Archive of Our Own

Trinity stared at the cat. The cat stared back. Trinity felt she had the upper hand, as the cat only had one eye, but it seemed pure tenacity was keeping it in the game.

It meowed.

Trinity did not meow back, though she did consider it.

The cat had been stalking her for the past week, slipping in and out of shadows as she went about her days. She never saw it in the Pitt, but it found her in the parking garage, on the sidewalk, in the ambulance bay, outside her apartment, and on the street during her hot girl walks.

And now it was outside the apartment. On the balcony. Staring at her. And she was staring back.

The cat was a deep black color, its coat surprisingly shiny for a street cat. The effect was uncanny, as though the cat had been dipped in oil. Its single eye was aggressively yellow and slitted cautiously. Trinity couldn’t make her pupil into a slit, but she narrowed her eyes anyway.

“What are you doing?”

Trinity didn’t startle. She never startled when it was Dennis talking. Their magic had woven together so strongly in their time living together that she could practically tell where he was going before he knew himself.

“The cat is back,” Trinity said, not moving her eyes. Dennis came up next to her, looking out at the cat.

“I don’t think it’s a normal cat,” Dennis said. He tilted his head at it. The cat didn’t even glance his way, completely focused on Trinity. Its tail waved slightly.

“I know it’s not a normal cat.” Trinity had known since the cat first appeared. Since her eyes first met its single yellow one. She knew it was a possibility, but a part of her hoped it would never happen.

A familiar meant something to take care of. A familiar meant her magic was growing in the way her mother never wanted. A familiar meant something else to lose. A familiar meant magic had stuck a poor creature with Trinity, and no matter how long she stared at it or ignored it or convinced herself it was a normal cat, it wouldn’t go away.

Trinity had met other familiars, of course. She came from a family of witches. Her aunt had a samar cobra named Pirah. Trinity used to cuddle the snake in her sweatshirt when her aunt came to visit. She liked to play target practice with Pirah, watching her spit venom at handmade cardboard bullseyes.

(Her grandmother had a golden-crowned flying fox named Sulo. He liked to circle around the living room with his gorgeous wings and hang upside down above Trinity’s bed. She hadn’t thought about Sulo in a very long time. Sulo taught her many things, the last one being that familiars died with their witches.)

“So…” Dennis began, shuffling his feet, “should we let it inside?”

The cat meowed again, as if it could hear them. She could practically feel its insistence.

I’m already here, and I’m happy to follow you around as long as it takes, its eye seemed to say.

So Trinity opened the sliding glass door that led onto their pathetic deck and let the cat slip inside, smooth as water.

The cat was quick to make itself comfortable on the couch. It licked its paw without a care in the world. Trinity and Dennis stared at it. It didn’t seem to mind.

“Do we need to like, feed it?”

Trinity shot Dennis an unimpressed look. “Yes, Dennis, when you get a pet, you generally need to feed it.”

“I don’t know! It’s clearly magic, it could be made of like, smoke or something.”

“Well, he’s not.” Trinity didn’t know how she knew the cat was a “he.” She certainly wasn’t sparing him a look when he started licking… down there. Somehow she just knew.

“Okay, so it’s just a magic cat? What does it want?” Dennis asked. It was times like these when Trinity was reminded of how sheltered Dennis was from the magical world. He was extremely powerful, almost annoyingly so, creating concoctions in the kitchen that most witches could only dream of. But he only knew one witch, his mother, and from what Trinity knew, his mother wasn’t well-connected either.

“It’s a familiar,” Trinity explained. “A magical animal companion that arrives when a witch is powerful enough, or fate decides, or whatever.”

“Oh.” Dennis looked at the cat. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Trinity didn’t reply. Mostly because she wasn’t sure herself. Was it a good thing? Familiars were useful. They provided companionship, magical energy, an errand runner, a component hunter, and a friend. Trinity never saw her aunt without Pirah.

But it was just another thing to fuck up. Another creature to disappoint.

As if hearing a challenge, the cat stopped his ministrations and looked at Trinity.

A single eye, the other taken clearly by the force of an injury. A coat, glossy black and shining with magic, but with its own dents and ruffles when you looked closer. Claws sharp. Teeth pointed.

The cat blinked slowly, lazily. Trinity knew that meant trust in most cats. But this wasn’t most cats. Instead, it was almost taunting her.

I am broken like you. I have survived like you. You won’t be the one to end me.

It was a certain comfort, that the cat was under no false impressions. He did not need Trinity to save him. In fact, it seemed the opposite.

“Patch,” Trinity declared. “That’s his name.”

Patch yawned and stretched out on the couch, content to nap while Trinity began to look up how far away the nearest pet store was.

——————

Patch became a staple of the household rather quickly. He enjoyed being in Dennis’ way when he was cooking, enticed by the heat of the oven. When Trinity was scrawling sigils, testing shapes and the feeling of pen strokes, Patch liked to bat at any writing utensil in sight and relish in their clattering on the ground. He scratched the legs of all their furniture, walked on the counters, and slept on top of Trinity’s keyboard while she was typing.

Trinity was rather fond of him.

It wasn’t all chaos all the time. Patch could be helpful when he wanted to be. He was quite adept at knowing which charms Trinity needed (and was forgetting) and would trot up to her with them in his mouth. He had opinions on her sigils, scratching up the ones that wouldn’t work. Most mornings, he would drop a tarot card he had stolen on her lap, giving her an idea of the day ahead. Trinity felt more powerful when he was around, more sure of her own abilities.

It helped that Patch was very independent. Trinity had read all about not letting cats outside, but Patch wasn’t really a cat. Sure, he groomed himself and used a litter box and said meow, but he also did magic and read sigils and when Trinity said she needed rosemary, Patch somehow knew what that was.

So she let him outside (after a lecture about having food at home, and not killing birds; she thinks he got the message). She filled his food bowl, occasionally dangled a feather toy, and cleaned his litter box. That was all.

It wasn’t that Trinity couldn’t take care of something. But it was nice that she wasn’t terrified of killing Patch, like he was a fish she could forget to feed.

“Trinity! Patch is on the counter again!” Dennis yelled. It was one of their days off from the Pitt. Trinity was watching TV, and Dennis was baking.

“He likes to be tall!” Trinity called back.

“I don’t want cat hair in these muffins!”

“He’s a magic cat! It’s extra magic!”

Dennis appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You can add cat hair to your trinkets all you want, but I don’t think Patch is much of a kitchen witch.”

A meow came from behind Dennis’ feet, where Patch was weaving between them.

“See, he likes you! Teach my son the ways of the kitchen!”

Dennis walked over and plopped Patch onto Trinity’s sprawled form. Patch began kneading Trinity’s face.

“Teach your son manners first,” Dennis said dryly.

Trinity would’ve responded, but she didn’t want paws in her mouth.

Dennis went back to baking, and Trinity gave Patch a few head pats. He purred and settled into her arms.

——————

Patch made his first (and Trinity hoped only) debut in the Pitt two months into becoming her familiar.

It had been a shitty night. Dennis was working a double, so he didn’t end up going home with her. That meant she was on her own for dinner, and they really needed to go to the store, but she worked tomorrow, so maybe Dennis could do it after the double. Anyhow, it just meant that Trinity was getting takeout.

Takeout that took 90 minutes to get to her apartment. For some goddamn reason.

And they hadn’t even included everything.

Trinity was too hungry and tired to demand they return with her steamed pork buns, and just ate the teriyaki chicken.

It was mid. And there was nothing good on TV. And she couldn’t watch certain shows without Dennis. And they forgot to run the dishwasher before they left that morning. And Trinity stubbed her toe while going to get into PJs.

All in all, a terrible night, made only more terrible by the nightmares that plagued her.

When she woke up, sweating and disoriented, Patch was on top of her. His eye tracked her head as she sat up.

“Patch?” she asked groggily. “Fuck, I totally forgot to put out your dinner.”

Patch meowed and didn’t look eager to move. He licked her face with his sandpaper tongue.

“I’m fine, you hairball,” Trinity said, gently pushing his head away. He chirped but didn’t lick her again. Just settled onto her chest.

Trinity tried to get back to sleep, she really did. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Dennis held up against the wall. She tried to move, but her body was powerless as the hunter’s knife slid across his throat. Just like her grandmother. Another piece of her family gone. Another person she couldn’t save.

Patch was a welcome weight on her chest, helping ground her. But he couldn’t chase away every bad thought, no matter how hard he tried. (And he had tried, many, many nights before. Sometimes he even succeeded. But not always. And not tonight.)

So the rest of the night was spent wide awake, stroking Patch soothingly and trying to think of something other than blood.

Suffice to say, when she arrived at the Pitt the following morning, she was very unhappy. The dream lingered in her mind, her toe still sort of hurt, and there wasn’t enough milk left for cereal that morning.

At the lockers, Trinity shoved her bag in unceremoniously. The moment became slightly more ceremonious when her bag began to wiggle.

“What the fuck?” Trinity said, startling away from the bag and dropping her water bottle. The bag wiggled again and let out a familiar meow.

“Oh god, no, I swear to god,” she muttered, opening the bag. A single worried eye peered out at her from where she unzipped.

“Patch, you can’t be here!” Trinity whispered. She looked around, hoping no one would see her talking to a backpack. Of course, considering the night she had and the morning following it, she wouldn’t be that lucky.

“Hey, Trinity!” Mel said brightly. Cassie followed, holding an iced coffee and giving Trinity a nod.

Trinity slammed her locker shut and leaned against it. “Hey, hi, hello.”

Chatter ebbed and flowed as Mel and Cassie put their things away and Trinity acted extremely normal.

“How was your night, Santos?” Cassie asked. “Harrison and I fell asleep watching Star Wars.”

“Oh, you know, fine.” A small bump from the locker. Trinity coughed in an attempt to cover it up. “Super fine. And not unusual.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. She and Mel left, Trinity making an excuse she didn’t even remember. When the coast was clear, she yanked open her locker.

“Patch! What the fuck!” she whisper-yelled. “I’m having a shitty enough day as it is! I can’t have my magic cat running around!”

Patch had the decency to look slightly guilty as he crawled out of the bag. He leapt out of the locker and began to weave around Trinity’s legs. It was an apology, but Trinity also understood it was more. Of course she did. He was her familiar. She knew that Patch was worried about her and didn’t really understand that he couldn’t hiss at everything upsetting his witch.

She scooped him up and buried her face in his fur.

“Yesterday sucked. This morning sucked. The rest of this day will likely suck. But when I get home, you’ll make it suck less.”

Trinity hated being sentimental, but Patch brought it out in her. He purred.

“However,” she said, pulling away and holding him at arm’s length, “it will suck more if I am caught smuggling a cat into the ER. No matter how charming you think you are.”

The meow Patch let out at that was indignant.

“Santos! Get your butt to handoff!” a voice called. Trinity turned, cat in hand, to see Dana leaning around the corner to look at the lockers.

She looked at Trinity. She looked at Patch, swinging in Trinity’s hands. She looked at Trinity again.

“I didn’t know it was bring your pet to work day,” Dana said with a raised eyebrow.

“I didn’t either,” Trinity said dryly. “But familiars don’t like to follow the rules.”

Dana’s other eyebrow raised. “Can the magic cat teleport home?”

It was times like these that Trinity was extremely thankful Dana knew about her and Dennis. Anyone else, and they would think she brought Patch on purpose, or they would ask way too many questions about it. Dana, though, she understood that magic did what magic would do. She wasn’t a witch, but she knew other witches, and would always cover for them.

“He can walk home,” Trinity said.

“Well then, show him the door, chop chop!”

Trinity was all too happy to head to the back door and plop Patch on the pavement.

“Home. Now.” Patch mumbled and grumbled and hissed, but she could tell he would relent. She let him have a tantrum for another fifteen seconds.

“Come on. I have to work.” One eye met two. The staring contest didn’t last long. Patch stopped his grumbling and stretched, ready for the walk home. Before he left, he gave Trinity one final lick on the hand. Trinity felt a small surge of magic melt through her skin and into her blood.

A boon.

Familiars had magic in them. Trinity knew this. Of course they did, it’s why Patch was able to help her with her sigils and spells and trinkets. But this little boon wasn’t Patch giving assistance; it was Patch sharing some of his power with her, trusting that she would use it wisely and bring it back home.

Slinking into the shadows, Patch was gone in an instant. Trinity stayed, looking at her hand. She felt re-energized. She felt like she could take on her shitty twelve hour shift. She felt like maybe today wouldn’t suck so bad after all.

With the thought of Patch waiting for her at home, she strode back into the Pitt with newfound confidence.

——————

Patch made his second (and Trinity prayed final, though she admits this one was her fault) visit to the Pitt when Dennis was on shift without her. He’d forgotten his lunch, sitting on the table in his very old reusable lunch box.

Trinity knew what was in it. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, made with homemade everything. A banana. A granola bar freshly baked the night before, emboldened with magic to keep him going through twelve hours. A carton of chocolate milk Trinity teased him endlessly for.

It was the lunch of a middle schooler.

But it was also the lunch of her best friend and coven member. She didn’t want him to go through a grueling shift without his lunch. That was just cruel.

Trinity was in her PJs, enjoying her day off. Huckleberry, workaholic that he was, was at the Pitt taking a shift for Mel, who was doing some sort of family thing with Becca and was out all week. With a groan, she stood from the couch and examined the lunchbox on the kitchen table.

It wasn’t very big. It wasn’t very heavy. And Trinity was very lazy.

“Patch!” Trinity called. “Patchy! Patchy Patches!”

A furry black shape revealed itself by jumping on the counter and chittering.

“You know Huckleberry doesn’t like you on the counters,” Trinity drawled. Patch flicked his tail and lazily stretched, as if asking, what are you gonna do about it?

“I have a way you could make it up to him, though.” Trinity dangled the lunchbox in her hand. Patch tilted his head. “Our favorite kitchen witch left this at home. Think you can deliver it to the Pitt?”

Patch’s eye narrowed. Trinity knew what that meant. What’s in it for me?

“I won’t tell Huckleberry about you traipsing on the counters,” Trinity offered. Patch looked away and began playfully pawing at a shine of light on the counter.

Fine. Time for the big guns.

“I’ll get those flaky tuna treats again,” Trinity said. Patch turned his head, but didn’t move yet. Trinity leaned forward. “And I’ll put the catnip spray on your toys.”

There’s the ticket. Patch hopped up and sniffed the lunch box. It was a little heavy to carry in his mouth, but Trinity was prepared.

“I’ve been wanting to try this for weeks, you’d be perfect to deliver potion ingredients to Den or carry snacks or components if we’re out and about.” Trinity dug around in her room while she rambled, Patch watching curiously. Eventually, she found what she was looking for.

Midnight black, matching Patch’s fur, with little adjustable straps. A cat harness. With a cat backpack.

Patch did not look impressed.

Trinity was very excited.

(Dennis was much less excited. He came home that evening with a vengeance, complaining to Trinity that Patch not only made it to the Pitt with Dennis’ lunch squished in the little backpack, but that Patch had actually snuck into the building through the ambulance bay.

He was apparently quite adept at maneuvering between gurneys and fast-moving feet dancing across the ER floor. In fact, no one noticed him until he had found Dennis in the break room.

Patch had hopped up on the table, scaring Dennis so bad that he spilled coffee all over himself. Patch found this amusing, as did Trinity when he recounted it. Dennis did not.

With some help from Dana, who was glad to see the mystery cat again, just not in the ER, Dennis was able to sneak Patch out and return to work, the rest of the staff none the wiser.

Dennis did appreciate having lunch. He wondered why Trinity couldn’t have just driven it.

“This was way more entertaining,” Trinity said.

Patch couldn’t speak, but they could both tell he agreed.)

——————

Dennis’ familiar was a different story. Unlike Patch, his didn’t follow him for days on end to gain his trust, ending in a staring contest. No, one morning Dennis Whitaker awoke to insistent tapping on his window.

Patch had been a household staple for almost six months now. Usually, he got inside by himself, but Dennis supposed he needed some help on occasion. He stumbled out of bed, ready to open the window, let in an ungrateful Patch, then fall back into bed.

This did not happen.

Instead, he opened the window without looking and was greeted with a flurry of feathers. Rather than the shape going down to the ground, as Patch would, it swooped up and around, landing on his headboard.

Dennis is not ashamed to say he screeched and almost fell over. Anyone would when confronted with a bird flying around their bedroom.

“Den! You okay?” Trinity’s voice flowed through the hallway and under his closed door. She liked to pretend she wasn’t actually concerned, but she hadn’t called him Huckleberry, so he knew she was.

“There’s a bird in here!” he yelled out. The bird stared at him with very large, very round yellow eyes. It had a small, sharp beak and thick feathers colored in reddish browns, grays, whites, and a few patches of darker browns and blacks. It wasn’t very big— less than a foot tall. But it had a certain regal intimidation to it, with its claws digging into the headboard assuredly and little tufts sticking off its head like horns.

Trinity opened his door slowly, Patch slipping in through the cracks. “Are you alive?”

“Yes, there’s just a bird! I think it’s some sort of owl.” Despite Trinity’s intrusion, it kept its eyes on Dennis. When he said “owl”, it shifted its head slightly.

Trinity pushed the door further open. Patch had vanished somewhere in Dennis’ room, likely watching everything go down from a hidey-hole.

“Oh shit,” Trinity said. “That’s a bird.”

“Yeah, I said there’s a bird in my room.” The owl didn’t seem concerned with the intrusion, still looking at Dennis. The giant eyes and feather pattern around them made it look almost… angry? Maybe disappointed? Judgmental?

Somehow, Dennis knew that’s not actually what the bird was feeling. No, she was curious. A little proud, sure. Interested in him, mainly.

Wait, she?

He expected Trinity to get a familiar. Well, once he knew what they were and how they worked, he understood why she had one. After the incident with the hunter, she’d thrown herself into magic more intensely than before. The wards were cleaner. More specific. More powerful. She’d been experimenting with different spells, summoning lightning at her fingertips and creating bracelets with built-in energy shields. She hoisted curse prevention earrings, necklaces, even shoelaces, on everyone. Dennis especially. He certainly didn’t have problems accessorizing anymore.

But that was Trinity. Sure, Dennis had been affected by the attack. People noticed that he much preferred being called “Whit” than “Whitaker.” All mentions of family had evaporated from his vocabulary. He had taken to putting more garlic in everything for protection. Trinity hadn’t said anything about the amount of cloves he’d been using either. Sure, some of his potions and spells and baked goods were a little more… intense than usual, and sure, the plants he kept around the house were all growing more than they should, but that didn’t mean anything.

He wasn’t like Trinity. He wasn’t powerful, or focused, or trained. His mother didn’t have a familiar. Why would he have one? He was just a kitchen witch.

A kitchen witch who knew this bird wasn’t just a bird. She was a very special, very magical bird, and she was here for him.

Dennis looked to Trinity, who was smirking. Great, she figured it out too.

“Well, little witch is all grown up,” she said. Dennis groaned. The owl let out a trill.

Dennis was surprised that he recognized it.

Sometimes, on the farm, on the nights he couldn’t sleep, he’d sit by his window and listen to the sounds that echoed in the moonlight. That trill was one of them, often sung back and forth between two birds. Once, his mother listened with him.

“Eastern screech owl,” she said. “My bird book calls it a tremolo.” Dennis nodded along, listening for another. His mother didn’t have much time to herself, but when she did, he knew she liked to watch birds.

His dad thought it was a frivolous activity. He threw her first bird-watching book in the trash. She bought another one while in town. Secondhand, of course. It was hidden in the cookware, where her husband never went. But she told Dennis about it, and some days, when they managed to be alone in the kitchen, they’d listen for birdcalls and watch them flit around the fences and try to identify them all.

Another tremolo brought him back to reality. The owl looked at him with deep kindness and understanding. He wondered why she understood him so well.

In a quiet swoop of elegant wings, she flew over the bed and landed on the foot of it, closer to Dennis. He reached a hand out, and she nuzzled it slightly, eyes closing.

“Lucky you with the owl,” Trinity commented. “It doesn’t need a litter box, and can probably find dinner all on its own. Not like that freeloader.” She gestured down to where Patch had emerged. He had hopped on the bed and was studying the owl from behind.

The owl seemed very aware of the predator behind her, but was unbothered. Prim and proper, making a throne of a cheap Ikea bed.

“Hera,” Dennis whispered. “That should be her name.”

It was a nice moment, immediately ruined by Patch pouncing and Hera gracefully flying out of the way. Patch managed to snag a loose feather, which he batted at with exuberance.

Trinity laughed, Dennis giggled, Patch rolled off the bed, and Hera balanced on the dresser, clearly better than all of them.

——————

It was nice to have a piece of home that didn’t make him feel like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. Hera’s warbles, trills, and clacks brought him back to the Nebraskan plains.

She was also very low-maintenance, despite Dennis being terrified he wouldn’t be able to get the necessary materials to care for her. She hunted her own food, and only occasionally would she take some of the bugs Dennis offered as snacks. Sometimes he’d splurge and make homemade treats with ground bone meal and finely chopped rabbit, but that was expensive, and Hera seemed just fine having them once in a while.

He’d gotten her a stand so she could perch on his desk. After a week, he bought a few more to put throughout the house, so she could stay with him in the kitchen and living room. Patch enjoyed using them as scratching posts.

Hera loved helping Dennis in the kitchen. She plucked herbs off of his planters by the window with surgical precision and dropped them in soups, sauces, doughs, and batters with the same care. If Dennis was distracted, she’d get his attention and ensure he didn’t burn anything. She made suggestions, pecking at certain spice bottles and flapping her wings when he was over-mixing. She was a fantastic sous chef.

Trinity came in one day with a little chef hat for Hera to wear. Hera decided she’d rather use it as a rag.

“Huckleberry, your familiar is an asshole!” Trinity had said upon seeing the hat in shreds.

“She has standards,” Dennis replied. “Get her something fancier.”

So a week later, Trinity returned with a golden charm threaded with twine, a symbol of a crown shining.

Hera wore her new necklace all the time.

——————

Dennis gasped awake, heart pounding. He could still feel the pressure on his throat, digging into his airway. The knife, mere inches from his face.

Your brothers and father send their regards.

He tried to pretend that it didn’t affect him, he really did. Tried to pretend it was the attack itself that made his breath catch. That those words didn’t matter. That they were lies. His family wouldn’t do that, right?

Right?

A soft noise broke Dennis from his thoughts. Two yellow eyes stared at him from his bedside table. Hera cooed again, her head twisting and turning with worry.

“Hi Hera,” Dennis said quietly. “I’m ok. Heartrate’s already going down, see?” He held out his arm as if she could take his pulse.

“Just a nightmare.” He fell back onto his bed, arm still out towards Hera. She ruffled her feathers.

Just the two of them in the dark, wide awake.

“Do you think it… do you think he was lying when he said my family sent him?” Dennis asked. He knew Hera couldn’t answer in any meaningful way, but he couldn’t stay silent. His mind was a hurricane of thoughts, all leading back to the inevitable.

Hera didn’t reply, of course, but she did move from her perch on the bedside table to Dennis’ headboard, leaning over and looking down at Dennis. Times like these, Dennis swore that she could read minds. Her big eyes seemed to bore through any defense.

“It could’ve been a mistake,” Dennis said. Hera blinked at him.

No. It wasn’t a mistake.

His dad and brothers knew he was out in the world and decided they didn’t like that. They wanted him dead and buried. They wanted to kill all evidence that a Whitaker could ever be a witch. They hadn’t spoken to him since he was eighteen, yet they decided they still couldn’t handle him being alive.

He was a stain on the family they were desperate to scrub clean, like one of his mom’s baking dishes with burned-on pie crust.

He was so far in his mind that he didn’t register Hera swooping off the headboard and towards the window. It was always open for her now, a few charms from Trinity keeping out the weather and wandering insects. He did register, however, when Hera flew back in and dropped something next to his head.

A dead rat.

“Hera, what the hell!” Dennis yelped. He scooted away from the still-bleeding carcass.

Hera didn’t like that, flapping her wings in protest at the rejection of her gift.

“No, it’s, I’m not trying to be rude, Hera, but that’s a dead rat!” He explained. Hera hooted. “You can have it, but it’s not exactly a baking ingredient or anything.”

Another disgruntled ruffle of feathers, and Hera had taken the rat away, back outside where it belonged. Dennis huffed and stripped the sheets. There went his plans of going back to sleep. Maybe something was on TV.

In the light of a random reality TV show, Dennis watched Hera fly around the kitchen, having returned from her rat-snatching escapade. Minutes later, she was diving at him to herd him to the kitchen, where a little mug of tea was steaming.

“You did this?” He asked. He didn’t know Hera could make tea. Hell, how’d she boil the water? But Hera just preened and clacked her beak and looked proud. Dennis took a sip.

It tasted like home.

Not the home of his brothers’ and father’s cruelty, of isolation. No, it was like the tea his mother would make, early in the morning as they watched the sun rise together. It was the smell of a pie in the oven, a fresh breeze on fields of long grass. The sound of an eastern screech owl calling out over the plains.

Dennis settled back on the couch with his mug, Hera by his side. It wouldn’t always be easy, but Hera made it easier.

(When Dennis mentioned Hera bringing him a dead rat later that week, Trinity thought it was hilarious. “Like witch, like familiar!” she cackled, and ribbed him about being called the bloodhound when he should’ve been called bird of prey.

Dennis, for his part, had forgotten about the rat catching he did that first day at the Pitt. He supposed Hera being his familiar made more sense now.)

——————

Hera only made one appearance at the Pitt, and she was not a rascal who snuck in anyone’s bag, thank you very much. Dennis’ familiar had some class.

(“Or your familiar doesn’t know how to have any fun!” Trinity replied. Patch meowed in agreement.)

Dennis was at work and had run out of some ingredients he generally used for teas, coffees, and make-do potions in the break room. It was a slow day. Dennis was desperate for something to boost his energy so he wasn’t falling asleep while charting.

But he was out of mint.

He really should’ve been paying more attention to his stores. He was usually on top of it, but the past week had been hectic. He sighed, bonking his head against the cabinet. He couldn’t just run away to go pick mint.

He lifted his head from the cabinet slowly. But there’s someone who could. He was making his way to the ambulance bay before he could consider that it may be a bad idea.

Outside, Dennis quickly realized that he didn’t really know exactly how to get Hera to visit him. Trinity had talked about familiars having an innate connection with their witch. Hera’s alignment with him in the kitchen seemed to prove that. She knew where he was going to be before he did, and she always felt like an extension of his body. He supposed he could just test the limits of that extension.

Dennis closed his eyes. It was a relatively warm day. All the plants trapped in tiny plots of dirt around the concrete were reaching towards the sky. Birds flit about precisely, riding currents and catching unsuspecting butterflies. Somewhere in the city of Pittsburgh, an owl was napping safely in a tree that sat outside a very specific apartment building.

She opened her eyes.

For a moment, Dennis felt like he was in Hera’s body. He was flying above the streets on silent wings. He could spot the minuscule movements of tiny rodents and giant humans navigating the sidewalks. Something was tugging him, pulling him to where he knew he needed to be.

Seconds later, Hera landed on his shoulder. Despite her claws being deadly sharp, they never ripped Dennis’ shirts. Perks of her being magical.

“Hey Hera,” Dennis said, gently petting her head. She nuzzled into it. “Willing to do me a favor?”

One request for mint later, Hera was airborne, and Dennis was back inside, jumping in on the car crash victims that had rolled through the doors moments before.

It hit him ten minutes after he finished a suture. A tug in his gut. The same place he felt stir when he kneaded dough or dug his fingers in the earth.

“You ok, Dr. Whitaker?” Mel asked. She had been picking debris out of a patient’s arm. Dennis wondered how many times she had done that. She was always the first one called for gravel being stuck in wounds.

“Yeah, yeah, fine, all good,” Dennis said. “Just need to take a breath.”

“Are you done?” his patient asked.

“Yup! Nurse Perlah will be with you shortly to give you your wound care information, you should come back in three days for another check.” The patient just nodded and looked back at her phone. With that dismissal, Dennis slipped out the door and to the ambulance bay.

As soon as he was outside, Hera dive-bombed him, smacking him with a wing. Clearly, she didn’t like to be kept waiting.

“Stop it!” Dennis complained. “I got here as soon as I could!” She clacked her beak at him from her one-legged perch on a nearby ledge. In her other claw, a bushel of mint was held proudly.

“Hera, you’re a lifesaver.” Dennis gave her a peck on her head. “Treats when I get home.”

The door opened behind them, startling Dennis.

“Whitaker! Perlah needs you, said the patient in South 15—“ Dana stopped short.

Dennis looked up at her, mint in hand, kneeling by an owl on the curb.

Dana blinked at him. Dennis didn’t dare blink, his unending stare mirroring Hera’s.

“You and Santos starting a zoo?” she finally asked.

Dennis decided that in the future, he would simply set reminders to re-stock herbs in the Pitt. Hera could go on errands when he was at home.

——————

In the warm hours of a summer evening, four souls flitted restlessly around a chaotically decorated apartment. A fire roared in the extremely not-to-code fireplace. Luckily, several sigils and charms surrounded it, ensuring nothing else would catch and that the smoke was properly vented through a nearby window (invisibly, of course. Couldn’t have anyone calling 911). Dennis insisted on having a fire extinguisher on standby as well. Overall, it was as safe as it could be. And you couldn’t celebrate Beltane without a fire.

Fresh flowers adorned every surface. Dennis worried he may have gone overboard, but Trinity didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she had woven four flower crowns, two quite a bit smaller than the others. Hera refused to take hers off. Patch had lost his at least five times since receiving it.

Hera guarded the windowsill relentlessly. Dennis had put out milk, honey, and freshly baked bread as a fae offering. Patch seemed to think it was also a cat offering. Trinity was his partner in crime, sneaking pieces of bread before Hera pecked her hand.

“Dennis! Your familiar is being cruel!” she complained.

“I literally have bread over here, Trin,” Dennis said.

“But it doesn’t taste as good when it isn’t stolen.”

Dennis rolled his eyes and offered her a hot cross bun. Despite her whining, she still ate it in one bite.

The table was laid with plants of all types. Herbs still in their pots wound around cut flowers and little trinkets spread on a second-hand tablecloth in pinks, greens, and yellows. Candles were everywhere, delicately carved for magic as well as safety. The flames burned brightly in the dim apartment.

Dennis set the final pieces of the feast down. Beltane was a holiday practically made for his type of magic. The fire festival of spring, it celebrated the earth and new life. Flowers, feasts, and plant life were all encouraged. Trinity volunteered to take on the fire part of everything while Dennis spent all day in the kitchen.

Fresh strawberries and cream, herb-covered goat cheese, and freshly baked bread sat as appetizers. Bannock bread sat proudly at the center, with a large pot of caudle still steaming beside it. Two green salads overflowed from bowls on either side. Honey butter biscuits and hot cross buns balanced tantalizingly next to each other. A large stew made up the main course, full of fresh herbs, potatoes, carrots, and perfectly seasoned chunks of beef.

“Alright, time to chow down!” Trinity announced. Hera was relieved of her duties guarding the fairy offerings, and Patch hopped up on the table. Dennis rolled his eyes, but let Patch wander about the dinner and decorations. It was a holiday after all.

Just like at Yule, Imbolc, and Ostara before, they sat for dinner. For a moment, they allowed silence to surround them. A whisper for the earth, for gratitude, for life, for abundance. Even Hera and Patch allowed themselves to indulge in the moment.

Then it was dinner time, chaotic and delicious as always.

Bellies full, all four shifted closer to the fire. Hera perched on a branch set by the couch for her. Dennis helped it grow fresh flowers and leaves despite being disconnected from its trunk. Patch was lazing right in front of the fireplace, soaking up the heat. Trinity and Dennis lay on the couch, heads on opposite sides and toes touching. FernGully played on the TV.

“Wish we could’ve had an outside bonfire,” Trinity lamented.

“We have work tomorrow, and I don’t know where to do that in Pittsburgh,” Dennis replied.

“We’ll have to find out for Litha.”

“I mean, basically every festival day has some kind of bonfire.”

“Hm.” Trinity kicked Dennis’ feet slightly. Tim Curry serenaded them in the firelight.

“Hey Trin?” Dennis began. He was looking at the TV, unable to meet her eyes.

“What?”

“Beltane has other traditions associated with it… like, um, I mean, it’s a holiday about fertility, and stuff like that…?”

“Huckleberry, are you asking to fuck?” Trinity asked bluntly. Dennis practically fell off the couch. His face resembled the fresh raspberries that decorated the table.

“No! That is not— absolutely not! No!” he cried. Hera ruffled her feathers at the noise, but Patch just meowed in a way that sounded a bit like a laugh.

“Huck, I don’t know if you know this,” Trinity drawled, “but I am a lesbian. And you are gay. I get that works for some people, but I have no interest in seeing you naked.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Dennis whined. “You know that’s not what I meant, I meant that like, if you wanted to go, or if you wanted me to go and you could call Garcia or something, it would be fine.”

Trinity stared at him. He still struggled to meet her eyes. The flush was finally leaving his face, leaving an anxious pallor.

“Dennis Huckleberry Whitaker,” Trinity said, “there is no woman in the world, no promise of magical sex or whatever, that could get me off this couch.”

She moved from her side of the couch, fully sitting up to be closer to Dennis. “I get that Beltane is all about romance and sex and love magic and shit, but it’s also about community and every type of love. So I think we’re celebrating just fine.”

Despite being more comfortable with contact now, Trinity still wasn’t always the one to initiate. Dennis took the lead, springing forward and hugging her. Both their flower crowns tangled in their hair and wove inextricably together.

“Love you too, Trin,” he said into her shoulder.

Trinity stiffened slightly. She hadn’t actually said “I love you.”

(Even if she wanted to.)

But Dennis heard it, and he hugged her, and he didn’t care that she made fun of him, or let Patch in his room to lick him awake with a sandpaper tongue, or tested questionable spells on him and turned his hair purple on April Fools.

And Trinity didn’t care that Dennis ate her avocados, or that he didn’t tell Hera off for swooping at her hair, or how he made Trinity eat his terrible experimental recipes.

While the two held each other on the couch, Hera plucked one of the sunflowers spontaneously sprouting from her perch and leaned down to add it to her flower crown. Patch swatted at the tarot deck Trinity had carelessly left on the coffee table and managed to flip two cards face up.

Two of cups, of course.

And the four of wands.