Chapter Text
Fabian has never been accused of being responsible. At nineteen years old, he hasn’t quite mastered the concept of delayed gratification yet, nor the idea of “consequences for his actions.”
Perhaps that’s why, when a merchant calls out to him, hocking his goods, Fabian’s ears perk up. He hears four words and they sing to him. Deck of Many Things. He’s heard stories about these decks from his crewmates and his curiosity has been piqued for years and years. A deck of cards that has the ability to alter someone’s life drastically, for better or for worse. He’s heard of Wish spells at the beck and call of brave adventurers who risk drawing a card. He’s also heard of instant death for those who are not quite as lucky.
He’s not suicidal, certainly, so he’d never draw from the Deck himself.
Except that, when the merchant goes on and on about all the great that could come from the Deck, Fabian seems to forget about the fact that half the cards in the deck mean him harm. He hears “riches,” and “power,” and “magic,” and he doesn’t seem to have room in his head for the whispers of “death,” “imprisonment,” and “loss.”
“How much for a card?” Fabian asks, clearing his throat and planting his hands down on the tall table covered with sparkling baubles. He flashes his most dazzling grin, knowing that he’ll get a better deal if he looks like someone that the merchant would want to grab a mug of ale with. “Twenty-five?”
The merchant throws his head back and laughs. The old man’s white, coarse hair doesn’t move an inch, oily and slicked against his pale scalp. “Twenty-five,” he repeats, chuckling. “That’s a good one, young’un.”
Fabian chews on the inside of his cheek. “Well, it certainly can’t be more than that.”
The merchant shakes his head and waves an arm, gesturing to the other booths around him. “If you want cheap, useless crap, look elsewhere.” Leviathan is crowded with sellers and stalls today. The flea market springs to life every second Thursday of the month in the pirate city and Fabian hates to miss it. He never knows when he might find his next piece of enchanted jewelry or his newest blade. Or, in this case, perhaps a single, exciting card to add to the deck of his life.
“Thirty, then,” Fabian suggests, keeping his bid low. His papa taught him how to barter and that includes not showing his cards too early. Does he have over a hundred gold coins in his belt bag? Yes, he does. Does he plan on throwing around that much wealth on a Thursday night? Certainly not.
“Forty-five is the lowest I could possibly go and still feed my family,” the merchant says, a smarmy grin on his face.
Fabian resists the urge to prompt the merchant to describe even a single measure of this so-called family of his. Instead he sighs and shakes his head. “Well, I suppose it wasn’t meant to be, then,” he says, turning slowly and taking a single carefully timed step away from the booth.
“Wait!”
Fabian smiles. He wipes the boastful grin off his face before turning back to the merchant. Raising one eyebrow, he welcomes the man to go on.
“Forty.”
Fabian’s face slowly stretches into a self-satisfied smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Gold, first.” The merchant scoops up the deck of cards and shuffles them rapidly, the cards bending in a bridge, slipping between one another, and almost disappearing in the speed of the motions. He splays out the cards in front of him in a fan on the dark purple tablecloth. Fabian instantly sees the one that calls to him. “Gold.”
“Right,” Fabian says. He doesn’t risk taking his eyes off the card that he can practically hear singing into his very soul. With both hands, he rips coins from his belt bag and passes them off in messy handfuls to the merchant. “Forty.”
“This is thirty eight,” the merchant says, and Fabian’s fairly certain he’s lying. Regardless, he passes two more coins off, eyes still locked onto the card. It’s sitting just a quarter of a centimeter further out than the others. It wants to be drawn, Fabian knows it.
“This one,” he says, pointing out his choice.
“Draw it, my boy.”
Fabian’s face alights into a smile. He slides the card out of the fan of cards and sucks in a sharp breath before flipping it over and reading the words. “Knight. You gain the service of a devoted knight who serves you loyally until their death or yours.” Bang! A flash of bright golden light shocks Fabian, sending him stumbling backwards. A cloud of smoke appears beside him and, stepping through it, there is a knight, dressed in a thin suit of steel armor. The knight makes eye contact with Fabian, a burning gaze, as he reaches out and grabs hold of Fabian’s hand. He yanks, offsetting Fabian’s backwards momentum, and resettles him on his feet.
“Are you alright?” the knight asks as Fabian’s feet press firmly into the shiplap boards of the flea market. His voice is higher than Fabian would’ve expected. Not gruff or wizened like the prototypical knight that he imagined might be summoned to his side. Rather, young. Earnest. “My liege?”
Fabian flinches. “Oh, you don’t have to call me that.”
“Apologies, my—um.”
“Fabian.” He grimaces awkwardly. “Fabian Aramais Seacaster.” Fabian sticks his hand out in front of him, offering it to the knight.
He frowns and tilts his hand to the side. “Do you want me to kiss it?”
“Wh—what?”
“Knights don’t typically kiss their liege’s hands,” the knight explains. “But if that’s what you wish?” He reaches out to take Fabian’s hand and ducks his head down. Fabian rips his hand free before the knight’s lips can touch it.
“No! Woah, no, man.”
The knight’s large, golden eyes widen to a frankly astonishing size. “My liege?”
“Please don’t call me that and please don’t kiss my hand. I was just—I wanted to shake yours. Like a hello.”
“Hello,” the knight says, his voice curious and intense all at once. “Sire.”
“Hello,” Fabian repeats. “What’s your name?”
“Name?” The knight’s head tilts to the side, staring into Fabian’s eye with a peculiar expression. “Why would I have a name?”
Fabian’s mouth falls open. He feels himself get shoved and jostled as the flea market patrons push past him and he realizes he hasn’t looked at anything but this knight since he appeared in front of him. He quickly scans his surroundings, admonishing himself for his lack of attention. The merchant smiles at him as he glances his way.
“Enjoying your new servant?”
“Servant,” Fabian mumbles to himself. His eyes jolt back to the knight’s. “I don’t— What do you— Why don’t you have a name?” He feels himself getting tied up in the strangeness of the circumstances once more. “How can someone not have a name?”
“I’m not someone. I’m your knight.” He shrugs. “What would I need a name for?”
“You’re not someone? You’re not a person?” Fabian’s mouth returns to its fly-catching position, wide and gaping. “What does that mean?”
“I’m just yours.” The knight shrugs again. Fabian ignores the way that his words clench around his heart with an uncomfortable, unwelcome pressure. “I just serve.”
“That’s… that— I’m not, uh, I…” Fabian wipes a hand down his face, scrubbing at his eyelid as if he’ll see something else when he opens it again. Unfortunately, when he blinks his eye open, he’s still looking at a short goblin who’s staring at him like he’s the most important thing in the world. “This is crazy,” he mutters.
“How can I serve you best?” the nameless knight asks.
“Holy shit. This is real, isn’t it?”
The merchant’s laugh cuts through the air, jolting Fabian to attention. The knight draws his sword in an instant, a dark, shadowy blade. He steps in front of Fabian and stands, battle ready, across from the merchant. “Mind yourself,” he declares, his voice dropping low. “Or pay the price.”
The merchant does not stop laughing. “And, to think,” he says, casually, “that card was one of the good ones!”
Fabian frowns, his eyebrows pinching together. “It… I— I have to go.” He turns and walks straight back where he came from, secretly hoping that the knight does not follow. When he doesn’t hear the clinking of armor behind him, he breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know what in the world that was, but he’s glad to be able to leave the exceptionally strange knight without a name behind him.
He reaches for the ropes that connect the flea market level of Leviathan with the docks and lowers himself down—hand over hand to avoid rope burn—dropping the last few feet onto the docks.
He breathes in, letting his eye drift shut. “That was so weird,” he mumbles to himself. Then, he opens his eye—
To the sight of the knight, peering at him with those wide, golden eyes.
“What the fuck?”
“My— Sire?”
Fabian swallows nervously. The knight moved silently despite his suit of armor. Something about that raises the hair on the back of Fabian’s neck. “How did you— no, why did you follow me?”
The knight frowns. He crinkles his nose quizzically. “It’s my purpose.” The words come out like there’s nothing more obvious in the world.
“I don’t need a knight,” Fabian says quickly. “Or a servant or anything like that. I’m just a guy. I’m just… I don’t need you.”
“But—” The knight freezes in place, his face tightening. For the first time since they met, Fabian sees a look of insecurity cross his face. “But what will I do?”
“Anything,” Fabian insists. “Literally anything else. Go, live your life. See your family. Chase your dreams.”
The knight frowns. “I don’t have a life. Or family… or dreams. Where would I go?”
Fabian presses two fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Shit.”
“M— Sire? Are you… are you okay?”
“I’m fine, yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just dealing with the fact that I have a whole-ass person to be responsible for now.” He sighs deeply. “Or a not-person person. Or something. Holy shit.”
The knight shifts his weight, pressing his lips together. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Woah, what? Dude, no.” Fabian’s stomach swirls. He has no idea how to deal with this. He squeezes his jaw shut and presses his eyes shut for a moment. He prays to Valkur for guidance and, as always, receives no divine intervention. Serves him right for never learning the right way to worship the gods. “Okay!” Fabian claps his hands together. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go to the ship and go to sleep and in the morning, I’m going to suddenly know what the hell to do with you.”
“Alright. I’ll watch over you while you rest.”
“Nope. No, no, uh, no.” Fabian swallows, feeling vaguely nauseous. “You’re also going to sleep. That’s weird, man. You’re not just going to watch me sleep.”
“But—”
Fabian does something that makes him feel sick. “I demand it.”
“Yes, my l— Sire.” The knight jolts to attention, his heels clicking together and his head nodding quickly. “As you command.”
“Oh, I hated that,” Fabian says, mostly to himself. “I really, really hated that.”
The knight insists on sleeping curled up at the bottom of Fabian’s bed. Fabian’s sure that he’ll get uncomfortable soon enough and move to the hammock in the corner of Fabian’s cramped quarters but when he wakes up, seven and a half hours later, the knight is still tucked into a tiny ball just below Fabian’s feet.
He had prayed that this was all a very strange dream but, having woken up to the ball at the foot of his bed, Fabian realizes that he’s very much screwed. He has a knight. He has a knight.
“Wake up,” Fabian murmurs, kicking at the ball of goblin below him. Fabian insisted that he take off his armor before bed and he looks small without it. Even smaller than he already looked. The knight springs awake, reaching for the sword he kept cradled to his chest all night. He draws it and springs to his feet. “Hey, The Ball.” Fabian offers a casual wave as he readjusts the blankets now that they’re not pinned down.
“What?”
“That’s you,” Fabian explains. “The Ball.”
The Ball wrinkles his nose up. “But why?”
“Why?” Fabian laughs, disbelieving and uncertain. “Because you don’t have a name, dude. I need to be able to call you something. And you were all curled up in a little ball. The Ball.”
“I see.” He blinks in a bird-like fashion, clearing his eyes of sleep. “If that’s what you’d like to call me.”
“Is there something you would rather be called?” Fabian asks quickly. “Because, boy, I’d love for you to express interest in literally anything at this point that isn’t just what I want.”
“I want you to call me what you want to call me,” The Ball says, “sire.”
“Please don’t call me sire,” Fabian implores him.
“How will I—I mean, yes, sire. I mean. Yes. Yes, Fabian.” The knight sighs and shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m not doing very well, am I?”
Fabian’s eyebrows knit together. “You’re doing fine,” he insists. “What do you mean?”
“I’m meant to serve you and all you’ve done so far is tell me that I’m doing it wrong,” The Ball says. “I swear that I am trying, si— Fabian.”
“No, I— holy shit, dude. I’m not trying to criticize you. Do you want to call me sire?”
“I don’t want anything but to—”
“—Serve me, yeah. I got that. But if you had to pick between calling me sire or calling me Fabian, if I had no preference, which would you pick?” Fabian asks, throwing his legs out of the bed and stepping into a pair of soft, mahogany boots. “Pretend like I never told you which one I preferred. If it were up to you.”
The Ball shakes his head. “I don’t have a preference.”
“Everyone has a preference for, like, everything,” Fabian insists. “Come on. Which comes naturally? Which feels right to you?”
“Sire,” the knight says cautiously. “If I weren’t trying to force myself to speak otherwise, I’d call you sire. And my liege, but—”
“But I’m gonna call that one a step too far,” Fabian says quickly, pulling on a thick, red coat. He buttons it over his pajamas and nods at The Ball. “Call me sire, then. If that’s what you want.”
“I want what you want.”
“And I want you to do what you want to do,” Fabian says, feeling half tied up in the paradox with which they’ve presented one another. “So call me sire.”
“Yes, sire.”
Fabian hides his grimace behind his closed fist. “And get dressed. I’m starving.”
“Yes, sire,” the knight says, springing to attention and racing to pull on his suit of armor. Fabian cringes. He needs to remember not to phrase things as orders if he can help it. The way that The Ball is so eager to meet those expectations disturbs him to an uncanny degree. He’ll work on his phrasing from this point on.
“Where are we going?” The Ball asks, showing some degree of curiosity that Fabian hasn’t seen on his face before. “Breakfast?”
“And a chat,” Fabian confirms. “I have to tell my captain about you.”
The knight swallows. “Is that a… problem?”
“It’s not not a problem,” Fabian offers. “But it’ll be fine. It’s fine, The Ball. Don’t even worry about it.”
“Yes, sire,” The Ball replies with a stiff nod. “As you wish.”
“Oh, gods,” Fabian groans.
“Captain,” Fabian greets his captain with a casual nod as he sits down across from him with two bowls of porridge in his hands. “I have, uh, some news.”
The Ball is three feet behind him, standing at the ready, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Stand down,” Fabian whispers over his shoulder. The knight forcibly relaxes, his hands going awkwardly limp as they hang by his side. “Sorry about that,” Fabian tells the captain who raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him.
“Oh, Fabian, what have you done this time?”
“Nothing! I didn’t do anything. I just… well… I mean, I guess I did do something.”
“That some people might consider irresponsible?”
Fabian deflates. “Yeah,” he sighs. “I drew from the Deck of Many Things.”
The captain laughs, each guffaw bellowing out from his stomach. “Fabian, Fabian, Fabian. You are something else. And who is this?”
“My knight.” Fabian cringes. “He, uh, serves me.”
“It’s my life’s purpose,” The Ball adds, stepping forward until he’s just one step behind Fabian. “Do you threaten his life? Sire, does he threaten your life?”
“Captain Viktor? No! Never.”
“Then he may live,” The Ball declares with a strong nod. “Hello, Captain Viktor.”
The captain laughs again. “What an interesting thing you’ve brought home.”
“He’s not a thing,” Fabian argues. “He’s, uh—”
“Your knight, sire.”
Fabian wipes a hand down his face. “Thanks. I’d almost forgotten,” he remarks sarcastically. “He’s my knight, captain. And, uh, I’m gonna figure out how to get rid of him soon enough but until then,” Fabian sighs, “do we have enough rations for one more?”
He risks a glance over at The Ball whose face has fallen into a sudden despair. Hurt crosses every line of his countenance.
“The Ball?”
He wipes his face half-clean, only the remnants of the pain left behind. “Apologies, sire. As you wish it.”
Fabian frowns. “What did I say?”
Captain Viktor clears his throat. “Fabian, my boy, you better work twice as hard until you get this figured out, you understand?”
“Oh, I’m sure The Ball will help out, too. He looks like he can carry his weight.”
Captain Viktor shakes his head. “Oh, I’m expecting that of him, as well. But if you’re dim-witted enough to draw from the Deck without thinking of how it may influence your crew, you deserve a punishment too, yes? Twice the deck work. Twice the look-out shifts. And don’t go assigning that work to your knight. I want you to pay the price.”
Fabian blows out a breath, filled with guilt and shame. “Yes, sir,” he says. The Ball’s face snaps to him, a curious look in his eyes. Fabian tilts his head quizzically at the expression but The Ball turns away before he can decode it. “Captain, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no need to apologize, my boy. You’ve given me a treat, you know?”
“What’s that?”
Captain Viktor lurches to his feet, drawing a dagger and lunging for Fabian’s throat. In a quarter of a second, The Ball’s blade flies across the air, too, meeting Captain Viktor’s dagger and disarming him. The weapon clatters on the wooden floor of the mess hall and Viktor grins, boyish and eager. “Some entertainment,” he answers, holding his hands up in surrender before The Ball can tear him apart. “He’s quick, hm?”
“Quicker than you,” the knight hisses.
“I mean Fabian no harm.”
“Yet you draw your weapon on him.”
Captain Viktor laughs. “Serves me right for being curious as to what you’re capable of. The Ball, is it?” He smiles casually. “This’ll be fun, Fabian, my boy. A knight for the ship!”
“I do not serve the ship,” The Ball snaps. “I serve Fabian Aramais Seacaster and him alone.”
Fabian’s chest starts to ache, an uncomfortably tight sensation wrapping around him like an elastic band at The Ball’s words. “It’s alright, The Ball. Take a breath.”
The Ball scowls at Captain Viktor before forcefully taking a single, short breath and letting it out just as fast. It doesn’t seem to mute his fury by even a fraction. “I do not serve him,” The Ball tells Fabian, looking up at him with desperate eyes. “I do not.”
“I know,” Fabian offers him, a lifeline. “But he’s… Captain Viktor’s a good guy, I promise. He was just messing around with the dagger. And giving you a hard time. It’s okay, The Ball, I promise. So you can calm down; no need to work yourself up.” Fabian has no idea what he’s doing as he tries to mediate and soothe The Ball’s nerves. His strong suit is working people up, not calming them down.
The knight’s eyes burn with licks of flame. He presses them shut and huffs out a breath before making direct, piercing eye contact with Fabian. “Yes, sire,” he says. “As you command it.”
“Shit.” Fabian really needs to work on that accidentally-giving-commands thing. “Well, great. Great. Time for a deck-shift then, I assume?”
“That’s right,” Captain Viktor says with a wide grin. “Until, let’s say… dinnertime. How does that sound, my boy?”
“Sounds like I should’ve never drawn a card from the Deck,” Fabian says through gritted teeth. “Yes, captain. Come on, The Ball.”
“Yes, sire,” The Ball echoes. “What can I do to help?”
“Sire?” The Ball’s voice is quiet but insistent. Fabian’s head snaps up from his busywork, scrubbing the same floorboard on the ship’s top deck with his mop, praying that the bloodstain will eventually fade.
“What’s up, The Ball?”
“What’s your role here?”
“Hm?”
“On the ship.”
“Oh, I’m the first mate,” Fabian chuckles. “Second in charge. If you can believe it, I’m usually not the one mopping the deck but Captain Viktor knows that his job is also to keep me in check and, let me tell you, drawing from the Deck of Many Things is not the kind of thing that he wants to encourage.” Fabian waves at a crewmate, Crenel, as he smirks at Fabian’s misfortune. “Yeah, yeah, Crenel, laugh away.”
“I ain’t laughing at you, man. I’m laughing at your shadow wearing a full suit of armor on the deck of a ship. What does he think is going to happen?”
“Ask him yourself,” Fabian snaps back. He doesn’t like the way that people have been talking about The Ball as if he can’t hear them or respond for himself.
“Alright, sure. Hey, jackass—”
“And you’re done.” Fabian steps forward, pointing the wet end of the mop at Crenel’s chest. “Show a little respect to The Ball.”
“His name’s Ball?” Crenel laughs boisterously. “Oh, that’s a treat.”
“Shut up, Crenel. Unless you want a sword to your throat.”
The Ball perks up, pressing his palm against the hilt of his blade. “Do you wish it, sire?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Fabian presses his lips together, looking between The Ball’s eager eyes and the defiant angle of Crenel’s chin. “It looks like you’re not afraid,” he tells Crenel.
“I ain’t.”
Fabian smiles and shrugs. “Well, I think you’ll come to regret that. The Ball here moves silently; did you know that? He’s good at sneaking right up on a guy. You know what else he’s good at?”
Crenel grunts, prompting Fabian to go on.
“Killing,” Fabian hisses. “Now leave me and my knight alone. I’m tired of looking at your face.”
Crenel rolls his eyes and turns, stomping to the center mast and climbing the rope ladder to the crow’s nest. “Whatever,” he mutters as he goes. “‘Ball.’” He snorts.
Fabian turns to The Ball, his hands forming into tight fists. He fumes with frustration at Crenel for thinking he knows anything about his knight.
Oh gods, Fabian thinks. I just called him my knight.
He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the errant thought. He can’t start thinking like that because he doesn’t intend on keeping this knight. He’ll find a way to free The Ball from this strange magic and then all will return to normal. “Sorry about him,” Fabian forces out. “Crenel’s an asshole.”
“How do you know that I’m good at killing?” The Ball asks, blinking at Fabian quizzically.
“Aren’t you?” Fabian can tell by the way that The Ball holds his weapon that he’s well trained. He had just assumed that with that training came experience in the field. “You look like you know your way around that sword.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever killed anyone.”
“Wh—what?” Fabian’s mouth falls open. “You’re… what—how?”
“Well, I mean… you would know.”
“What do you mean?”
The Ball tilts his head curiously. “You’ve been with me since I came to be. You didn’t see me kill anyone, did you? And I don’t remember killing anyone, so I guess I never have.”
“Wait, hold on. Hang on, hang on. You were born yesterday? Like, literally sprung to life last night?”
“You were there,” The Ball says, but he sounds uncomfortable. “I don’t know any more than you do.”
“I thought… I thought you were, like, stolen or something. Like, borrowed from a neighboring kingdom, ripped away from your old life or something like that. You’re telling me you were just created? Out of nowhere?” Fabian feels sick suddenly, and it’s not from the rocking of his ship on the waves. “That’s… that’s insane, The Ball.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Fabian sucks in a breath. “Because if you don’t have a life to go back to, what in the world am I going to do with you?”
“Do with me?” The Ball asks, his eyes darting down, tucking his face away with some degree of shame. “I… I serve you, sire. All you need to do with me is let me stay close. That’s all I want.”
“I want you to want more than that,” Fabian protests. “I want you to go home to your wife and kids and friends and life. You’re telling me you don’t have that?”
The Ball shrugs. “I don’t remember anything like that.”
Remember… Fabian snaps his fingers eagerly. “It might be a memory blocker! We just need to find a wizard who can dispel the block and you’ll remember your past. That’s it, The Ball! You’re brilliant.”
“My past…” The Ball trails off. “What if I don’t have one, though?”
A black hole forms in Fabian’s chest, sucking ever inwards. The intense pressure makes him almost dizzy with discomfort. “You do,” he tells The Ball and, more importantly, he tells himself. “You must have a past. We just have to find it.”
“Is that what you wish?”
“Yes,” Fabian insists. “I can’t tell you how much easier you would make my life if you suddenly remembered where you came from.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “Born yesterday… As if. Of course you have a past.”
The Ball frowns, eyebrows pinching together. He looks like he wants to say something else but he snaps his mouth shut. “Yes, sire.”
“Next time we’re in a port city, we’ll find a wizard,” Fabian declares. He wishes that the ship had a wizard on their crew—one worth his salt, at least—but their only spellcaster is currently sitting in the crow’s nest and chuckling derisively at The Ball. Fabian has no interest in asking Crenel for a favor. He’ll wait until he finds someone with a little more expertise in the field. “And we’ll break you free.”
The Ball looks past Fabian’s shoulder, his eyes half focused. “Yes, sire,” he says, though his face says anything but those two words.
“What’s wrong?” Fabian asks quickly.
The Ball’s eyes snap back to Fabian. He smiles tightly, pressing his lips together. “Nothing, sire. Would you like me to finish mopping for you?”
“I’d like nothing more.” Fabian laughs, but he keeps the mop in hand. “But you don’t deserve that.”
The Ball frowns. “Sire?”
“Carrying my weight. I’m not light, you know,” he jokes. “It’s fine, The Ball. I’ll finish off the job. You can take a rest in my quarters if you’d like.”
“And leave your side?”
“Well, yes.” Fabian shrugs. “Nothing’s going to happen to me on the ship. Take a break. That’s what you deserve.”
“I cannot.” The Ball shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “I would not abandon you.”
“It’s not abandonment if I’m telling you to do it,” Fabian laughs.
The Ball perks up as if Fabian has said some magic word. “Do you command it, sire?”
Fabian sighs. He chews on the inside of his cheek and debates his next word. He could say, yes, I demand it, but then he’d be unfairly exerting this strange control he has over his knight which makes his skin crawl to even consider. Or, he could say, no, I don’t, and The Ball would continue to stand on the side of the Golden Cormorant and watch Fabian work. Although he’s uncomfortable with The Ball’s wide eyes locked onto his every movement, he thinks he prefers it to the feeling he gets when he gives him an order. “I don’t demand it,” he declares. “I just… I’m saying you’re allowed to. So you pick. Do whatever you want to do.”
The Ball’s face tightens. “I don’t want.”
Fabian nods, pressing his eye shut for a moment. “Right,” he says. “Of course you don’t.”