Chapter Text
It doesn’t look like a lamp, is the thing. It looks like a squat, ceramic teapot, and d’Artagnan’s mother collects teapots. She might very well like this one with its pretty ochre color and the little design painted on it. It might just be a wave or it might be letters and d’Artagnan can’t really tell with the dust on it so he swipes at it with his thumb a few times. He’s just trying to wipe the dust off, that’s all.
It’s fall, not even very cold out, so the chill that runs up his hand takes him by surprise. He’s still shaking it off a minute or so later, sucking at the pad of his thumb to get it warm, when he hears the footsteps approaching.
D’Artagnan is in the cramped back room of his local charity shop, bored on a Saturday afternoon and poking around. He assumes that the person coming is the proprietor about to inquire if he needs help. It’s not.
It's a man a few years older than d’Artagnan himself. His shaggy hair and full beard give him the look of a mountain man in from the cold, but his dark sunglasses, heavy wool peacoat, and the garishly patterned knitted scarf wound around his neck make him look like every asshole who has ever muttered passive aggressively when d’Artagnan took more than four seconds to order his coffee.
The stranger pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and heaves a deeply irritated sigh.
“I literally just sat down."
“I’m sorry?” d’Artagnan says.
“Just. You people always have the worst possible timing. But no, it’s fine. Whatever I was doing could wait, I’m sure.” Whoever this is, he doesn’t sound “sure," he sounds “irritated."
“I’m afraid I don’t understand," d'Artagnan says.
The man arches an eyebrow. “Surely you’re joking. You are holding it in your hand and this,” he gestures between the two of them, "doesn’t work unless you rub it so…” Seeing the d’Artagnan still looks confused he drops his head to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers and give another one of those irritated sighs. “Christ,” he breathes, drawing it out into a three syllable word.
Irritated-and-Grumpy waves at the teapot, “To start, put that down. I really don’t know what would happen if you dropped it, and I don’t care to find out.” When d’Artagnan slides it back on to the shelf Irritated-and-Grumpy’s face relaxes almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you. Now, that’s…” d’Artagnan watches as the man waves his hand a bit, clearly at a loss for how to continue the sentence. In the end, he just gives a disgusted sigh and says, “That’s my lamp."
“What?"
Irritated-and-Grumpy clearly enunciates every word of his next sentence. “That. Is. My. Lamp.” D’Artagnan must still look confused because he continues, “Right, I know it doesn’t look like a lamp to you, it probably looks like just some old crockery. Still, it's a lamp; my lamp, in fact, and…” he grits his teeth to finish. “You rubbed it."
“I… rubbed it,” d’Artagnan says, still not quite understanding. “It’s your lamp, and I—“ The penny drops and d’Artagnan’s mouth falls open and Irritated-and-Grumpy rolls his eyes. D’Artagnan looks back and forth between the lamp and the man who he now knows is its genie and says, “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?"
“I suppose you could assume that there’s some other logical reason why I, someone who doesn’t know you and clearly does not want to be having this conversation would be standing here talking to you. Perhaps my hobby is lying to strangers only to have to justify myself for,” he checks his watch, “seven minutes and counting.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Or you could spend a wish making me prove it."
D’Artagnan’s mother would tell you that he’s always believed the best of people, even, apparently, bitchy genies in pea coats. “Do I just call you Genie?"
The stranger bristles. “No. You most certainly do not. This isn’t a fucking Disney movie and I have a name. Though, if I were having you on I’d force you to call me Exalted of the Lamp like—,” he stops himself. “You can call me Athos."
“D’Artagnan. Pleasure to meet you.” Athos gives him a look that says ‘I’m sure,’ and takes another drink of his coffee. “How many wishes do I get?” d’Artagnan asks.
Athos swallows his drink. “Mmmmm… ten? It’s usually ten, right?"
D’Artagnan is too busy being excited that it’s not three, and he misses something critical in Athos’ tone so he just nods, “Ten sounds great, yeah."
“So, you want ten wishes for whatever you truly desire?"
“Yeah,” d’Artagnan answers. “I want ten wishes."
“Lovely,” Athos says, pulling his sunglasses back down onto his face. “Better buy that, then.” He gestures at the lamp, still on the shelf, and then turns and walks out, calling, “Rub it again in a few days when you know what you want,” over his shoulder.
D’Artagnan buys the lamp, two paperback detective novels, and an ice cream maker. He watches as the clerk wraps the lamp carefully and stuffs it inside the ice cream maker for the trip home. In his flat he pulls everything out and puts the lamp on the worktop in his kitchen.
It sits there while he makes dinner. He catches glimpses of it while he’s stirring the chicken and walks past it on his way to put the dirty dishes in the sink. It’s still sitting there after he’s watched a bit of TV and checked his email. He manages to resist its pull until he’s brushing his teeth.
Walking into the kitchen, toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth, d’Artangna folds his arms on the counter and props his chin on them, staring at the lamp.
He’s still halfway sure that Athos was fucking with him, and really there’s only one way to tell. He grabs the dishrag from the sink and scrubs at the painted design on the side again. Nothing happens. He waits a few minutes, staring at it some more, and then swipes his finger over the surface a few times and waits. A solid minute passes.
“No, you’re right; you should absolutely jerk me away from whatever I’m doing to prove your stupid theories rather than taking my word for it,” Athos says, sauntering out of d’Artagnan’s spare bedroom. “Taking my word for it would be an efficient use of time and wouldn’t result in anyone having to have yet another pointless conversation today and that would just be silly. Absolutely."
He’s still wearing the scarf but the pea coat is gone and instead of the paper travel cup he’s carrying an oversized mug. Taking an exaggerated sip of his coffee, Athos looks at d’Artagnan over the lip of the cup. “Did you need more proof or can I get back to my book?"
No, that’s all the proof d’Artagnan needs. Now that he’s convinced there’s only one thing he wants. “Do I have to ask any special way?"
“Yes. The ritual states that you must turn four times widdershins and hold your finger to your nose while saying ‘O, Limitless Being of Power, I humbly request..’ and then whatever you wish.”
D’Artagnan stares at him, but Athos’ face is perfectly straight. “Limitless Being of Power?” he asks.
Athos perfectly arches one eyebrow. “Really, d’Artagnan, you shouldn’t give me opportunities like this. One of these times, I’m going to make it sound believable enough that you’ll just go with it, and I have a really nice camera in my phone. It could get very embarrassing for you."
“You have a phone?” d’Artagnan asks, clearly not having considered the life of the modern genie.
“Yes. It’s an iPhone. Did you bring me clear over here to talk about my phone?”
D’Artagnan shakes his head, “No, sorry. I’m just still getting my bearings about how this all works. So I just ask?” Athos nods and takes another drink. “Okay. There’s… there’s this girl."
Athos puts his hand up. “Stop. I don’t have the energy for this tonight. Do you know Cloisters?” D’Artagnan nods; it’s a church that’s been converted to a coffee shop and he walks past it almost every day. “Meet me there tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll talk about it then."
“Okay,” d’Artagnan says, and Athos nods once and walks out the front door, still sipping his coffee.
Athos isn’t there when d’Artagnan arrives, so he orders a drink and a bacon sandwich for himself and takes a seat by the window. Eight minutes after ten the bell on the door jingles and Athos strolls in; the peacoat is back, but today’s scarf is more subdued.
The friendly brunette behind the counter greets him by name and rings up his ‘usual’. Athos smiles at her and d’Artagnan takes a second to watch how it transforms his face. His face creases with deep laugh lines and his eyes actually twinkle. When he turns to face d’Artagnan the smile is gone and d’Artagnan tries not to take it personally.
“Right,” Athos says, settling into the chair across the table. “Out with it, then. Tell me about this girl."
“I met her at work. Her name is Constance and she’s amazing,” d’Artagnan says.
Athos scowls into his paper cup. “I’m going to need significantly more coffee.”
For the next half hour, d’Artagnan describes this angel who has stolen his heart. She’s a supervisor in another department, competent and bright. Everyone loves her. When d’Artagnan started with the company Constance was seeing someone else, but that relationship has recently ended and so now he thinks he has a chance. She’s pretty and kind and rescues puppies who’ve been swept into storm drains during floods or something. To be honest, Athos wasn’t really paying attention.
“Just so we’re clear, I can’t make her love you. It’s on the ’not within my powers’ list along with births and deaths.”
D’Artagnan shakes his head, “I wouldn’t want that. I don’t… I don’t want to force her, but I can’t help thinking that if I could just get her to notice me. If she does and still doesn’t want to date me, I’ll understand. I just want a chance.”
Athos takes another drink. “I know I’m going to regret this, but did you have an idea of how you would go about that?"
He’s been at this job for a few hundred years now and very little surprises him. Somehow, even with all of the experience of his long years, Athos’ reaction to d’Artagnan’s suggestion is a long, uncomfortable stretch of stunned silence.
“Let me…” Athos pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Let me get this perfectly clear. You want the clouds to spell out your name?”
His smile indicates that d’Artagnan is blissfully unaware of how fucking ridiculous that idea sounds. Athos can think of only one way to deal with that ignorance.
“Are you aware of how fucking ridiculous that idea sounds?”
D’Artagnan looks as though his favorite dog has been kicked into speeding traffic. There’s the slightest wince from Athos as he deals with the face of a wounded puppy looking upset over a wounded puppy.
“Let’s look at this logically. First, that’s going to make her remarkably suspicious about her own state of mind, and the worst way to get a woman to notice you is for her to believe you’re triggering symptoms of a psychotic break.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” d’Artagnan says.
Athos continues, “Also, it doesn’t even really say anything about you, it’s just your name. Why don’t we think about other options.”
Athos would never say this out loud, but it’s really a question of standards. He could have gotten rid of so many of his punters so much faster if he were willing to put his name on shitty wishes. It’s a kind of cruel fate that he simply refuses to be associated with shoddy work or poor design and so he ends up talking people out of wishes that would get his work done so much faster.
“Tell me something she does every day,” Athos says.
“She reads the same paper every day, she likes the crossword.”
“Excellent, this could work. Now tell me something you like to do. Something you’re good at.”
D’Artagnan worries at his bottom lip for a moment before his eyes go bright and he says, “I’m quite good with animals! Dogs, especially.”
Athos’ blank stare is a thing of beauty. “Of course you are,” he says. He takes a drink of his coffee and rubs his forehead. “Does she know this?”
“Well, I arranged a day at the dog park for all the dog owners in the company last year,” d’Artagnan says.
“Of course you did.” Athos takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose as though it were punctuation. “This is what is going to happen, pay attention.”
D’Artagnan stops at the newsagent on Monday morning and gets a copy of the same paper he knows Constance reads. The crossword is not unusually easy, not enough to raise suspicion, but a remarkably high number of the answers are words with romantic associations. Bliss. Adoring. Besotted. Kiss. D’Artagnan loses track at some point. Near the end, and diabolically plain, is 'tail-less black dog.'
“It’s priming,” Athos had explained. “It won’t convince her of anything, won’t change her mind or force her, but when she comes to you for the last clue, she’ll have all of these other thoughts in her head. If you’ve a chance, this is a good way to find it.”
Constance appears over the wall of d’Artagnan’s cubicle just after eleven, her smile bright and her hair twisted into a bun with a pencil shoved into it. She is perfectly lovely, and it’s all d’Artagnan can do to not sigh like a cartoon character.
“I was wondering,” she says. “Could I get your help with something silly?”
“’Course, you know I’m here for anything you need.” d’Artagnan tries to make his smile welcoming but not creepy.
She shows him the clue and he smiles and says,“Schipperke.” He tries not to wallow in the way her face lights up when the word fits in the open squares.
“You’re a wonder, thanks!” she says with an enormous grin, and then she’s gone. D’Artagnan waits to see what the rest of the day brings. He waits to see what the rest of the week brings. He passes by her cubicle and smiles when he meets her in the hall and though she is always pleasant, that’s all she is.
Friday night, d’Artagnan takes the lamp and puts it on the kitchen counter. He spends all evening sneaking looks at it. Late Saturday morning, after a run in the park and breakfast with his sister, he finally gives in and rubs it, that same chill running up his arm.
Athos comes in from the living room, his dark sunglasses on even in the relative dimness of the kitchen. He’s wearing fingerless gloves and the coffee mug he’s carrying is essentially a soup bowl with a handle. His expression is brittle at best.
“I—,” d’Artagnan starts but Athos silences him with a palm over d’Artagnan’s mouth.
“Shhh,” Athos says, very, very quietly. He walks to d’Artagnan’s refrigerator and squints into the light until he finds leftover noodles from d’Artagnan’s takeaway dinner the night before. Snatching a pair of chopsticks from the crock next to the stove, Athos stands with one hip against the counter and shovels cold sesame noodles into his mouth, raising a damning eyebrow every time d’Artagnan opens his mouth to try and speak.
Eventually, Athos jams the chopsticks down into what’s left of the noodles and puts the box on the counter. He picks up his coffee and whispers, “Now, quietly, what do you want?”
“Are you hungover?” d’Artagnan asks in a low voice.
“You really are the cleverest. Yes, today I am an object lesson in why you should not go drinking with genies… or any of their boyfriends possessing equally supernatural alcohol tolerances.”
“There are other genies?” d’Artagnan asks and Athos winces at his volume.
“Yes, and if that’s what the rest of this conversation is going to be about I’m going to leave and come back when it no longer feels like a cat was sick in my head.”
D’Artagnan takes Athos’ mug, fills it from the pot he brewed for himself before his run and holds up the milk and sugar for Athos to see. He shakes his head as little as possible to get his point across and gratefully takes the mug from d’Artagnan.
Rummaging in the cupboard, d’Artagnan finds a bottle of aspirin. He fills a glass with water and goes into the living room, setting both the painkillers and the water on the coffee table. In the kitchen again, he takes Athos’ coffee and puts it on the counter. Taking his elbow as gently as he can, d’Artagnan steers Athos toward the couch.
“Go back to sleep,” d’Artagnan whispers. “My love life can wait a bit. I’ve a feeling that hungover genies can’t be bothered to talk me out of shitty wishes, and I need you in top form.”
The smile Athos gives him is bleary, surprised and oddly pleased. He pats d’Artagnan’s cheek before sinking down onto the cushions and falling sideways. Athos gropes blindly for the crocheted throw draped over the back of the couch until d’Artagnan takes pity and drapes it over him.
He leaves Athos there burrowed into the blanket d’Artagnan’s grandmother had made for him when he moved into his first apartment. Athos’ face is slack with sleep already, his brow smoothed out and his mouth just falling open. d’Artagnan watches him from the doorway, listening to the almost inaudible snore, and tries not to think about how even though his cheek is cold where Athos’ fingers touched it, the rest of his body is flushed and warm.