Chapter Text
Chapter One: I play wingman to a sword
So, apparently it’s required for us Einherjar/demigods/other people screwed by magic to scrawl out heartfelt accounts of our lives every now and then. So I figure you can all hear about The Great Thanksgiving of Doom.
It started when Magnus’ sword knocked on my door in the middle of the night. No, that’s not a metaphor for a booty call (I wish) Jack (also known as Sumanbrandr, or the Sword of Summer, or the very annoying disco sword) could move and talk all on his own.
‘Señorita… Wait, señor… Talk some sense into him! He’s ruining my life!’ Jack wailed, the runes on his blade flashing an agitated toxic-waste green. (That would make an amazing highlight for some light up trainers…) This actually happens to me a lot. Dumb sword seems to think I’m Magnus’ keeper. (Pfft. I’d so be a beater.)
‘Jack! Leave it!’ Oooh, that was weird. Magnus usually only did angry when faced with the great injustices of the world (usually reported by the kids at Chase Space these days) but today his gray eyes had a steely glint.
Usually I listen to back off signals. Contrary to popular belief, I respect people’s space. Magnus is different though. He has a strangely high tolerance for what my half sister Sam (being a good muslim girl) calls my ‘stubborn streak’ and what Mack (being a good Irish girl) calls my ‘absolute wankerness’. I want to find out how far I have to push before he snaps back.
‘Hey, Maggie, what are you doing to poor little Jack?’ I smirked at him.
‘He wants to go spend Thanksgiving with my cousin.’ Magnus huffed in exasperation and wafted an invitation at me.
‘The smart one with the hot boyfriend?’ I quipped, mostly to see if he’d get annoyed by the hot boyfriend comment.
A jealous little scowl tugged at his lips but he didn’t call me out on it. Dumbass.
I stole his invitation, naturally and read it through. It wasn’t what I’d subconsciously expected from home; an impersonal printed card crafted to show off wealth and power, inviting you to a cold, hostile evening where people would compete with their wealth and power. It was a handwritten letter, full of chatty gossip and loving questions, finishing with ‘and I know it might be impossible Magnus, but we’d love to have you… Bring anyone you like!’
‘You should go.’ My stupid voice wobbled a little. I hadn’t seen a letter like that since my Abuelo died. He used to write me notes like that every day when my bastard father wouldn’t let me see him because he was ‘a worthless influence’.
It took the hot air right out of Magnus. Unnervingly, I was never sure how much he knew or didn’t about what was going on in my head. Sometimes he’s so completely thick-headed it’s like he’s never met me. Other times it’s like he knows what I’m thinking before I do.
‘I want to go…’ Magnus sighed, running a hand through his silky fair hair. (What. I cut it for him, I’m used to it.) ‘But it’s going to be awkward. She’s got a ton of other friends going and if Blitz or Hearth come we’d have to close Chase Space, Sam definitely couldn’t and…’ He trailed off, his eyes tracing my face with that gentle, affectionate look that always set my stomach flipping.
‘Gods Chase, just ask me if you’re that lonely… It can’t be worse than enduring a Thanksgiving of Jack whining that he could have been chatting up Riptide.’ I rolled my eyes at him, just in case his healer powers were letting him know that he was making my heart race a little.
‘You’d come with me? To my cousin’s thanksgiving?’ He started to smile.
‘Sure. I’m Jack’s wingman, I’m obliged to line him up hot lady swords to flirt with.’ I shrugged.
‘Thanks man.’ Magnus said drily.
‘Señor! You have saved Thanksgiving!’ Jack thanked me by serenading me with ‘Wind beneath my wings’.
Magnus, the ungrateful bastard, thanked me for agreeing to come to his cousin’s thanksgiving by abandoning me to his sword. I let the sounds wash over me and tried to picture what a ‘family’ thanksgiving might look like. All that came to mind was the scene in Brooklyn 99 when they eat take out in the police station.
Like a moment of distraction on the daily battlefield of Hotel Valhalla, this thought process led to extreme pain.
I’d know what to expect if he’d let me go to Abuelito’s. Or even just let him come.
I pushed past Jack into my room.
‘Señorita?’ He called after me, stopping mid-line, but I ignored him and crawled under the bed. Most people have a photo wall in their room. It says it all that mine hide themselves in a box under my bed.
I sifted through the snaps. They used to be almost all Abuelito and I but these days I have to shuffle past Sam, Magnus, Mack, Blitzen, Hearthstone, TJ, Halfborn… I finally found my favourite. I was about five and I’d dug a box of Tia Maria’s old things out of a closet. (Tia Maria died as a teenager, in the same crash as Abuelita. I’d never met either of them, I wasn’t even born yet.)
Abuelito could have gotten mad. I’d dug up painful memories for him and his little grandchild suddenly wanted to wear his late daughter’s clothes.
Instead he just laughed. ‘Ay Cambita, your Papa never lets you wear clothes like this does he? But pretty girls should be allowed to wear pretty clothes.’
It’s not like being a girl is more important to me than being a guy. And I definitely don’t agree that pink skirts should just be for girls! It’s just… It’s the first time anyone helped me express that change through my clothes. My father always put me in these creepy British schoolboy outfits when I was that age.
In the photo, Abeulito is holding me up and I’m holding up one of my first pottery creations, wearing Tia Maria’s childhood party dress. I still remember that dress so vividly, the pale green silk embroidered with softly pink and white flowers and a flouncy skirt… Even then, it was too normal but that rush of being acknowledged, that I was a girl so of course I could wear a pretty dress…
‘Alex?!’
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!
I forgot to close the door. I forgot to close the door and the dumb sword went running to his dumb partner and now I have to come up with an excuse for crying over old photographs like a wuss. Or maybe I could just throw something at him.
Before I could do either of those things, Magnus closed the door behind him and said softly. ‘Space?’
The answer should have been ‘Yes!’. Space was good. Space gave you room to change and there’s nothing I hate more than no room to change. Instead I shook my head and let him walk over.
He didn’t ask to see the picture, even though I could tell he was dying to look. He just sat next to me and nudged his hand against mine.
He’s hot on consent, Magnus. Not even just with me. When he goes to hug someone he always stands back a moment, arms open, giving them a chance to reject the offer. He doesn’t even try with Sam. With me… Well.
It’s been three years since we stopped Ragnarok. Three years since our first kiss. Three years of sporadic kisses and hand holding and the occasional night where one of us is plagued by nightmares so we stay up all night lying in the grass together. He still doesn’t take it for granted. He never just pulls me close or kisses me out of the blue. If he wants to start something he asks, sometimes in words or sometimes just with little gestures like this. Either way, without a nod he doesn’t go forward, which is almost suspiciously nice.
It’s like the story of the sun and the wind. Do you know that old fable? The sun and the wind are fighting over who’s stronger so they compete to get this guy’s coat off. The wind blows and tries to rip it away but can’t and the sun shines and warms him so he peels it off himself. The moral of this story is supposed to be ‘Nice people get what they want’. I pretty quickly realised it worked just as well for ‘Lots of people will be nice to you if they want to get your clothes off.’
Usually that kindness feels real and I want to trust him. I want to tell him out loud how much I like him, tell him it’s okay to kiss me out of the blue sometimes as long as he can take ‘no’ for an answer.
I also know that people can fake nice for a long time to get something, especially if that something is sex. Or control. Or both. When those memories come back that kindness starts to feel like the bait of a trap, luring me in far enough that the door can slam shut and lock me into a dank dark flat.
‘Alex?’ He said my name again, sounding seriously worried now, which might be because I’m shaking. My own fault really, let him come in when my guard’s down and then start analysing his motives and thinking about how any good manipulator knows ‘let them come to you’… I was in a full blown panic and struggling not to decapitate him again.
‘Space.’
He was hurt, which kind of made me feel better. It’s like… a good manipulator would ‘not want to guilt’ me, so they’d be all kind and accepting at the time and tell me later what a shame it was that I wouldn’t let them help. Magnus is an open book like that. He loves being let closer and hates being pushed away. It shows on his face but he doesn’t challenge me on it.
‘Okay… But if this is about Thanksgiving… You don’t have to go. I’ll be fine; I can always hide out in the kitchen.’ I almost hugged him then because he’s such a dork, getting all quietly worried that he’s being too forward.
‘It’s not. I want to go with you.’
He smiled then, and pressed a bar of chocolate into my hand before getting up and leaving.
‘Hey Beantown, are you and our resident shapeshifter sneaking around to snog?’ Mallory’s clear voice carried through the closed door.
‘She’s going to be busy for a bit.’ I could almost hear the shrug in Magnus’ voice, quietly covering my back.
I held up the chocolate and the photograph side by side, trying to imagine what Abuelito would say about Magnus.