17 Railway Terrace
Shildon, County Durham



Truth be told, it bloody stank that the first time she’d be visiting his place, it would be like this.

Dressed in a pullover and a pair of cropped jeans, Gracie idled in front of the mirror, eying her clothes critically as her grandfather looked on looking none too pleased—unsurprising, given that he looked that way just about every time she was about to go out, but annoying. Never mind that this time around more skin was covered up than usual, or that the massive bag slung over her back meant that she had other things on her mind; with his massive brows knitted together into a fearsome ‘v’, Eamon made his feelings on the whole matter clear on his face. No, reasoning wasn’t in the cards today. The old man only looked sullen—pouty, even, if such a word could be applied to him.

. . .Though, okay, not entirely unreasonable of him, given the fact that the today’s change was, more or less, because of a boy. But still!

Thankfully, he said nothing as she divvied up her hair—raking her fingers through and braiding it—until, after the third or fourth time, she undid it all with a quietly muttered “damn.” “War’ got ‘is arse chewed up by… a werewolf, ye said?” he asked. Needless to say there was great deal of skepticism there. “An’ yer still gonna go see ‘im?”

Chin tucked in a little further, Gracie narrowed her eyes at the mirror, as if scrutinizing her reflection. She would have rolled her eyes, but didn’t; she had to tread lightly for now. Instead, “It’s been a week, Granddad,” she said, tongue peeking out from between teeth as fingers carefully plaited hair. “That’s more than long enough to be able to tell if he… got it or not.” A quick, steadying breath, and she exhaled. “He doesn’t. But they did keep him because of his injuries.”

She didn’t glance at him, but for all the pointed silence that followed, she might as well have.

He snorted. For a moment he just stood there, arms folded as he watched her, dark, inscrutable eyes giving nothing away. Then-

“Biscuits.”

Brows furrowing and still braiding, she looked at him, confused. “What?”

He rolled his eyes. “Biscuits,” Eamon rumbled again, looking surlier than ever. His granddaughter didn’t blame him; the word couldn’t look any more out of place than leaving his mouth. “Yer aunt made some Saturday, yeh? There’s some left in th’ pantry.”

Still, she frowned. “I thought...”

Abruptly she shook her head and sighed. “He can’t have sweets, remember?” Gracie said instead, eyes lowering as she deftly twisted the hair tie, and then twisted it again. The elastic pulled taut, her fingers flushed a yellowish red. “They don’t agree with him.” She’d told him.

“Fine. Carrots, then,” he grunted, looking unimpressed. He shifted on his feet restlessly, a sign that the conversation was drawing to a close. “They’re in th’ fridge. Help yerself.”

Finished with the braid and now working on tying it all up with a thick, black ribbon, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged gently. Grumbling, he complied, leaning in to let her press a kiss against a grizzled cheek. She released him with a wide, brilliant smile. “Thanks, Granddad.”

He grunted again, and disappeared down the hall. As soon as she heard a door close, the smile vanished. In its place was a knot of nerves that, until now, she’d been ignoring with some success.

She was going to see him—okay, fine. Possibly yell at him, now that he was (supposedly) better? Suuure. It was just Huck, and a little abuse never went amiss—routine, even. However, there was no denying that this time was probably, probably different. For one, his parents would be there, if she remembered correctly, and while that normally wouldn’t have alarmed her. . . well, it wouldn’t have—two months ago. A lot had happened since then.

Hell, a lot had happened a week ago.

Gracie gave her reflection one last look—snatched up a baseball cap that had been laying nearby—and darted into the kitchen, only to exit with a stuffed bag a moment later. When she finally stepped inside the living room and into the fireplace, there was a surge of emerald flames.

Then, she was gone.

When she reappeared, she was elsewhere, in a brick house somewhere in Shildon and stepping out of the hearth. As soon as the last of the embers died out and she stepped off the threshold, the girl was swept up into a tight, familiar hug. Flustered, she struggled for a bit, before giving up pretending altogether and simply just. . . let him. “Yeah, yeah,” she murmured, mouth curling into a grin as she patted an arm with her free hand. “S’ nice to see you, too.”

   

Huxley Ward had succeeded in dressing himself!

Normally that hadn't been a thrill for him- not since the age of three (barring those extremely hung-over mornings)-but this was slightly different.

His bones had popped, and groaned, and creaked, and protested... but eventually he'd managed to gingerly snake his limbs through his t-shirt and shorts and finally collapse back onto his bed panting like a dog. Tiny beads of sweat had congregated on his forehead and across his chest, signs of a struggle he was nowhere near used to encountering. Hell, in the past, ripping off his shirt had been a motion so practiced and ready that he barely had to think about it. Now there was an ever-present fear that at any moment a wrong motion might undo all the healing his frail body had accomplished in the past week or so.

But it was a necessary risk, as it were. It was one thing for his mother to see him lounging around in boxer shorts; it was quite another case were the spectator Gracie Slant.

Which it would be.

His mother was beside herself, bustling about the house with the excitement of a bee on the first day of spring, tidying things up and swatting Frankie on the side of the head to shoo her away from the plate of chocolate-chocolate-chip cookies she had just set out to cool.

Frankie was nearly as excited as Huck; she had been enthralled with Gracie since Huck had first come home the summer after his first year all "Gracie this" and "Gracie that" and smiles and earnest notes sent as quickly as possible by the family's crochety old owl, Taco, who Huck had so named at age three when they'd bought him. The notes Huck had received while at school, sent by Frankie, had almost always included at least one thing that she had urged him to tell Gracie about her day-to-day life. Usually something like, "Please tell Gracie that I got a brand new pair of boots today. They are rain boots. They have pictures of bees on them." In her enthusiasm for that day, and in her misguided desire to impress the older girl, she had put on every article of clothing that she was remotely proud of and was sweating profusely under eight layers of sweaters and t-shirts... and had inexplicably layered shorts over jeans, and a tutu over both.

She was, of course, also wearing her bee-spangled rain boots.

"Green Bean!" she squealed, clomping into his bedroom and grabbing the sides of his face where it hung over the side of his bed. He hissed involuntarily and his muscles all contracted. The sting was unbelievable. "When Gracie gets here, can you tell her the story about how I tied my shoelaces across the doorway and made that healer trip and fall right into that nurse's boobs at the hospital?"

Huck opened his eyes again, no longer wincing, and giggled at his sister. "It kinda seems like you wanna tell it. I'm sure she'd love that. I'm sure she'd love to know what a pain in the arse you are." He groaned as he rolled over, struggling to sit up, and accepted the help from his sister without protest. The girl wedged herself under the crook of her brother's armpit, getting used to having to help him hobble around the house.

She went with him to the living room and helped to ease him into their fat, squishy armchair near the fireplace, then zipped away to find her favorite beanie, another essential addition to her kitchen-sink-outfit.

When he was alone- waiting- Huck finally was able to bite his lip and really worry about whether Gracie would be disgusted by his battered features. He'd been knocked around before, but never ever aywhere near that bad. He looked like a haggard old pirate. He knew it, and his parents knew it, and his sisters knew it. Even Frankie. Even if she thought it was cool.

Just as he was about to sneak into Veronica's room to abscond with some of her concealer, the rush of green flames at the fireplace grabbed his attention fiercely. Taco ruffled his big chocolate-brown feathers in surprise, and Huck fought to stand up.

He knew if he lost his momentum it'd be hard to start moving again. He was that sore. So, in one fluid motion, he scooped the apparition out of the air and held it close to his heart, inhaling deeply and catching the sent of her warm, soft hair and her fresh, dry skin.

"'S nice to see you, too."

All at once he wanted to say fifty things- to apologize for being alone in the alley in the first place, to tell her who was behind the attacks, to tell her how it would have broken his heart to know he had never told her how much he loved her before he died.

"For a minute, I... thought I might never see you again," he commented, trying to keep his tone light, as though the whole thing were really the stupidest of dumb jokes.