the singing. The willingness to engage in play. The faint sign of a grin on his face. Bash had endlessly talked up Agent Kowalski, the brave auror, but the real thing very rarely seemed as bright or as fun as the stories. The real thing was often tired, always strained and rarely talkative. This, perhaps, is the first hint of joy from the famed Agent Kowalski, with whom they’d been living for weeks and weeks.

They’re whispering again. Or, not whispering, but certainly communicating. The air buzzes with it, heavy from the presence of ghosts. Lucas goes right on with finishing the dishes, sparing a glance at his right side, where he feels tiny eyes staring up at him, but sees nothing. Strange, how something can be both unsettling and absolutely mundane.

As the water drains from the sink and the pipes knock with that obnoxious hammers on steel sound, Lucas wipes his hands off on the rag tucked into his belt. “I’m going to read,” he announces to the ostensibly empty room, and then feeling foolish when there is no reply.

He wears a grimace that he carries into the living room, a pained gosh, you’re a dope look that hangs in place while he just kind of stares at the bookshelf for a while not actually seeing any of the titles. But then he hears a soft knock, and he looks, and Enoch is there standing. Waiting. Blue-gray, cracked and broken in a way that sits low and heavy and painful in his chest. Lucas forces a smile for him, anyway. Enoch says nothing.

When he looks back at the bookshelf, Lucas’s eyes fall immediately on a ratty old paperback he hasn’t touched in years. A favorite. Something his mother had read with him, when he’d first decided he wanted to read everything there was to read. He pulls the thin volume off the shelf and drops down onto the couch. Enoch keeping up at his heel keeps him from sprawling out in earnest. The ghostly boy just stares, expectant. Lucas watches him a moment longer before cracking the old book open and turning through the first few pages.

Flicking his gaze up one more time to make sure Enoch’s still there, he begins to read. “Mrs. Jane Tabby could not explain why all four of her children had wings. ‘I suppose their father was a fly-by-night’ the neighbors said and laughed unpleasantly, sneaking around the dumpster.”
His skin prickles and he looks up. Enoch makes a show of climbing onto the couch next to him, curling up, knees tucked beneath him, to listen. Then, he sinks about an inch and a half into the upholstery.

Lucas can’t help but huff out a laugh. “Been practicing that, huh?”

Enoch’s head bobbles up and down in affirmation.

“Good job,” Lucas commends, a grin cracking wide across his face. He returns to the reading: “‘Maybe they have wings because I dreamed before they were born that I could fly away from this neighborhood,’ said Mrs. Jane Tabby.”

“What’s a fly-by-night?” Ottilie asks, suddenly present on Lucas’s right.

It hardly startles him at all - her sudden manifestation - though he does jump just a little before explaining, “It’s an unreliable person.”

Tillie quirks her head to the side, expression scrunching up in distaste. “Why would that cause children to have wings?”

“Tillie,” Enoch whines, the fury of his impatience leaving him hovering, now, an inch above the couch seat. “I want to hear the story.”

He’s reminded of how terribly fond he is of the both of them. And that mixes itself with the panic of having to wrangle two five-year-olds on his own and a sudden urge to laugh. The laugh sneaks out - just a bit of it, breathy and a little anxious. “Hey, how about, um, you just make a list of questions in your head, and once we’re done, I can answer them?”

This doesn’t sound like the best compromise to Tillie. She furrows her brow at him, scrutinizing, and he smiles back, hopeful. “How many questions?”

“As many as you want, kiddo.” Lucas promises. “Pop a squat.”

“She’s going to ask too many.” Enoch complains.

Lucas simply shrugs in response and returns to the book, reading clear and careful, pace brisk enough to immediately distract both children from their brewing fight. Tillie sits on the floor, occasionally looking as though she wants to interject and wriggling impatiently as she stoppers the urge, and Enoch stares, entranced the entire time, eventually scooting close enough to stare down at the words on the page as though he knows what any of them mean.

When the front door opens, they’re all three fully absorbed in the text. Lucas narrates dialogue in a cat-like voice, while Enoch stares at the book and Tillie watches the fine changes of Lucas’s facial expression and laughs. They don’t notice at first as Bash steps in and drops his heavy backpack on the floor. The loud thud stops the lot of them, Bash freezing when he sees what he’s interrupted.

Lucas looks up, tucking his finger into the book to save his place before shutting it. The kids look from Lucas to Sebastien and back, unsure of exactly what’s happening, but Lucas’s eyes are fixed on their newest addition and that look on his face.

“Hey,” Lucas greets, soft and a little unsure. “Dude, Babe, I think you dropped your jaw. Everything okay?”