Work Text:
Alex Fierro woke up slumped over her pottery wheel. She lifted her head slowly, wincing at the ache in the arm she'd been using as a pillow.
She blinked, staring down at the wet lump of clay still centered on the turntable in front of her.
What happened?
Alex made a face. It had been a long time since she'd worked herself hard enough to fall asleep at the wheel. Usually, a heavy chunk of unfinished clay whacking her straight in the face was a decent enough wake-up call.
She shook herself off and went back to work.
Her foot started pumping a steady rhythm on the pedal below. The wheel sprung to life, quickly gaining speed in time with the pace Alex set.
She wet her hands and bore down into the center of the clay, forming a cylindrical shape.
The corner of Alex's mouth twitched as she focused, tuning out everything except for the pot taking shape in front of her. Flecks of liquid clay splattered across her face like freckles.
A hand reached out, gently wiping the side of her cheek.
" Gracias …" Alex mumbled, not taking her eyes off the wheel.
"What are you working on over here?"
Alex tilted her head to the side slightly. "It's supposed to be a pot. Magnus asked me to make him some since management is always digging up the plants he grows in his atrium," a pause, "I'm not telling you what kind of plants, though." She scowled. "Not that it matters . The clay isn't doing what I'm asking, for some reason…?"
Alex felt a nagging feeling in the back of her mind. Her foot slowed on the pedal. She almost got up from her stool.
Weathered hands covered her own, guiding her on where to apply the most pressure.
" Relax , mija. Your work reflects your emotions."
Alex nodded, her shoulders losing some of their tension as she listened to her grandfather's advice.
With his help, the unruly clay blossomed into a pot Alex would be proud to give her hallmate. She let the wheel coast to a stop before standing up to admire her work from a different angle. She let out a happy chirp, squeezing her clay-covered hands into fists.
"Every time you sit at that wheel I swear you get a little better," Alex's abuelo told his granddaughter, both of them dunking their hands into water to wash off the excess clay, "I bet you'll be better than me before your thirteenth birthday."
Alex's chest swelled with pride. She paused, looking over at her grandfather.
"Abuelo…I'm sixteen ."
"Are you? Already?" He offered his apron out to Alex so she wouldn't have to dry her hands off on her pajamas, "I guess that explains the boyfriend, then."
Alex scoffed, pausing in the middle of laying a damp towel over her project, "Magnus is not my boyfriend."
She thought about what designs she was going to carve into Magnus' new plant pot.
Her mind still felt strangely fuzzy, like all of her senses were stuffed with cotton. She tried to ground herself; clear her head. If she lost her focus, she wouldn't be able to keep out-
"Alex, can you help me with this?"
" ¡Sí! " Alex jogged over to her worktable.
She took the plastic bag of unworked clay from her grandfather and unlooped her golden garrotte from around her waist, gripping the handles in both hands. The wire sliced through the slab just as cleanly as her old clay-cutter.
Alex tossed the chunk of new clay down onto her worktable and began wedging it with both palms. When she was younger, her abuelo had been the one to do this for her , but recently it seemed like he was struggling more and more.
Alex didn't mind. She dug the heels of her hands into the cool surface of the clay, warming it up as she kneaded it into something more workable.
She let herself fall into the repetitive motion, pouring her demigod strength into each initial push. It made her shoulders burn. She didn't mind that either.
" Gracias, mi corazón . I don't know what I'd do without you."
Alex looked over at her abuelo. Her smile was genuine.
She wasn't sure how long she stood there. She kept wedging clay, but it never fully got to the point where it felt soft underneath her hands.
Alex huffed, pushing down into the stubborn clay with the brunt of her heightened einherji power.
Clay splattered. It practically exploded; coating Alex's face, hair, and clothes in wet, reddish-brown globs.
Alex yelped, spitting as some of the clay left behind an earthy taste and gritty texture in her mouth.
It reminded her of… something .
She couldn't remember what. Just nodded numbly, barely able to hear her grandfather asking her if she was okay.
Alex blinked, looking down at her hotel-issued t-shirt. Magnus had left it in her room a few weeks ago. She didn't think he'd really appreciate getting it back covered in clay stains, but when Alex looked she realized her clothes were still completely clean.
" Weird …" She mumbled, going back to wedging the cold piece of clay on the table in front of her.
" ¿Alex? "
" ¿Mande? " A pause, " ¿Abuelo? "
Alex stepped back from her pottery wheel. She abandoned the sponge she'd been using to clean up, telling herself she could always finish it later.
Her grandfather was sitting at his worktable. Alex stood at his side, her eyes sweeping over the tools laid out in front of her. Their family name was burned into each one's wooden handle.
"Can you help me, ah -? Lo siento, mija. I would do it myself, but…"
"It's okay, abuelo," Alex smiled at him again, "I don't mind."
Alex sat down at the worktable, carefully holding her grandfather's tools. He showed her each individual mark he wanted her to sculpt, his shaking fingers tracing the surface of the clay. She followed behind, dutifully dragging and scraping, bringing the intricate details of her abuelo's art to life.
Alex froze.
Her hand stopped, still holding onto one of the tools whose image was burned into her mind like her own last name was burned into the surface.
She knew these lines. She remembered carving them before; riding a Tizer -fueled, cherry-flavored, sleep-deprivation-infused caffeine high in a tiny studio while her foot tapped out the beat to Hungry Like the Wolf .
Alex stared at Pottery Barn's double faces. Her breath caught in a silent sob. Her free hand lifted, trembing fingers tracing the outline where one grimace met the other's grin.
Golden light flickered in Pottery Barn's skull socket.
Alex nearly choked on the lump forming in her throat. Her fingers dug into the still-wet clay, dragging downwards and digging shallow trenches into her most precious work.
" No ," Alex said softly, her tone of voice like a mother telling their child to go back to sleep after a nightmare, "You're dead ."
The golden light went out again.
Alex's hands lingered, not ready to let go yet. Her edges flickered and blurred, like her mind wanted to shift but her body couldn't decide.
Everything inside begged her not to stand up. Alex staggered to her feet on shaking knees, turning to fully face her abuelo for the first time.
His appearance was undefined. She couldn't see him clearly. After so many years, it was hard for her brain to fill in all the details.
"And you're dead, too."
The dream version of her abuelo nodded, "It's time to wake up, cariña ."
Alex openly started to cry now. "No!" She begged her subconscious, "Wait, please …"
Alex lunged forward to grab her grandfather and woke up at her pottery wheel for the second time that night.
The pot she'd been working on for Magnus was sitting, fully-formed, in front of her. Uncovered for a couple hours, it was almost dried out enough to start sculpting into.
Alex's shoulders shuddered. She cried for a while, head down with her face buried in her arms, not caring if any of her hallmates were awake to hear her.
She fought the urge to cry herself back to sleep, instead choosing to pour a little water over the pottery wheel with her hand. She pulled her garrotte taut, finding comfort in the familiar metallic sound of the wire scraping along the surface of the wheel as she freed her piece.
She carried the unfinished pot over to her worktable.
It was going to be a long night.
~
Alex sat back. He rubbed at his tired eyes with one hand, admiring the finished plant pot sitting in front of him.
It was almost dawn now. The sun was just starting to create a haze of pink and lavender in Alex's atrium.
Between the sculpting, glazing, and two kiln firings, Alex could officially say he was completely exhausted .
The design he'd eventually gone with was an abstract rendition of the night they'd spent talking together around the campfire in Jotunheim. Alex had made himself green and Magnus pink. Seeing the memories through the filter of his fever at the time made the less-defined, more colorful approach even easier.
Alex hoped Magnus wouldn't understand the design either way. He carried the pot out into the hallway, leaving it just in front of Magnus' door. Handing it off to him would be too embarrassing. This way, he wouldn't know how hard Alex had worked on it, and Alex wouldn't have to see Magnus' face if it was obvious the son of Frey didn't like his gift.
Alex went back into his room before he ended up smashing his art into a million little pieces.
Still a few hours before breakfast.
Going to bed at this point was out of the question. Alex wasn't interested in any more dreams at the moment. Luckily, there was one method he knew that ensured a dreamless sleep every time- guaranteed .
Alex stepped into his bathroom and closed the door. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, his lack of sleep causing him to hear faint whispers of his grandfather's voice ringing in his ears again. Tears stung the inner corners of his already bloodshot eyes.
Alex pulled his garrotte from around his waist and looped the golden wire around his neck.
~
Hours passed. There was noise now out in the nineteenth floor hallway, muffled conversation that indicated the rest of the team was officially up and moving.
Alex Fierro woke up in his bed at the hotel Valhalla.
He moved sluggishly, slowly, not wanting to miss out on breakfast but not exactly eager to get up after pulling what was essentially an all-nighter (to the death.)
Alex chose to just go to breakfast in his pajamas. If Magnus tried to fight him for the shirt, Alex was more than happy to reintroduce his friend to the concept of death-via-having-your-face-shoved-into-a-bowl-of-oatmeal . Effective, even if it made it so all you could smell was apples and cinnamon for a few days.
As he was closing his door behind him, Alex spotted a yellow Post-It note stuck over top of his nameplate. The messy handwriting was familiar. It made a warm feeling burn in his chest and pool in his empty stomach; possibly enough warmth to save a certain someone from an oatmeal-y demise.
Thanks for the pot! ;) - ♡, Magnus