Chapter Text
Tristan didn’t mean to get cursed. Honestly, already having a sin eating monster inside of him feels like curse enough, and he had tried to explain that to the witch when she started in on him, But it wasn’t enough, so here he is. Sin eating monster and cursed. Like that’s fair.
Twenty four hours to kiss someone - well, get them to kiss him. Two stipulations: one, that he can’t tell them he’s cursed and that a kiss will break it, and two, that it’s willing. The first was an edict straight from the witch - the kind of low blow that told him she was just feeling petty he’d managed to break into her house in the first place. The second was all him. He can be cursed, but he damn well isn’t going to be a jerk about it.
It would be a hell of a lot easier if he could just tell someone why he needed them to kiss him. But then that would be a pity kiss, rather than a willing kiss, and then that feels all kinds of messed up in something that’s already messy enough.
Tristan sighs. He’s gone through his ridiculously tiny mental database of the women he knows and come up with three possibilities. A depressingly low number by any standards, but particularly for a twenty something with hair as good as his and a boat.
Weren’t girls meant to love boats? Or guys? Honestly he’s not fussy – it’s more about the label than the wine? Wasn’t that what the guy in Schitt’s Creek said?
Maybe that’s the problem – that he’d rather spend his evenings in his sweats binge watching a show before an early bed. But when you have to be up as early as he does to push out into the still night crested sea to haul the day's catch, the prospect of spending his evenings out loses all appeal.
Nancy was the obvious choice. Gorgeous and brilliant and frankly pretty bewildering - the way she seemed to have no sense of self preservation and kept throwing herself headlong into dangerous situations like it was normal.
But he does have some self preservation, and no one who makes such impressive heart eyes at someone else is going to be persuaded to willingly kiss him in the next twenty four hours. He has his dignity at least.
Next would be the pretty brunette - Bess - but she’s clearly interested in something a little less masculine and a little curvier, so no dice there.
Which leaves the one who looks like she might happily shank him and pat his corpse down for loose change. And leaves him here, swinging awkwardly on a bar stool and tongue tied.
Tristan taps the edge of his glass nervously and tries a smile. She just scowls at him and carries on viciously drying glasses and thumping them onto the shelves behind. Her eyes keep sliding back to him though, and maybe that’s a good sign or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t trust him to not run off without paying.
He tries another reassuring smile and she grimaces at him as though she’s swallowed a particularly bitter lemon.
Okay, so no smiling. He clears his throat and she shoots him a glare.
“So – ” he trails off, desperately scrambling as his mind is wiped clean of any possible topics of conversation. His eyes land on the napkin under his drink. “Napkins.” He nods sagely.
She scoffs and turns away, clearly marking him down as a time waster, and he reaches out and grabs her wrist lightly before she can walk off.
“Look, the truth is you terrify me.”
She glares pointedly at his fingers and he relinquishes her wrist, “good.”
“Is it your plan to terrify everyone within a fifty foot radius?”
“Yeah, it weeds out the idiots.”
“What about the not idiots?” He’s genuinely curious, fascinated by the sharp edged slice of her words.
“Well, that’s hard to say,” she shrugs lightly and picks up another glass. “Technically Drew is an idiot for the way she runs headfirst into danger, and she’s still around. Ace, also notoriously an idiot, because only idiots get themselves cursed.” Tristan winces but she doesn’t notice it. “Bess is absolutely an idiot, I’ve seen the stupid shit she gets herself into. And Nick - ” she trails off and Tristan finds himself caught waiting for whatever follows next, but she doesn’t finish. Just stares at her glass as she rubs it dry.
“And Nick?” He prompts gently.
She sighs, and it’s a sound so weary that Tristan can feel it in his bones.
“Nick is also an idiot, but for too many reasons to list now.”
“And me?” He offers her a quirk of a smile and she narrows her eyes at him.
“Jury’s still out.”
He’ll take it. He’s worked with worse.
“So you try and terrify the idiots but that doesn’t always work. You have a crowbar and not only do you know how to use it but you aren’t afraid to either. And you get sad eyes when you talk about Nick - that about cover it?”
The look she shoots him is pure filth.
“I don’t get sad when I talk about Nick!”
“Yeah you do, your eyes get sad.”
“My eye- ” she breaks off and twists to look at him, truly look at him.
It’s terrifying.
It thrills him.
“Go out for dinner with me.” The words are a whisper but she leans closer to hear them. It’s not just the curse and the need for a kiss urging him on. It’s everything - the black lipstick and the combat boots and the tattoos that twist their way up her arms. He wants to coax words from her, wants to just sit and listen to her talk. Wants to tangle his fingers in her hair and –
He sits back a little, blinking to try and break the train of thought. Her mouth is parted on an exhalation of surprise, but she hasn’t left, hasn’t told him to go fuck himself and tipped his drink in his lap. Hasn’t rolled her eyes or laughed it off as a joke, and the anticipation of possibility is an electrifying hum beneath his skin.
“When?” She sounds surprised to hear herself say the word, but she doesn’t back down – tilts her chin a little higher instead.
“Tonight, now, when do you get off work?” He feels shy under so much scrutiny, but he’s terrified that if he looks away the spell will be broken. That she’ll go back to ignoring him and he’ll just be a cursed sin eater waiting for the dawn to turn him to ash in the morning light.
“I own the place,” she raises an eyebrow at him. Glances away at the empty booths and her sister doing a sudoku puzzle on the kitchen hatch. “Jesse,” she yells, “I’m heading out, you’re closing. Wait there.” This last is muttered to him in an undertone, and before he can do more than blink she’s gone, boots stamping through the back, fingers unpicking the knot of her apron, and ignoring Jesse’s wails of protest at the unfairness.
She appears again a handful of minutes later, leather jacket on, a head jerk at him to follow, and he can’t not. Tugged along by an invisible string as she shoves out into the chill spring air, the bell tinkling above them as they leave.
“So where do you want to go?” She stuffs her hands deep in her jacket pockets and glances at him sidelong.
He stumbles over his tongue, then stops, inhales and lets the taste of the sea air ground him.
“I know this great little fish place,” he offers with a wicked curl of a smile, a delighted huff of laughter leaving him when she glares at him in response. “Okay, okay,” he chuckles, “no seafood.”
“I get enough of that at work,” George grumbles, scuffing her boots against the tarmac.
Tristan wracks his brain, feeling like the window of opportunity is closing. Like she might just turn around and tell him she’s changed her mind and stamp back inside if he can’t be interesting enough to hold her attention.
His mind lights on a possibility.
“Do you trust me?”
“Not even a little bit.” She offers dryly, but it doesn’t deter him, just makes him laugh again, delighted at the turn the evening is taking, and holds out his hand - a peace offering, a call to adventure.
She stares at his fingers distrustfully for a moment and then carefully puts her palm in his.
Tristan tells himself it’s just relief that sets his heart tripping over its own beats as he leads her away from the Claw.
*
“Alright,” George gives a frankly obscene little moan, eyes fluttering closed as she savours the taste, “I do trust you now. This is ridiculous, how did I not know about this place?”
Tristan fights a grin around his own mouthful, swipes his fingers across the corner of his lips to catch the stray sauce he can feel caught there, and swallows before answering.
“Friend of mine, they sailed all the way down to Mexico and came back making some of the best tacos I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah but these are good good - they could be selling these anywhere, what the hell are they doing in a hole in the wall in Horseshoe Bay?”
Tristan shrugs, struggling to get the word out around another bite (the tacos really are too good to try and wait), “sentimentality.”
George offers him a look that tells him far more effectively than words precisely what she thinks of that, but she keeps eating, her delight palpable with every bite.
It feels like another victory, two in the span of an hour - her trust, her joy in delicious food, the warmth of her leaning up against the rough brick wall at his side, licking sauce from her fingers. He doesn’t know what to do with it though, other than smile and tuck the feeling in a corner of his heart that is a little less worn than the rest of it.
“God I want another one, but there’s no way I can fit more in now.” She whines plaintively, and he smiles, disappearing back inside for a moment and emerging laden with a to go container with a handful more nestled inside.
“You’re my hero.” George whispers, eyeing the tacos with adoration and a slightly frenzied expression.
“It’s a step up from idiot,” he quips, and George’s smile is so dazzling he trips on the step back onto the street.
*
“So where to now?” George cradles the to go box to her chest, loose limbed with a smile limning her lower lip.
Tristan hadn’t dared to hope she’d want to stick around. Or at least, admit that he was hoping. But he had been nursing a thought of what they might do next on the off chance he didn’t completely stuff it up in the first hour.
“Do you trust me?” He tries again, grinning conspiratorially at her, and this time she offers him one back.
“Only about food.”
“Luckily for you I have a great idea for dessert.”
“Then lead on.”
Her trust feels electric in his chest, and this time she offers her hand to him, pressing heated palm to palm as he guides her out into the evening.
*
“Absolutely not.”
Tristan feels his hope wavering as George scans the Jolene and seems to find her wanting.
“You said you wanted dessert?” Even he can hear the confused plaintive note in his voice and he grimaces, tries again. “I know a place, but we gotta take Jolene to get to it.”
George frowns.
“I barely know you, I’m not getting in a boat with you - that’s like horror movie 101.”
“I didn’t have you pegged as a horror fan.”
“That’s because you don’t know me.” The bite is back in George’s voice, and he can feel the goodwill from the tacos leaching out into the dark water around them.
He takes a breath, tries to let the disappointment go, and takes a step back, conceding ground.
“You’re right, I don’t, not really. But I know you care about your sisters more than anything, and you love tacos and you seem to collect idiots like stray cats no matter what you say about hating them.”
Her face twists into something further from hostility and closer to amusement.
“And I know that I’d like to get to know you better and I’d never hurt you, but I get why you’d be wary of getting into a stranger’s boat. We can call it a night instead.”
He squashes his disappointment down deep, braced against the sound of her leaving. But instead she stares at him, assessing, glances at the taco box in her hands, and then again at the boat. Tugs her phone from her pocket and fires off a quick message.
“If I’m not back in a couple of hours you will face the full Fan family wrath.”
“Noted,” he nods, serious, and scrambles to take her hand when she sticks it imperiously towards him to help her into the boat.
“Dessert had better be freaking awesome,” he hears her mutter as he starts up the engine.
They trip down the coast, and George remains frosty, warily keeping an eye on her surroundings. But Tristan had been telling the truth, this place is impossible to get to without a boat, and after half an hour with the cold sea wind tugging its way into his clothes, the lights begin to form into something recognisable. George leans forward with interest.
One of the smaller islands close to land is festooned with lights, boats moored around the dock tipping out a raucous array of music that mingles with the scent of food and gives the entire scene a party atmosphere.
He noses the Jolene into a space and ties her off, handing George up onto the dock and watching the delight and wonder play across her face.
“What is this place?” (He places that next to the first two wins in his heart.)
“The Moveable Feast.” She looks at him quizzically so he continues. “They set up camp on a different island every few months.”
“How have I never heard about it?” The fairy lights reflect in her eyes and catch in the dark shine of her hair, and Tristan feels his stomach swoop alarmingly.
“Guess you need to hang out with the right kind of idiots.” She elbows him in the ribs, but she’s laughing when she does it, and when she slips her hand into his it feels as easy as breathing to lead her into the noise and the smells and the light.
*
They make their way round the boats and stalls once before George agrees to make any kind of decision about what she wants to eat next. Determined not to miss anything, she finishes her tour with a list as long as her arm of possible options she simply has to try.
If she keeps her fingers laced with his Tristan would happily get her one of everything. It feels like he won the moon, like he could listen to her talk all night - like the curse twisted into something magical he might not ever have otherwise found.
They finally settle on whoopie pie and commandeer a picnic bench under a beribboned tree to eat it. And Tristan watches with delight as George fawns over the dessert, then tries to deconstruct the recipe to work out precisely what they’ve done to make it taste so good.
It’s magic to watch, and slowly pieces of her history and the role food and cooking has played in her life are explained over seconds and then a round of gelato. The pieces of their lives drop out like hard won pennies, shared in rolls and singly - a barter of information that slowly colours in the shades of George Fan as he watches.
She stops being the terrifying bartender who might shank him as soon as offer him a hand up, with the bold slash of lipstick that turns him on and terrifies him in equal measure. And becomes George, with her sisters and her mom and the neuroses and hopes and dreams that tip together in a kaleidoscopic whole.
It takes his breath away.
*
Her phone has buzzed three times on the table before she deigns to look at it, and then mutters a curse and scrambles to reply, thumbs skidding over the screen.
“Shit, no no no.”
“Everything okay?”
“No, I mean yes, I mean - I told Jesse to call the cops if it looked like you might have killed me and she’s getting antsy.”
“Do I need to get you back home?”
“Not yet.” She offers him a small smile. “There’s still more food to try, and I might even have enough room in five more minutes.”
He laughs, pleasantly warm and buzzing from the conversation and the lights and the unspooling joy at simply talking. George groans as she stands up, pulls him up alongside her and leads him back into the fray of the market.
*
It’s another hour at least before her phone goes again, and she nearly ignores it until he reminds her that he really doesn’t want to be arrested for a murder he has no intention of committing.
She snorts a laugh and unlocks the phone before the blood drains from her face and she curses.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Drew went and got herself stuck in a haunted campsite. I can’t leave her alone for five fucking minutes.”
She continues a muttered diatribe, typing furiously.
“Do we need to go and help her?” Tristan moves to stand, collecting the detritus from their feast to chuck in the nearest bin.
“Yes. No. Probably?” George looks conflicted as she glances around them.
“Don’t worry,” Tristan smiles as he offers her a hand up, and tries not to stumble over his words when she stays pressed in against him for a beat too long, “we can get something to go for after.”
George laughs, but he can hear the tension in her voice, and they hurry back to the Jolene, a sense of urgency that ratchets tighter with every update from George’s friends.
“Where is she?” He calls over the sound of the engine as the lights of Horseshoe Bay grow brighter.
“The old campsite up near the cliffs - do you remember the- ”
“Place that got shut down after the kids died - yeah I remember that. They thought they were possessed or something?”
“Yup,” George’s voice is grim. “Which is like catnip for Drew, she’s a suicidal maniac at the best of times, but ever since Ace - ” she trails off with a sharp look at him and Tristan shrugs.
“You can tell me or not, but I won’t spread it around.”
It’s gratifying how quickly she opens up, such a sharp contrast to the earlier part of the evening.
“Ever since she and Ace got cursed, it’s like she’s throwing herself into worse and worse situations to get his attention. It killed her when he said he was done trying to break the curse, and now? I’m scared she might actually beat the curse to it, trying to get him to change his mind.” George hunches deeper into her jacket, face a picture of worry and misery as Tristan guides the Jolene in.
“They got cursed?” He quizzes, jumping onto the dock to secure her properly before reaching down to help George up to stand next to him. She falters on the solid ground of the boardwalk, and leans into him a little, and he relishes the warmth of her, the quick ghost of her breath against his cheek as she steadies herself, lingering a moment longer before stepping back.
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
*
The ballad of tragedy and Temperance is enough to make Tristan gasp as George sketches the outline of Ace and Nancy’s doomed love. He’s wildly glad he never ever tried to get in the middle of that - a minefield waiting to happen with nothing but broken hearts on the line.
But the more George explains, the more Tristan frowns, until he can’t contain it any longer.
“Why didn’t they just use an anima purgator?”
“An anima what now?” George’s hands are tight fists on her knees, but her face is all open curiosity as he glances at her, taking his eyes from the road for only a flicker of attention before he’s focussed on the twisting perilous track up to the cabins.
“Ancient roman device for cleansing souls - you use that and any bad magic attached to a soul gets wiped clean - a fresh start.”
“Where the hell would I get something like that?”
“My parents have got one - I saw it get used once. Creepy as hell but it works.”
“Your parents have - ” George trails off faintly. “You’re kidding, all this time there’s been - ”
Her words are cut off as a body emerges from the darkness, thumping desperately at the window. Tristan recognises Ned Nickerson, wide eyed with panic, clutching a spray bottle in his hands.
“Later, we’re talking about this later,” George mutters, before she flings herself out of the car and races to help her friends.
*
It is a short and confusing battle. Bess shoves a perfume bottle into his hands with a shriek to douse anyone that he doesn’t recognise. George hefts the weight of a crowbar with a practised ease that makes his mouth turn dry. And there are children - terrifying red eyed children that he spritzes with abandon and watches with horrified fascination as they disintegrate.
Then George grabs one of his hands, Bess the other, crushing his fingers in the kind of grip he’d normally associate with a 300 pound wrestler, and yells at him to repeat after her.
The wind screams around them, Nancy and Ace are bloody and bruised on the opposite side of the circle to him, the children howl in the darkness, and Tristan holds on for dear life and shouts words he doesn’t understand.
Suddenly, it all stops.
And with the exhale of relief, Tristan understands that he won’t actually die tonight.
*
George comes back to the Jolene with him after realising her array of food products are still tucked on the boat. Waiting until they’re back on the smooth main roads leading down to the dock before she brings up the soul cleanser again.
“You, uh, you mentioned your parents have a - ” she trails off, tongue stumbling over the word.
“Yeah,” he offers, flipping on the turn signal even though the roads are empty at this time of the night. Or morning. Sunrise isn’t far off, but the threat of the curse feels less pressing against everything else that’s happened since.
“Is there anything they might–? I mean–? Would we be able to–?” She can’t seem to finish a sentence fully, and Tristan smiles reassuringly at her as he puts the car in park.
“I’ll get it to you George, don’t worry.”
“Really?” The word is a whisper. “You’d do that? But you barely know us.”
He shrugs, “what can I say, I’m a sucker for someone who thinks I’m an idiot.”
“God I could kiss you!”
It feels like the air is sucked out of the car in one gasp, and she stills, as though hearing back the words that have just tumbled from her mouth.
He tries to brush the moment off with humour, despite everything in him screaming to lean over and capture her lips with his.
“It’s okay, no payment required, I just want to help.”
Something like disappointment seems to turn down the corners of her lips, and his mind scrambles to catch up with the implications.
“I mean, unless you want? I would - I mean, I like - kissing. I would like to kiss you, if you want.”
His tongue and his brain aren’t quite in sync, a disconnect born of desire and confusion and frankly discorporating child demons forty five minutes ago.
But she doesn’t give him time to wonder, doesn’t wait to talk or ask for more. Just reaches across and grabs his jacket collar tight in her fist and tugs him over so his lips crash into hers.
It is messy and satisfying and Tristan feels like he’s being slowly filled up with helium until he might float away on the sensation of her lips against his. She pulls back, eyes him speculatively, and then surges back in for another kiss, and he melts into the sensation of the heat of her lips, the tart citrus of the sorbet they ate earlier still sharp on her tongue. The silk of her skin under the pads of his fingers, and the way she opens for him on a gasp.
The sun creeps over the horizon, gilding them both in pink and orange light, and Tristan feels a last coil of anxiety slither into nothingness as he realises he’s safe. Later he’ll tell her about the curse. Later he’ll explain about his ridiculous hare-brained scheme that led to him getting caught by the witch in the first place. But for now he leans in for another kiss, and another, drawing her as close as he can in the awkward confines of the car.
It tastes like dawn sunlight and hope, and the promise of another day.